{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_19028/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_19028","id":"gutenberg_19028","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19028","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - Other","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Plays/Films/Dramas","Dramatists, Irish -- Biography","English drama -- Irish authors -- History and criticism","Irish drama -- History and criticism","Theater -- Ireland -- Dublin -- History"],"text":"Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIRISH PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS\n\nBY\n\nCORNELIUS WEYGANDT\n\nWITH ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nBOSTON AND NEW YORK\nHOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY\nThe Riverside Press Cambridge\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1913, BY CORNELIUS WEYGANDT\nALL RIGHTS RESERVED\n\n_Published February 1913_\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThere are so many who have helped me with this book that I cannot begin\nto thank them one by one. If I name any, however, there are four I would\nname together. There is my old friend, long since dead, Lawrence Kelly,\nof County Wexford, who first told me Irish folk-stories, adding to the\nwonderment of my boyhood with his tales of Finn McCool, Dean Swift, and\n\"The Red-haired Man.\" There is Dr. Robert Ellis Thompson, of\nPhiladelphia, who quickened, by his enthusiasm, over \"twenty golden\nyears ago,\" my interest in all things Irish. There is Dr. Clarence\nGriffin Child, my colleague, who recognized the power of these men I\nwrite of in \"Irish Plays and Playwrights\" when there were fewer to\nrecognize their power than there are to-day. There is Mr. John Quinn, of\nNew York, without whose aid ten years ago the current Irish dramatic\nmovement would not have progressed as it has. He has lent for\nreproduction here the sketches by Mr. J.B. Yeats of Synge, Mr. George\nMoore, and Mr. Padraic Colum. All but all of the writers I mention\nparticularly in these chapters have put me under obligation by cheerful\nresponse to many letters full of questions as to their work. Mr. James\nH. Cousins and Mr. S. Lennox Robinson have taken especial trouble in my\nbehalf, and Lady Gregory, Mr. W.B. Yeats, and Mr. George W. Russell have\nput themselves out in many ways that I might learn of Irish Letters.\n\nUNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA, December 28, 1912.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n   I.  THE CELTIC RENAISSANCE                                   1\n\n  II.  THE PLAYERS AND THEIR PLAYS,\n         THEIR AUDIENCE AND THEIR ART                          13\n\n III.  MR. WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS                                37\n\n  IV.  MR. EDWARD MARTYN AND MR. GEORGE MOORE                  72\n\n   V.  MR. GEORGE W. RUSSELL (\"A.E.\")                         114\n\n  VI.  LADY GREGORY                                           138\n\n VII.  JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE                                  160\n\nVIII.  THE YOUNGER DRAMATISTS--MR. PADRAIC COLUM;\n         MR. WILLIAM BOYLE; MR. T.C. MURRAY;\n         MR. S. LENNOX ROBINSON; MR. RUTHERFORD MAYNE;\n         \"NORREYS CONNELL\"; MR. ST. JOHN G. ERVINE;\n         MR. JOSEPH CAMPBELL                                  198\n\n  IX.  WILLIAM SHARP (\"FIONA MACLEOD\")                        251\n\nAPPENDIX                                                      297\n       PLAYS PRODUCED, IN DUBLIN,\n         BY THE ABBEY THEATRE COMPANY\n\nINDEX                                                         305\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\nW.B. YEATS                                           _Frontispiece_\n  _From a photograph by Alice Boughton_.\n\nDOUGLAS HYDE                                                   10\n  _From a photograph by Alice Boughton_.\n\nSARA ALLGOOD                                                   24\n  _From a photograph by Alice Boughton_.\n\nSCENE FROM \"CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN\"                              50\n\nGEORGE MOORE                                                   72\n  _Reproduced by courtesy of John Quinn, Esq._\n\nGEORGE W. RUSSELL                                             114\n\nLADY GREGORY                                                  138\n\nJOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE                                         160\n  _Reproduced by courtesy of John Quinn, Esq._\n\nPADRAIC COLUM                                                 198\n  _Reproduced by courtesy of John Quinn, Esq._\n\nT.C. MURRAY                                                   216\n\nLENNOX ROBINSON                                               222\n  _From a photograph by Alice Boughton_.\n\nWILLIAM SHARP                                                 250\n\n\n\n\nIRISH PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE CELTIC RENAISSANCE\n\n\nTo the general reader the Celtic Renaissance was a surprise, and even to\nIrish writers deeply interested in their country the phenomenon or\nmovement, call it which you will, was not appreciated as of much\nsignificance at its beginning. Writing in 1892, Miss Jane Barlow was not\nhopeful for the immediate future of English literature in Ireland;--it\nseemed to her \"difficult to point out any quarter of the horizon as a\nprobable source of rising light.\" Yet Mr. Yeats had published his\n\"Wanderings of Oisin\" three years before; Mr. Russell had already\ngathered about him a group of eager young writers; and Dr. Hyde was\norganizing the Gaelic League, to give back to Ireland her language and\ncivilization, and translating from the Gaelic \"The Love Songs of\nConnacht\" (1894) into an English of so new and masterful a rhythm, that\nit was to dominate the style of many of the writers of the movement, as\nthe burden of the verse was to confirm them in the feelings and\nattitudes of mind, centuries old and of to-day, that are basic to the\nIrish Gael. Even in 1894, when Mrs. Katherine Tynan Hinkson wrote the\narticle that for the first time brought before America so many of the\nyounger English poets, all that she said of the Renaissance was, \"A very\nlarge proportion of the Bodley Head poets are Celts,--Irish, Welsh,\nCornish.\" She had scarcely so spoken when there appeared the little\nvolume, \"The Revival of Irish Literature,\" whose chapters, reprinted\naddresses delivered before she had spoken by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy and\nDr. George Sigerson and; Dr. Douglas Hyde, turned the attention of the\nyounger men to literature, the fall of Parnell and the ensuing decline\nof political agitation having given them a chance to think of something\nelse than politics. In 1895 all the English-speaking world that heeds\nletters was talking of the Celtic Renaissance, so quickly did news of it\nfind its way to men, when it was once more than whispered of abroad. It\nwas as frequently referred to then as \"The Irish Renaissance,\" because\nIreland contributed most to it and because it was in Ireland that it\nacquired its most definite purpose. This purpose was to retell in\nEnglish the old Irish legends and the still current Irish folk-songs,\nand to catch and preserve the moods of Irish men and women of to-day,\nespecially those moods which came to them out of their brooding over\nIreland, its history, its landscape, the temper of its people. It would\nbe absurd, of course, to regard all of the writing of the movement as a\nresult of a definite literary propaganda, but the very fact that we\ninstinctively speak of the Celtic Renaissance as a movement rather than\nas a phenomenon proves that it was that in part. But even that part of\nit that was a result of propaganda came not from an intention to realize\nthe tenets of the propaganda, but from the kindling of Irish hearts by\nthoughts that came of the propaganda, thoughts of the great past of\nIreland, of its romance of yesterday and to-day, of its spirituality.\n\nIt is not so easy to account for the less quickening of the other Celtic\ncountries by the forces that brought about the Renaissance. Renan, in\nhis \"Poetry of the Celtic Races\" (1859), and Arnold, in his \"On the\nStudy of Celtic Literature\" (1867), had roused all the Celtic countries\nto an interest in their old literature, an interest that extended much\nfurther than discussion of the authenticity of Macpherson's \"Ossian\" or\nof the proper treatment of Arthurian stories, until then the Ultima\nThule of talk on things Celtic. Frenchman and Englishman both had spoken\nto Wales and Brittany, the Highlands of Scotland and the Isle of Man, as\nwell as to Ireland, and it does not altogether explain to say that\nIreland listened best because in Ireland there was a greater sense of\nnationality than in these other lands. Ireland did listen, it is true,\nand, listening, developed popularizers of the old tales such as Mr.\nStandish James O'Grady and Dr. P.W. Joyce, to pass knowledge of them\nalong to the men of letters. It is hardly true, indeed, to say that\nIreland had a greater sense of nationality than Brittany or Wales.\nBrittany, of course, since her tongue other than her native Breton was\nFrench, gave what was given to the movement in other than Breton in\nFrench. Cornwall may hardly be called a Celtic country, but if it may it\nis easy to account for its slight interest in the movement by the little\nthat was preserved of its old literature and by the little it had of\ndistinctive oral tradition to draw upon. And yet, I think, had Sir\nArthur T. Quiller-Couch been born ten years later Cornwall had not\nwanted a shanachie. Wales, too, gave little to English literature as the\nresult of the Renaissance, because, perhaps, her chiefest literary\nenergy is in her native language. Wales was proud of George Meredith,\nwhose Welsh ancestry is more evident in his work than is his Irish\nancestry, but not only is his writing representative of Great Britain\nrather than of any one part of Great Britain, but his say had been said\nbefore the movement began. The writing of Mr. Ernest Rhys underwent a\nchange because of his interest in the Celtic Renaissance, but Wales has\nlittle writing outside of his to point to as a result of the awakening.\nIn Scotland, William Sharp, whose \"Lyra Celtica\" (1896) was a prominent\nagent in bringing the Renaissance before the world, was transformed into\nanother writer by it. His work as \"Fiona Macleod,\" both prose and verse,\nwas very different from his earlier work in prose and verse. Mr. Neil\nMunro, too, was affected by the Renaissance, and in the tales of \"The\nLost Pibroch\" (1896) and in the novels of \"John Splendid\" (1898) and\n\"Gillian the Dreamer\" (1899) and \"The Children of Tempest\" (1903) he\nreveals an intimacy with Highland life such as informs the writing of no\nother novelist of our day. Of recent years Mr. Munro has wandered\nfarther afield than his native Argyll, and, I feel, to the lessening of\nthe beauty of his writing. In the Isle of Man, T.E. Brown had been\nstriving for years to put into his stories in verse the fast-decaying\nCeltic life of his country, but even with his example and with all that\nhas been done since the Renaissance began, in the preservation of Manx\nfolk-lore and in the recording of vanishing Manx customs, no writer of\nBrown's power has been developed, or in fact any writer of powers equal\nto those of the best men of the younger generation in the other Celtic\nlands. It is with the Celtic Renaissance as it appears in Ireland, then,\nthat I have to deal chiefly in this book, as it is only in Ireland, of\nthe countries that retain a Celtic culture, that the movement is the\ndominating influence in writing in English; and it is with the drama\nonly that I have now to deal, though when a playwright is a poet or a\nstory-teller, too, I have written of his attainment in verse and tale\nalso. Had I been writing five years ago, I should have said that it was\nin poetry that the Celtic Renaissance had attained most nobly, but since\nthen the drama has had more recruits of power than has poetry, and it is\na question as to which of the two is greater as art. There is no doubt,\nhowever, but that the drama has made a stronger and wider appeal,\nwhatever its excellence, than has the verse, and it is therefore of\ngreater significance for its time than is the poetry, whatever the\nultimate appraisement will be. Of the men I have written of here, Mr.\nYeats and Mr. Russell are to me poets before they are dramatists, and\nLionel Johnson, whose only direct connection with the dramatic movement\nwas his beautiful prologue in verse to the first performances of \"The\nIrish Literary Theatre\" in 1899, is to me a poet of a power as great as\ntheirs.\n\nOne wonders, at first thought, that Ireland had never until our day\ngiven to English literature a novelist of first rank. The Irishman is\nfamous the world over as a story-teller, but neither in romance nor in\nthe story of character had he reached first power, reached a position\nwhere he might be put alongside of other Europeans as a novelist. No\nIrishman from the time of Scott on, until Mr. George Moore wrote \"Esther\nWaters\" (1894), had written a story that might stand the inevitable\ncomparison with the work of Thackeray and Dickens, Meredith and Mr.\nHardy. Of Mr. George Moore I have written in detail below.\n\nMiss Edgeworth may have taught Scott his manner of delineating peasant\ncharacter, but her comparatively little power is revealed when you put\nher beside Miss Austen, and so it is all the way down the list to our\nown day. There are many contemporary story-tellers who have managed well\nthe tale, but what Irish novelist of to-day other than Mr. Moore bulks\nbig, can be compared to even lesser men, like Scotland's Mr. Neil Munro\nor Dartmoor's Mr. Phillpotts?\n\nLady Gilbert (Rosa Mulholland) has written many, pleasant stories of\nIrish life, and Mrs. Katherine Tynan Hinkson has followed worthily in\nher footsteps. Equally pleasant, but lighter and more superficial, is\nthe writing of the two ladies who subscribe their names \"E.OE.\nSomerville and Martin Ross.\" Their \"Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.\"\n(1899) and their \"All on the Irish Shore\" (1903) are like so much of the\nIrish writing of a generation ago,--Irish stories by Irish people for\nEnglish people to laugh at.\n\nThe Hon. Emily Lawless has written many kinds of stories about the West\nCoast, reaching almost to greatness in her \"Grania\" (1892). In the short\nstory, Miss Jane Barlow, accused of superficiality by many Irish critics\nand as eagerly declared to get the very quality of Connemara peasant\nlife by others, has sure power and a charm all her own. No one who reads\n\"Irish Idylls\" (1892) will stop at that collection. Mr. Seumas MacManus\nis as truly a shanachie as the old story-tellers that yet tell the old\ntales about peat fires in Donegal. \"Through the Turf Smoke\" (1899) and\n\"In Chimney Corners\" (1899) and \"Donegal Fairy Stories\" (1900) are alike\nin having the accent of the spoken story, but when the last word is said\nyou cannot admit their author to be more than a clever entertainer. The\nRev. Dr. Sheehan, although you will find him writing about the effect of\nthe Irish Renaissance in remote parishes in the South, has not\nsubscribed to its ideals, but continues the fashion of story-writing of\nan earlier generation. \"Luke Delmege\" (1900) is, however, an interesting\ncharacter study, and \"My New Curate\" (1899) very illuminative of the\nconservatism of the peasantry.\n\nMr. Shan Bullock, writing of the farmers and farm laborers of the North,\nhas not unwisely gone to Mr. Hardy to learn his art. \"Irish Pastorals\"\n(1901) is racy of Fermanagh as \"Tess\" is of Wessex. \"The Squireen\"\n(1903) is a strong and gloomy story. From \"By Thrasna River\" (1895) to\n\"Dan the Dollar\" (1905), Mr. Bullock did no story without power in it.\nIreland still looks to him as it looked to Mr. William Buckley, ten\nyears ago, for better work. \"Croppies Lie Down\" brought Mr. Buckley\nbefore the public in 1903, but his writing since then has fallen far\nshort of this his best book. Now, however, the young man with a future,\nin the estimation of many is Mr. James Stephens. There is more hope in\nhim, in his twenties, than there is now in \"George A. Birmingham\" (Rev.\nJ.O. Hannay), another man who ten years ago was like Mr. Buckley, a\nyoung man of promise. \"The Seething Pot\" (1904) was a serious study of\nconditions in Ireland but since its author conceived of the character of\nthe Rev. Joseph John Meldon, he has found it more discreet to continue\nthe adventures of that clergyman than to write seriously out of his own\nvaried experience of West-Country Irish life.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIt is perhaps because the energy that in many countries goes into the\nwriting of the essay is absorbed in controversy in Ireland that in the\npast Ireland has produced few essayists. In the battles of the dramatic\nmovement with the patriotic societies and with the official class, Mr.\nYeats and Mr. Moore have dealt good blows, and Mr. Russell and \"John\nEglinton\" (Mr. W.K. Magee) have led the disputants out of their\nconfusion. Among these men, \"John Eglinton\" is the one who has thrown\nhis greatest energy into the essay, almost all his energy, and in it, in\nthe chapters of \"Two Essays on the Remnant\" (1896), \"Pebbles from a\nBrook\" (1901), and \"Bards and Saints\" (1906), he has written with\nsubtlety and illumination.\n\nIn the collection and clarification and retelling of folk-literature\nWilliam Larminie and Lady Gregory and Dr. Hyde stand out as the leading\nworkers. Mr. Larminie's \"West Irish Folk-Tales\" (1895) are model work\nof their kind as are Lady Gregory's several books, of which I speak in\ndetail later. The work of Dr. Hyde is the most important work of this\nsort, however, and it is not too much to say, as I intimated at the\noutset, that, without his translation of \"The Love Songs of Connacht\"\n(1894) and \"The Religious Songs of Connacht\" (1906), the prose of the\nmovement would never have attained that distinction of rhythm which\nreveals English almost as a new language. I would gladly have written at\nlength of Dr. Hyde, but he has chosen to write his plays in Irish as\nwell as most of his verses. Yet so winning are the plays as translated\nby Lady Gregory, and so greatly have they influenced the folk-plays in\nEnglish of the Abbey Theatre, that there is almost warrant for including\nhim. I cannot, of course, but I must at least bear testimony to the many\npowers of these plays. Dr. Hyde can be trenchant, when satire is his\nobject, as in \"The Bursting of the Bubble\" (1903); or alive with\nmerriment when merriment is his desire, as in \"The Poorhouse\" (1903); or\nfull of quiet beauty when he writes of holy things, as in the \"Lost\nSaint\" (1902). There are many other playwrights in Irish than Dr. Hyde,\nbut as no other plays in Irish than his have reacted to any extent on\nthe plays in English of the movement, I do not consider them, my object\nin this book being to consider the dramatic writing in English of the\nCeltic Renaissance, with relation to its value as a contribution to the\nart of English letters. That there is a great deal else in the Celtic\nRenaissance than its drama, I would, however, emphasize, though it is\ntrue that every man of first literary power in the movement, except\nLionel Johnson and \"John Eglinton,\" has tried his hand on at least one\nIrish play. That Johnson would have come to write drama I firmly\nbelieve, for in drama he could have reconciled two of the four loves\nthat were his life. He could not have put his love of Winchester, his\nschool, or his love of the classics into plays, but his love of Ireland\nand his love of the Catholic Church would have blended, I believe, into\nplays, still with the cloistered life of the seventh century, that would\nhave rivaled \"The Hour-Glass,\" and plays about \"Ninety-Eight\" that would\nhave rivaled \"Cathleen Houlihan.\"\n\nThere are many other poets, though, of the Celtic Renaissance that are\nof powers only short of greatness, Nora Hopper Chesson chief among them.\nOnly Mr. W.B. Yeats of them all has more \"natural falterings\" in his\nverse than she. Mrs. Hinkson, too, whose name has come inevitably into\nthese pages from time to time, is a poet with as sure a place in English\nliterature to-day as has Mrs. Meynell. Beginning, like Mr. Yeats, as an\nimitator of the Pre-Raphaelites, Mrs. Hinkson found herself in little\npoems on moods of her own and moods of landscape She writes also of her\nlove of God, of St. Francis, and of Ireland. \"Moira O'Neill\" (Mrs.\nSkrine), too, has a sure place, her verses crying out her homesickness\nfor Ireland, and redolent, every line of them, of the countryside. \"The\nPassing of the Gael\" is known wherever there are Irish emigrants, but\nthere are other verses of \"Ethna Carberry\" (Mrs. Anna Johnstone\nMacManus) that are as fine as this. Mrs. Dora Sigerson Shorter is a\nballadist of stark power, and Miss Eva Gore-Booth a lyric poet whose\nnatural lilt no preoccupation with mysticism can for more than a moment\nobscure.\n\nMr. Herbert Trench has of recent years surrendered to theatrical\nmanagement, but there is to his credit a substantial accomplishment of\nlyrical verse that George Meredith would have approved. Mr. Colum's\nverse I have spoken of below, incidentally, in considering his plays. A\ndistinct talent, too, is Mr. Seumas O'Sullivan's, whose \"Twilight\nPeople\" (1905) indicates by its title the quality of his verse.\n\nI have mentioned all these writers, some known in America, but others\nutterly unknown, not only to indicate the relation of the drama to the\nother literary forms of the Renaissance, but to account, perhaps in some\nmeasure, for the literary quality of the plays themselves. They are\nwritten, as plays in English during the past century have too seldom\nbeen written, by writers who have read widely in all forms of literature\nand to whom words are, if not \"the only good,\" at least a chief good.\nMr. Russell and Mr. Yeats have sent all the younger men who would write\nto the masterpieces of the world, telling them to get what they need of\nthe technique of the centre, to know the best in the world, but to write\nof the ground under their feet. The plays are, as I have said, written,\nmany of them, by men who are widely read, and by men whose friends are\nwriters of some other form of literature, by men who wish their work in\ndrama to be of as high intention as the work of their friends who are\npoets or essayists or writers of stories. All the other writing the\nRenaissance has, then, contributed to make of the drama what it is, and\none must, if one would see the drama in relation to the Ireland of our\nday, know what is the accomplishment of the other sorts of writing of\nthe Renaissance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE PLAYERS AND THEIR PLAYS, THEIR AUDIENCE AND THEIR ART\n\n\nThe drama of the Celtic Renaissance is of an ancestry as mixed as is\nthat of the people of Ireland themselves. There is less in it perhaps of\nthe Gael than in them, for Gaelic literature, until to-day, never\napproached nearer to the drama than the dialogue, the racy give-and-take\nof two characters, alike of lively imagination, whether gentle or\nsimple. But even had the colloquies of St. Patrick and Oisin, of Dean\nSwift and his man Jack, of the Lout and his Mother, been developed, by\n1890, to a drama as finished as that of Congreve or Goldsmith, Sheridan\nor Wilde, those who would have their plays abreast of our time would\nhave gone, just as, with the conditions as they are, the dramatists of\nthe Renaissance did go, to Ibsen and M. Maeterlinck, like all the rest\nof the world. It is a matter of reproach, in the estimation of many\npatriotic Irishmen, that Mr. Martyn learned his art of Ibsen, and Mr.\nYeats a part of his of M. Maeterlinck, but that attitude is as\nunreasonable as that which would reproach the Irish Industries\nOrganization Society for studying Danish dairy farms or Belgian\nchickeries. It is only the technique of the foreigners, modern or\nancient, Scandinavian or Greek, that the Abbey dramatists have acquired\nor have adapted to Irish usage. Stories are world-wide, of course, the\nfolk-tale told by the Derry hearthside being told also in the tent in\nTurkestan--Cuchulain kills his son as Rustum does, and the Queen of\nFairy lures Bran oversea as Venus lures Tannhaeuser to the Hoerselberg. It\nis in character, in ideals, in atmosphere, in color, that drama must be\nnative, and in color and in atmosphere, in ideals and in character the\nAbbey Theatre drama is Irish. Reading of life and style are personal\nqualities, qualities of the artist himself, though they, too, may take\ntone and color from national life, and in the drama of many of the Abbey\ndramatists they do. These dramatists have been more resolutely native,\nin fact, many of them, than the national dramatists of other countries\nhave been, of France and Germany to-day, of the Spain or the England of\nthe Renaissance. It would seem idle to be saying this were not the\ncontention being raised all the time by certain patriotic groups of\nIrishmen in America as well as in Ireland that the new drama is not a\nnative drama. It is, as a matter of fact, no less natively Irish than\nthe Elizabethan drama is natively English; it is really more native, for\nno part of it of moment veils its nationality under even so slight a\ndisguise as \"the Italian convention\" of that drama. The new Irish drama\nis more native in its stories than is the Elizabethan drama, as these\nstories, even when they are stories found in variant forms in other\ncountries, are given the tones of Irish life. The structural forms and\nthe symbolic presentation of ideas of which the Abbey dramatists have\navailed themselves have no more denationalized their plays than has the\nChurch, a Church from oversea, to which most of them belong,\ndenationalized the Irish people.\n\nSynge, the master dramatist of the new movement, while he does not\nreproduce the average Irishman, is just as natively Irish in his\nextravagance and irony as the old folk-tale of the \"Two Hags\"; Lady\nGregory in her farces is in a similar way representative of the riot of\nWest-Country imagination; and Mr. Yeats, if further removed from the\nIrishmen of to-day, is very like, in many of his moods, to the riddling\nbards of long ago. The later men, many of them, are altogether Irish,\nrepresentative of the folk of one or another section of the country, Mr.\nMurray and Mr. Robinson of Cork, Mr. Mayne and Mr. Ervine of Down, Mr.\nColum and Mr. Boyle of the Midlands.\n\nOne need not say that the Irishman is a born actor; all the Celts are\nfamed for \"the beautiful speaking\"; for eloquence; for powers of\nimpersonation; for quick changes of mood; for ease in running the gamut\nof the emotions. Of these things come art of the stage, and these things\nare the Irishman's in fullest measure. The Abbey Players have, however,\ngone abroad for some elements of their art, perhaps for their repose of\nmanner, a quietude that is not the quietude of moodiness, a condition\nnot unusual in the Irishman; and in addition to this repose of manner,\nwhich is fundamental and common to their presentation of realistic\nmodern plays and of poetic plays of legendary times, for a slowness and\ndignity of gesture in the plays of legend, which is perhaps a borrowing\nfrom the classic stage. Their repose of manner may come from modern\nFrance; at least so held Mr. Yeats, pointing to such a source in\n\"Samhain\" of 1902.\n\n     The other day [he writes] I saw Sara Bernhardt and DeMax in\n     \"Phedre,\" and understood where Mr. Fay, who stage-manages the\n     National Theatrical Company, had gone for his model. For long\n     periods the performers would merely stand and pose, and I once\n     counted twenty-seven quite slowly before anybody on a fairly\n     well-filled stage moved, as it seemed, so much as an eyelash. The\n     periods of stillness were generally shorter, but I frequently\n     counted seventeen, eighteen, or twenty before there was a movement.\n     I noticed, too, that the gestures had a rhythmic progression. Sara\n     Bernhardt would keep her hands clasped over, let us say, her right\n     breast for some time, and then move them to the other side,\n     perhaps, lowering her chin till it touched her hands, and then,\n     after another long stillness, she would unclasp them and hold one\n     out, and so on, not lowering them till she had exhausted all the\n     gestures of uplifted hands. Through one long scene DeMax, who was\n     quite as fine, never lifted his hand above his elbow, and it was\n     only when the emotion came to its climax that he raised it to his\n     breast. Beyond them stood a crowd of white-robed men who never\n     moved at all, and the whole scene had the nobility of Greek\n     sculpture, and an extraordinary reality and intensity. It was the\n     most beautiful thing I had ever seen upon the stage, and made me\n     understand, in a new way, that saying of Goethe's which is\n     understood everywhere but in England, \"Art is art because it is not\n     nature.\" Of course, our amateurs were poor and crude beside those\n     great actors, perhaps the greatest in Europe, but they followed\n     them as well as they could, and got an audience of artisans, for\n     the most part, to admire them for doing it.\n\nWith these words of Mr. Yeats, written ten years ago, in my memory, it\nwas arresting to hear ten years later a somewhat similar comparison of\nthe acting of the Irish Players to the acting of yesterday on the French\nstage. A man who in the late eighties and early nineties had spent\nseven years as an art student in Paris saw the Abbey Players in Boston.\nIn Paris he had gone frequently to the Theatre Francais, and only there,\nhe said, before he saw the Irish Players, had he seen acting so full of\ndignity, but never at all before acting so natural.\n\nThere is possible, too, however, a native origin for this repose of\nmanner, or perhaps it would be truest to say that it is a blending, like\nthe dramas themselves, of native and foreign elements. Speaking of\n\"Cathleen ni Houlihan\" in the notes to his \"Collected Works\" of 1908,\nMr. Yeats says, \"I cannot imagine this play, or any folk-play of our\nschool, acted by players with no knowledge of the peasant, and of the\nawkwardness and stillness of bodies that have followed the plow, or too\nlacking in humility to copy these things without convention or\ncaricature.\" Here, too, he refers to the \"quiet movement and careful\nspeech which has given our players some little fame\" as \"arising partly\nout of deliberate opinion and partly out of the ignorance of the\nplayers.\"\n\nUndoubtedly Mr. Fay knew the still ways of the peasant, and I do not\ndoubt that he was influenced by such knowledge and did in some degree\ntrain his actors to bring their movements on the stage in accord with\nthe \"awkwardness and stillness of bodies that have followed the plow.\"\nBut since there are ways of the peasant that are far from still, it is\nlikely, too, that he was led to select such movements, instead of the\nvehement gesture and lively facial expression that are just as\ncharacteristic of the peasant, by a memory of the restrained acting of\nthe French stage. It is likely, too, that the very inexperience and\nlack of knowledge of artifice to which Mr. Yeats refers was an element\nin making the art of the company what it became. But it is not\naltogether impossible that certain traditions of the English stage--of\nthe statuesque acting of the Kembles, for instance--had come down into\nthe time of Mr. Fay's stage experience, to those days before he became\nstage manager of the performances of \"The Daughters of Erin\" in 1900,\nand that these traditions influenced his training of the company that\nwas to attain to a new art of the stage.\n\nBefore this there had been two series of performances in Dublin, each of\na week's duration, by \"The Irish Literary Theatre,\" one in 1899, and the\nother in 1900, with English actors gathered together in London by Mr.\nGeorge Moore; and another week's series followed in 1901 by the Benson\nCompany and some amateurs of the Gaelic League under the leadership of\nDr. Douglas Hyde. It was the performances of \"The Countess Cathleen\" of\nMr. Yeats and of \"The Heather Field\" of Mr. Martyn at the Antient\nConcert Rooms in Dublin, respectively May 8 and 9, 1899, by \"The Irish\nLiterary Theatre,\" that inaugurated the drama of the Celtic Renaissance,\nfully a year before there came into being the group of amateurs that\nwere to bring that drama home to Ireland as no players who inherited the\nstandards and conventions of the English stage could possibly have\nbrought it home.\n\nIt is Mr. Fay's distinction to have been, as I have intimated, the\nleader who started these players on the long way to their new art. Such\nleadership his record hardly augered. It was in the very lowest forms\nof vaudeville, in what is the analogue abroad of our negro minstrelsy,\nthat Mr. Fay had his stage experience, a stage experience that had made\nhim well enough known in burlesque roles to make it difficult for him to\nassume with success serious roles in the early years of the National\nDramatic Company. Because of this old association, Dublin audiences\ninsisted in 1902 in seeing humor in his Peter Gillane in \"Cathleen ni\nHoulihan.\" For all this past, however, Mr. Fay was intent on serious\ndrama, and, with the precept and example of Mr. Russell and Mr. Yeats\nalways present to him in the early days of the National Theatre Company,\nand with what he had gathered from the experimental performance of Irish\nplays by \"The Irish Literary Theatre,\" he advanced surely in his art\nuntil his withdrawal from the company in January, 1908. His loss was\ncompensated for only by the results of his training of other actors,\nsuch as Miss Sara Allgood and Mr. Arthur Sinclair, who on certain roads\nhave outrun their master. When I saw Mr. Fay in 1902, in the little hall\nin Camden Street, Dublin, with no knowledge of what his stage experience\nhad been, I accepted him at once for what he was, a finished \"character\"\nactor of poise and confidence, a dignified figure for all his stature\nand his predilection for comedy, and the possessor of a speaking voice\nwhose natural pleasantness he had made into something higher than\npleasantness by his art in the use of it, if it never attained the\nresonance and nobility of phrasing of that of his brother, Mr. Frank J.\nFay. It was a memorable experience to me, that of that August evening in\n1902 on which I was taken to Camden Street to a rehearsal of the Irish\nNational Dramatic Company. Our guide was Mr. James H. Cousins, whose\n\"Racing Lug\" and \"Connla\" were among the plays produced in the following\nautumn and which that night were in rehearsal. He piloted us to an\nentranceway by the side of a produce shop. We knocked on the door and\nwaited, and waited. We knocked again, and at last heard steps coming\nnearer and nearer. The door opened and revealed a young man in\nwork-a-day black suit and derby, with a candle in one hand and a\nproperty spear in the other. He conducted us down a narrow, drafty\nhallway, into a hall in which were wooden benches as rude as those in\nthe bandstand of a backwoods country fair in the States, and a slightly\nraised platform at the farther end. We were soon in eager conversation\nwith young store clerks and typists and artisans who were about to set\nto work at that in which their hearts lay, the interpreting of plays out\nof Ireland's heart. It was good talk we listened to from those young men\nand women, boys and girls all of them in their fervor and zest and high\naim. Their enthusiasm carried through \"Connla,\" \"The Racing Lug,\" and\n\"Deirdre\" with real impressiveness. Of Mr. Cousins's two plays one was\nrealistic of the north of Ireland shore life of to-day, and the other,\n\"Connla,\" like Mr. Russell's \"Deirdre,\" made out of Ireland's heroic\nage.\n\nOf the actors we met that night, but Miss Walker (Maire ni Shiubhlaigh)\nwas with the Irish Players on their American tour of 1911-12, and even\nshe has not been continuously with them since 1902. The amateurs had\nthen but begun, under the direction of Mr. Fay, on the slow fashioning\nof themselves into the finished folk-actors they proved themselves in\nAmerica. But even this acting, so little removed from that of amateurs\nat these rehearsals, had distinction, the distinction of fidelity to\nlife in \"The Racing Lug,\" the distinction of possession by dream in\n\"Deirdre\"; and let it be remembered, too, that it was a rehearsal\nwithout costume, and that one had to be carried away from the\nconventional dress of the Dublin streets, and had to be made to feel\nthat the characters in \"The Racing Lug\" were primitive fishermen, and\nthe people of \"Connla\" and \"Deirdre\" the people of Ireland's Homeric\nage.\n\nMiss Maire T. Quinn, Mr. T. Dudley Digges, Mr. P.J. Kelly, with Miss\nWalker and the brothers Fay,--Mr. W.G. Fay and Mr. Frank J. Fay,--were\nthen the leading actors of the company. The playwrights, too, took part\nin their own or their fellows' plays in the lesser roles, Mr. Russell\nsometimes playing the druid in his \"Deirdre\" and Mr. Colum carrying a\nspear or wearing a pea-jacket as need was. One circumstance or another,\npolitics or need, gradually lost the company every one of these actors\nthat took part in its first performances in 1902. There were\ncomparatively few changes, though, until 1904, the year in which Miss\nHorniman, \"a generous English friend,\" took for them the old Mechanic\nInstitute Theatre and, rebuilding it in part, turned it over to the\nIrish National Dramatic Company for six years. Up to this time the\nactors had received no pay, giving their services for love of country\nand of art, but with the more frequent performances and their attendant\nrehearsals it became necessary to take a large part of the time of the\nleading men and women, and then, of course, they had to be paid. Before\nthe opening of the Abbey Theatre, three of the chief actors, Miss Quinn\nand Mr. Digges and Mr. Kelly, came to this country to appear in Irish\nplays in the Irish Section of the St. Louis Fair. The public that\ngathered in St. Louis was not prepared for the new drama, being more\nused to the musical play of the type Mr. Olcott has made familiar in\nAmerica, or to the Bowery Irishman of the Harrigan plays, or to the\ngross caricatures, Galwayed and ape-accoutred, of the before-curtain\ninterlude of the variety show. As a result the former National Players\nprotested against the policy of the Irish Section and returned to New\nYork. Miss Walker was the principal actress of the company after Miss\nQuinn's departure to America, and upon Miss Walker's withdrawal in 1905\nthe burden of the chief women's roles fell upon Miss Allgood.\n\nMr. W.G. Fay and Mr. Frank J. Fay were still the leading men of the\ncompany, creating the principal characters of all the plays of Synge and\nof those of Mr. Yeats and Lady Gregory that were produced before 1908.\nEarly in this year, as I have said, Mr. and Mrs. W.G. Fay and Mr. F.J.\nFay left the company, and, coming to America in the spring, played \"The\nRising of the Moon\" and \"A Pot of Broth\" in New York. They made,\nunfortunately, no great success in their appearances, as their plays\nwere not presented in bills devoted solely to Irish plays, but as\ncurtain-raisers to the usual conventional farce. Almost all the actors\nwhom I have mentioned as leaving the National Players eventually found\ntheir way into the conventional plays, but almost none of them made\nsuccesses there comparable in any degree to their successes in\nfolk-drama or in plays out of old Irish legend. Nor can it be said that\nactors trained in the dominant forms of present-day English drama, even\nwhen so skilled as Mrs. Patrick Campbell, were wholly satisfying in\ntheir assumption of roles in the plays of the Renaissance. It was Miss\nAllgood, chief musician in the London performances of Mr. Yeats's\n\"Deirdre\" in 1908, who won the greatest approval from the London\ncritics, and not Mrs. Campbell as Deirdre herself.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMiss Allgood had played principal parts with the Abbey Company from 1904\non. In 1906, her sister, who plays under the name of Miss Maire O'Neill,\ncame into the company, assuming the more romantic roles with a success\nas great as that of Miss Allgood in character parts and comedy. From\n1906 they have shared the principal women's roles, but, owing to Miss\nO'Neill's inability to come to America in the fall of 1911, Miss McGee\nfell heir to many of her roles. After the departure of the Messrs. Fay,\nMr. Sinclair, Mr. O'Donovan, and Mr. Kerrigan became the leading men. It\nis not altogether accurate, however, to speak of any actor or actress of\nthe company as leading man or leading woman, for not only is one \"a\nleading lady\" one night, as was Miss McGee as Pegeen Mike in \"The\nPlayboy of the Western World\" on the American tour, and one of the\nvillage girls in \"The Well of the Saints\" the next night, but the men\nand women alternate in the same parts on different nights, as, for\ninstance, on the American tour Cathleen ni Houlihan was played now by\nMiss Allgood and now by Miss Walker.\n\nThe fact that few of the actors who have learned their art with the\nIrish National Dramatic Society have achieved greatly in other drama is\nperhaps a proof that their powers are limited to the folk-drama and the\nlegendary drama that comprises almost the entire repertoire of the\ncompany. Miss Allgood was, it is true, lent to Mr. Poel for the\nperformances of \"Measure for Measure\" in the spring of 1908, and won an\nunquestioned success as Isabella, but actors so skilled as the Messrs.\nFay have attained no notable success in other than Irish plays. During\nthe American tour of 1911-12 both Mr. Sinclair and Miss Allgood were\nmuch importuned by the managers to accept American engagements, and it\nis hardly to be doubted but that both could win success in conventional\ncomedy. And yet one feels it was the part of wisdom as well as of\nloyalty for them to withstand the lure.\n\nThe distinguishing characteristic of the art of the Abbey Players is\nnaturalness. It is not that their personalities happen to coincide with\ncertain types of Irish character, but that they know so well the types\nof the folk-plays, and even the characters who are not types that appear\nin the folk-plays, that they are able to portray them to the life. The\nAbbey Players have discarded most of the tricks of the stage, or perhaps\nit would be truer to say they do not inherit the tricks of the stage or\nany traditional characterizations of parts. They are taught to allow\ntheir demeanor and gesture and expression to rise out of the situation,\nto \"get up\" their parts from their own ideas; and these ideas are\ninterfered with only if they run definitely counter to the ideas of\nstage-manager or author. The smallness of the Abbey Theatre has saved\nthem from the necessity of heightening effects that they may carry to\nthe farthest corners of a large house, a necessity that leads so often\nto over-emphasis by our own actors. There are less than six hundred\nseats in the Abbey theatre (five hundred and sixty-two by actual count),\nand it is so arranged that the words uttered on the stage carry easily\nwithout emphasis all over the house.\n\nIt is an old saying that the English of Dublin is the most beautiful\nEnglish in the world. However that may be, there can be no doubt\nwhatsoever but that the English that is spoken in Dublin falls on the\near with a mellowness of sound that is a joy to all who cherish proper\nspeech. In the earlier years of the company Mr. Yeats was very desirous\nof having his dramatic verse spoken with \"the half chant men spoke it\n[poetry] with in old times.\" It was in some such way that Mr. Yeats had\ntried to have his lines in \"The Land of Heart's Desire\" spoken when it\nwas put on at the Avenue Theatre, London, in 1894; and thirteen years\nlater Miss Florence Farr, whom he believes to speak English more\nbeautifully than anybody in the world, spoke his dramatic verses in a\n\"half chant,\" and his lyrical verses, many of them, to a definite\nmusical notation, on her American tour of 1907. It was noticeable,\nhowever, when she played one of the musicians in his \"Deirdre\" on its\nlater presentations, that he method of intoning the verses differed a\ngreat deal from their delivery by the regular members of the company.\nIf Mr. Yeats has not changed his views somewhat in regard to the\nspeaking of dramatic verse, he no longer insists on the half chant as it\nwas practiced by Miss Farr, but is content if the actors reproduce its\nrhythm in \"the beautiful speaking\" that is characteristic of their art.\nThe most beautiful English that I have ever listened to is the English\nof Synge as spoken by Mr. O'Donovan in Christy's \"romancin'\" to Pegeen\nMike in the third act of \"The Playboy of the Western World.\" His voice,\nfull and mellow by nature, and in perfect control, responds to all the\nmany changes of emotion that the part demands, the unmatched rhythm of\nthe prose rendered as he renders it carrying one clean out of one's self\nas one listens. It is only when one comes to one's self on the\ncurtain-fall that one finds one's self wondering, Can this be prose?\nSurely, never before was prose, English prose, as beautiful to the ear\nas English verse.\n\nAs Miss O'Neill did not come with the Abbey Players to America, we did\nnot have a chance to hear Pegeen Mike's lines spoken with a beauty\ncomparable to Christy's. The part is not one to which Miss Allgood is\nphysically adapted, and Miss McGee is as yet too new to the stage to\nspeak with the confident abandon the lines demand. We did, however, have\na chance to hear Miss Allgood's very beautiful musical utterance of the\nverses given to Cathleen ni Houlihan in this first of the movement's\nfolk-plays, and her equally beautiful speaking of the prose lines of the\nplay. This part of Cathleen ni Houlihan is sufficiently removed from the\nother parts of the play, folk-parts, and from the parts of the other\nfolk-plays, to give us an insight into the versatility of Miss Allgood;\nand we saw enough of Mr. Sinclair and Mr. O'Donovan and Mr. Kerrigan to\nrealize that they, too, could worthily bear parts in heroic romance.\n\nThe rendering of the songs in the plays--it is chiefly in the plays of\nMr. Yeats that they appear--is a distinguishing characteristic of their\nproduction. Mr. Yeats will not have them rendered by what, in the\nordinary sense, is singing. Writing in the notes to volume III of his\n\"Collected Works\"[1] he says:--\n\n     No vowel must ever be prolonged unnaturally, no word of mine must\n     ever change into a mere musical note, no singer of my words must\n     ever cease to be a man and become an instrument.\n\n     The degree of approach to ordinary singing depends on the context,\n     for one desires a greater or lesser amount of contrast between the\n     lyrics and the dialogue according to situation and emotion and the\n     qualities of players. The words of Cathleen ni Houlihan about the\n     \"white-scarfed riders\" must be little more than regulated\n     declamation; the little song of Leagerie when he seizes the \"Golden\n     Helmet\" should in its opening words be indistinguishable from the\n     dialogue itself. Upon the other hand Cathleen's verses by the fire,\n     and those of the pupils in \"The Hour-Glass,\" and those of the\n     beggars in \"The Unicorn,\" are sung as the country people understand\n     song. Modern singing would spoil them for dramatic purposes by\n     taking the keenness and the salt out of the words. The songs in\n     \"Deirdre,\" in Miss Fair's and in Miss Allgood's setting, need fine\n     speakers of verse more than good singers: and in these, and still\n     more in the song of the Three Women in \"Baile's Strand,\" the\n     singers must remember the natural speed of words. If the lyric in\n     \"Baile's Strand\" is sung slowly it is like church-singing, but if\n     sung quickly and with the right expression it becomes an\n     incantation so old that nobody can quite understand it. That it may\n     give this sense of something half-forgotten, it must be sung with a\n     certain lack of minute feeling for the meaning of the words, which,\n     however, must always remain words. The songs in \"Deirdre,\"\n     especially the last dirge, which is supposed to be the creation of\n     the moment, must upon the other hand, at any rate when Miss Farr's\n     or Miss Allgood's music is used, be sung or spoken with minute\n     passionate understanding. I have rehearsed the part of the Angel in\n     \"The Hour-Glass\" with recorded notes throughout, and believe this\n     is the right way; but in practice, owing to the difficulty of\n     finding a player who did not sing too much the moment the notes\n     were written down, have left it to the player's own unrecorded\n     inspiration, except at the \"exit,\" where it is well for the player\n     to go nearer to ordinary song.\n\nAt times Irish actresses who have not come to the stage through the\nAbbey Company, as has every one of its regular actresses, and every one\nof its men save Mr. W.G. Fay, have lent it their assistance, as in the\ninstance of Mrs. Patrick Campbell referred to above, and as Miss Darragh\ndid in productions of \"The Shadowy Waters\" and of \"Deirdre\" in 1906. It\nwas four years earlier than this, however, that an Irishwoman, better\nknown in her country than either Miss Darragh or Mrs. Patrick Campbell,\nlent her art to the performance of Cathleen ni Houlihan. \"Miss Maud\nGonne played very finely,\" writes Mr. Yeats in recording the incident,\n\"and her great height made Cathleen seem a divine being fallen into our\nmortal infirmity.\" With these three exceptions, so far as I have been\nable to find out, no actors or actresses outside of the company have,\nsince 1902, essayed any other than a subordinate part. Yet such is the\nversatility of the company, men and women both, within the range of\nplays the company feels called upon to present,--folk-drama of to-day\nand of yesterday in Ireland, folk-history plays, morality plays, and\nplays in verse out of old legends,--that though there have never been as\nmany as twenty actors in the company there has very seldom been much\ndifficulty in casting a part. Molly Byrne in \"The Well of the Saints\"\nand the Wandering Friar of the same play have given the most trouble to\nthe stage directors.\n\nFrom the very beginning of the Irish National Dramatic Company, Mr.\nYeats has been an advocate of scenery that is background chiefly, and in\nno way divertive of attention from the play itself, its thought, its\nwords, its acting. He would have it, in a way, decorative, but subdued\nand in harmony with the subject of the play. A very few simple sets\nsuffice for the plays of peasant life, a cottage interior, a village\nstreet, a crossroads in a gap of the hills, all to serve the action and\nthe words as background, and to be no more obtrusive than the background\nof a portrait. It may be that this attitude of Mr. Yeats is in a measure\ndue to his talks with Mr. Gordon Craig, but it is equally true, I think,\nthat some of Mr. Gordon Craig's ideas are due in part to his talks with\nMr. Yeats. Equally simple, though of another sort of simplicity, would\nMr. Yeats have the scenery for plays out of old legend. \"I would like to\nsee,\" writes Mr. Yeats in \"Samhain\" of 1902, \"poetic drama, which tries\nto keep at a distance from daily life, that it may keep its emotion\nuntroubled, staged with but two or three colors.\" Old reds, misty\nblues, imperial purples, greens that have about them the dimness of\nhaunted woods, and dulled golds have been among the colors used in the\nlegendary plays of Mr. Yeats and in the folk-histories of Lady Gregory,\nthe color schemes being generally either those of Mr. Yeats or of Mr.\nRobert Gregory, Lady Gregory's son. Scenery and costumes alike are\nsimple. No audience at the Abbey has ever marveled at cycloramic\nlandscape, and no audience and no actress has ever been able to take the\njoy of the dressmaker and the dressed, of the milliner and the\nmillinered, in gown or hat.\n\nThe National Theatre Society, Limited, which is the legal name of the\norganization that controls the Abbey Theatre Company, may not play what\nplays it will at the Abbey; the two leading theatres of commerce in\nDublin, the Gaiety and the Theatre Royal, having, as Mr. Yeats records,\n\"vigorously opposed\" the Abbey being given \"a patent as little\nrestricted\" as their own. \"The Solicitor-General,\" Mr. Yeats continues,\n\"to meet them halfway, has restricted our patent to plays written by\nIrishmen or on Irish subjects or to foreign masterpieces, provided these\nmasterpieces are not English.\" This restriction has not interfered with\nany feature of the work of the Abbey Theatre, Mr. Yeats believes, save\nin the building-up of an audience, some people remaining away, perhaps,\nwho might have been attracted had \"such bodies as the Elizabethan Stage\nSociety, which brought 'Everyman' to Dublin some years ago, been able to\nhire the theatre.\"\n\nNo phase of the dramatic movement has been more interesting and none\nhas been more important than this building-up of an audience to\nappreciate the plays. Whether with the poetic plays of Mr. Yeats and the\nironic extravaganzas of Synge alone, such an audience as has been built\nup--an audience estimated by Mr. Yeats in 1906 to consist of four\nthousand young men and women--could have been won is problematical; that\nis, it may be doubted that the very best the movement has produced would\nhave attracted a sufficient audience to enable the company to keep\ntogether after the expiration in 1910 of Miss Horniman's guarantee.\nCertain it is, however, that Lady Gregory's farces were a great help,\nboth in building up and in holding the Abbey audience. It was for the\npurpose of affording comic relief to the plays of Mr. Yeats and to the\nfirst plays of Synge that Lady Gregory started to create them. They\nattracted all who loved laughter and merriness and a loving caricature\nof country-folk,--and who do not?--and one of them, \"The Rising of the\nMoon\" (1907), had a distinct patriotic appeal, as had Mr. Yeats's\n\"Cathleen ni Houlihan,\" which brought some who would not otherwise have\ncome to the Abbey Theatre. The third most definitely \"national\" play of\nthe movement, \"The Piper\" (1908) of Mr. O'Riordan, may have also drawn\nsome who would not otherwise have come to the theatre, but if it did so\nit brought them there, as did \"The Playboy of the Western World\" (1907),\nto object.\n\nThe first appeal of the Irish Players, in April, 1902, was trough the\n\"Deirdre\" of \"A.E.,\" a play out of old legend, national legend, and\n\"Cathleen ni Houlihan,\" a symbolic national play of '98. Then followed\nMr. Cousins's two little plays above referred to; \"The Laying of the\nFoundations,\" by Mr. Frederick Ryan,--a realistic satire of Dublin life;\nand Mr. Yeats's incursion into farce, \"A Pot of Broth.\" The appeal of\nthe repertoire was widened in 1903 by the inclusion of plays by Lady\nGregory, Mr. Colum, and Synge. \"Twenty-five\" could give offense to none\nin its story of self-sacrificing love, and Mr. Colum's \"Broken Soil,\"\ncoming as it did after \"In the Shadow of the Glen,\" would have escaped\nhostile criticism in such a situation even had it been much more severe\nin its portrayal of peasant life in the Midlands than it was.\n\nFrom the time of \"The Countess Cathleen\" (1899) to the time of \"In the\nShadow of the Glen\" (1903), no one of the plays in the movement had\nseriously offended any large section of the public, and the younger\ngeneration of all classes was contributing largely of its intellectual\nmembers to the audience of the National Dramatic Company. The West\nBritons, the Dublin Castle set, the Trinity College group, were not much\ninterested, and, indeed, that portion of the theatrical audience that\nfills the stalls in the average theatre the English-speaking world over\nhas never taken very much interest in the plays of the movement, save to\nprotest against \"The Rising of the Moon\" as disloyal to England, and to\napprove, misunderstanding its purpose, \"The Playboy of the Western\nWorld\" as a savage satire of the Irish Irishman. The audience that the\nmovement has built up is an audience of free intelligences, largely from\nthe poorer elements of the public, an audience that fills the cheaper\nplaces in the house. \"The Pit\" of the Abbey Theatre is the envy of all\nthe theatrical managers of Dublin. It is a pit of people young in years\nor young in heart and mind, who are interested in intellectual things, a\ngroup of people largely self-taught, or taught by the Celtic\nRenaissance, to appreciate fine things. With these has come that element\nof the intellectuals among the Trinity College set that is interested\nabove all things in Ireland, but this element is not large.\n\nThis play and that have attracted, either for purposes of approval or\nfor purposes of disapproval, groups of people outside of the faithful\npit that is interested in every sincere portrayal of Irish life. Such a\ngroup, from the patriotic societies, prevented the rest of the house\nfrom hearing \"The Playboy of the Western World,\" after its first\nperformance on January 26, 1907, for four performances more; and such a\ngroup similarly protested against \"The Piper,\" a little more than a year\nlater, because it seemed to the members of the group to be an\nunpatriotic revelation of the lack of cohesion among Irish political and\npatriotic factions.\n\nDespite opposition, however, and with new dramatists one by one gaining\na place in the repertoire of the company, Mr. Boyle in 1905 and Mr.\nRobinson in 1908, Mr. Murray in 1910 and Mr. Ervine in 1911, more and\nmore people continued to become interested in the new drama, and by the\ntime Miss Horniman's support, promised in 1904 for six years, was\nwithdrawn at the expiration of that period, the Abbey Theatre was\napparently a fixture in the artistic life of Ireland.\n\nIt has been the custom, of recent years, for the Abbey Theatre to begin\nits Dublin season In October and to continue it on until May, when the\ncompany goes to London for a month. In the earlier years, before the\ncompany had a home at the Abbey, and even for a year or two after that,\nperformances were not so continuous. Nor are they now given every week\nor always on every night of a week, the theatre being turned over to the\nTheatre of Ireland or some other dramatic organization occasionally, and\nbeing let, now and then, for lectures or concerts or the like. The\nLondon season in May is followed, or preceded sometimes, by visits to\nother English cities, Manchester and Leeds, Oxford and Cambridge among\nthem; and at home in Ireland, in the intervals between weeks at the\nAbbey, the company goes to Cork or Belfast for a few performances.\n\nIn this country the audiences that attended the performances of the\nplays of the Abbey Theatre Players were of a very different composition.\nAt their average they included a certain proportion of the younger\nintellectuals among the Irish-Americans, but very many of these were\nkept away from the performances, as many, indeed, in Ireland and in\nEngland, too, are kept away from the performances, by the opposition in\nthe patriotic societies. In America, as in London and in Manchester, and\nin the English university towns, it has been largely from among those\nwho are seriously interested in a literary drama that the audiences have\nbeen drawn. It was such people as do not habitually go to the theatre,\nbut that are to be found at revivals of old English comedy and Ibsen\nplays and symphony concerts, that made up the audiences of the Irish\nPlayers in America, whether in Boston or in Philadelphia or Chicago.\nThese audiences approximated to the Dublin audiences only in the fact\nthat they were constant in attendance at all the plays of the\nrepertoire. There were, of course, some who came out of curiosity and\nthe love of ruction, but these after all were few. The plays appealed on\ntheir merits and won the success that they did win because of their art\nand their reading of life, and not because of the sensational incidents\nthat had occurred at some of the productions of the company.\n\nThe Abbey Theatre has been able to maintain itself successfully in the\nyears that have elapsed since the arrangement between Miss Horniman and\nthe National Theatre Society came to an end. It has begotten many other\ncompanies, the Ulster Literary Theatre, best of them all; the Theatre of\nIreland; the National Players; the Cork Dramatic Society. It has brought\ninto being a kind of folk-drama that, despite its avowed and evident\nScandinavian origin, is a new folk-drama, and it has brought into being,\ntoo, a school of dramatists. It has done much more than Mr. Yeats\nclaimed it had done in 1908 when he wrote, \"We know that we have already\ncreated a taste for sincere and original drama and for sincere, quiet,\nsimple acting. Ireland possesses something which has come out of its own\nlife, and the many failures of dramatic societies which have imitated\nour work, without our discipline and our independence, show that it\ncould not have been made in any other way.\" But even were this all it\nhad done, it had done much. What it has done I have attempted to put\ndown in some detail, and to put values upon, in the following pages.\nHere I wish further to say but this: that I think the dramatic movement\nthe most significant part of the Celtic Renaissance, a movement to me\nthe most original movement in letters the world has known since that\nmovement in Norway which so definitely stimulated it, a movement that\ngave Bjoernson and Ibsen to the world.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Shakespeare Head Press, Stratford-on-Avon, 1908.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nMR. WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS\n\n\nThere has never been a poet who used better the gifts his country gave\nhim than Mr. Yeats. The heroic legends of Ireland are in his poetry,\nIrish folk-lore is there, and the look of the country; and a man moulded\nas only Irish conditions, of old time and of to-day, could mould him,\nIrish conditions spiritual, intellectual, and physical; a man with eyes\non a bare countryside in the gray of twilight, thinking of the stories\nthe peasants tell and of the old legends whose setting this is before\nhim. At this hour, with such surroundings, and in such thought, the\nOther World is as near to all men as their natures will let it come, and\nto Mr. Yeats it is very near. Waking dreams come to him at such hours,\nand he puts them into his verse, waking dreams of his country's\nlegendary past and of its fairy present, and waking dreams born of books\nof old magic he has read indoors. Now it will be one sort of dream is\npresent, now the other, and now the third, and often two or even all\nthree sorts of dream are intermingled. His volume of prose sketches,\n\"The Celtic Twilight\" (1893), gives the title some of his countrymen\nhave fastened on his verse, and the verse of others that take his\nattitude and use like material, \"The Twilight School of Poetry.\" It is\nnot inapt as giving the quality of most of his writing; but some of his\nverses have warm sunlight in them, which, strangely, since it is\nsunlight as it visits Irish shore and mountain, he has deplored. The\nexplanation may be that Mr. Yeats is of those who do not live intensely\nuntil the oncoming of night, and so holds out of harmony with his genius\nthe coloring of its moments of lesser energy.\n\nLegends and folk-tales and landscapes and books of mysticism and magic\nnot only give Mr. Yeats the material of his poetry, but suggest its\nimages, its color, and in part its rhythms; but before he found the\n\"faint and nervous\" rhythms best fitted to his poetry, and put in it the\ngray-greens and browns and soft purples and bright whites of Irish\nlandscape, and the symbols from fairy-lore and mythology, he had paid\npatient heed to certain of the great poets of his language, to Spenser\nand Blake, to Shelley and William Morris. And in learning the art of\ndrama, which he began to study very carefully after his early plays were\ntested in \"The Irish Literary Theatre,\" Mr. Yeats has very evidently\npondered a good deal on the English morality and taken into account the\neffects of Greek tragedy as he had before explored M. Maeterlinck and\nthe earlier Ibsen.\n\nAs a boy Mr. Yeats wrote in the \"Dublin University Review\" that the\n\"greatest of the earth\" often owned but two aims, \"two linked and\nardorous thoughts--fatherland and song.\" Twenty-six years have gone\nsince then and Mr. Yeats is still devoted to poetry and to his country,\nfor all that the Nationalists deplore that his greater interest is now\nin his art. His art, indeed, he cherishes with an ardor that is akin to\nthe ardor of patriotism; to him, as to Spenser, the master of his\nyouth, poetry is a divine enthusiasm. At first eager to paint, as did\nand does his father, Mr. J.B. Yeats, he studied in Dublin Arts Schools,\nbut as Nature \"wanted a few verses\" from him, she sent him \"into a\nlibrary to read bad translations from the Irish, and at last down into\nConnaught to sit by turf fires.\" He read, too, Sir Samuel Ferguson, the\npoet who had done most with Irish legend, and Allingham, who wrote of\nIrish fairies, and the patriotic poets of the young Ireland group, Davis\nchief among them. His father, an admirer of Whitman, preached to him the\ndoctrine embodied in the text--\n\n\n   \"Will you seek afar off? You surely come back at last,\n   In things best known to you finding the best.\"\n\n\nMany influences thus conspired to make Mr. Yeats find his inspiration\nin Ireland, overcoming, for the time, the denationalizing influences\nthat the art of the centre must always exert. Not only were the\nnational legends and folk-lore constantly with him in these years, but\nthe interest in magic and all things that are hidden. He was one of\nthe Hermetic Society, of which Mr. George W. Russell was the high\npriest, as early as 1886, but this interest, which has dominated so\noften in his later poetry, is not to the forefront in \"The Wanderings\nof Oisin\" of 1889. The material of the title poem of this volume Mr.\nYeats found in the libraries. It recounts the Fenian poet's three\nhundred years of \"dalliance with a demon thing\" oversea in three\nwondrous lands, where were severally pleasure and fighting and\nforgetfulness, and in each of which Oisin spent a century. It has a\nhalf-dramatic framework of question and answer between St. Patrick,\nwho appears as upbraider, and the poet, who laments joys gone and the\nChristian present of Ireland and his own feeble age. Although it is a\nstory Mr. Yeats is telling, the beauties of the poems are lyrical\nbeauties. In exuberance and richness of color it is Mr. Yeats's most\ntypically Irish poem based on legend, and nowhere do his lines go with\nmore lilt, or fall oftener into inevitability of phrase, or more fully\ndiffuse a glamour of otherworldliness. \"The Wanderings of Oisin\"\nrevealed poetry as unmistakably new to his day as was Poe's to the\nearliest Victorian days. Beside the title poem another from legend had\nthis new quality, \"The Madness of King Goll,\" with its refrain that\nwill not out of memory, \"They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter\nround me, the beech leaves old.\" \"Down by the Salley Gardens\" and \"The\nMeditation of the Old Fisherman\" bear witness to talks before turf\nfires, or in herring boats off Knocknarea, and other developments of\nfolk-song or tale have the place-names of his home county of Sligo;\nbut this distinctive quality is theirs in less measure, and few others\nin the little volume have it at all.\n\nIn the years just before \"The Wanderings of Oisin,\" Mr. Yeats had been\neager to unite the young writers of Ireland in a movement to give the\ncountry a national literature in English. This project developed side\nby side with Dr. Hyde's to give Ireland its own language again and a\nmodern literature in it. Neither leader was the first to advance\neither idea, but each was the first to establish the movement in which\nhe was most interested; Mr. Yeats's \"Wanderings of Oisin\" (1889) is\nthe starting-point of the Celtic Renaissance, and Dr. Hyde's \"Leabhar\nSgeuluigheachta\" (1889), the starting-point of the Gaelic League,\nthough this was not organized until 1893. From that day to this these\ntwo men and Mr. George W. Russell (\"A.E.\") have been the great forces\nin the literature of the Renaissance. Mr. Yeats was busy in those\nearly days with editing fairy and folk-tales and short stories from\nthe Irish novelists, and in reading these it was but natural that he\nshould be led to write stories. First came \"John Sherman\" and \"Dhoya\"\nin 1891, the one a condensed novel with the slightest of plots about a\nslow-pulsed young man's troubles with love and laziness in Sligo and\nLondon, and the other a sketch of Irish faery in old time. Some of the\nsketches of \"The Celtic Twilight\" (1893) approach the tale, but such\nnarrations are not told for their own sake, but as illustrations of\nfairy-lore, or they have too little body to win for themselves the\ntitle of tale. In \"The Secret Rose\" (1897) there are true tales, some\nout of Ireland's legendary past, some out of her fairy present, and,\nakin to both, the Hanrahan series. These last Mr. Yeats so rewrote in\n1904 as to be \"nearer to the mind of the country places where Hanrahan\nand his like wandered and are remembered.\" As they stand now they are\nhis best prose, rid almost entirely of preciousness, and simple and\nfull of mystery as the countryside they reflect. In \"The Secret Rose\"\nare two \"alchemical\" tales and in \"The Tables of the Law\" (1904), two\nothers of like subject. To me, for all the qualities they share with\npoetry of his of similar inspiration, they do not seem to be mastered\nby him. Alone among his writings they are incomplete.\n\nMr. Yeats was unable until the last few years to give himself up to\nthe writing nearest his heart, drama. He continued to edit Irish\nliterature, to write on literature and fairy-lore for the magazines.\nThe articles about fairies he has published, and a great mass of\nbelief collected but as yet unprinted, he will gather some day into a\ngreat book. Known now in the Irish countryside as a man with a power\nto exorcise spirits, he will then no doubt attain a reputation that\nwill put him well above that of the Irish-American archbishop who was\nhis only rival in that practice in the belief of many Irish peasants.\nOther of his magazine writing Mr. Yeats has gathered into \"The Celtic\nTwilight\" and more of it into the later edition (1900) of this book.\nStill other of these articles are to be found in \"Ideas of Good and\nEvil\" (1903), some of them stating his philosophy, never too\ndefinitely formulated. These two collections are very interesting in\nthemselves, but both, like his \"Discoveries\" (1907), are more\ninteresting as commentary on his powers. Mr. Yeats has used many notes\nto explain obscure allusions in his poems, though the most obscure he,\nperhaps with premeditation, fails to explain. Yet the reader\nunacquainted with his use of symbols will find much interpretation in\nthese essays, especially those in \"Ideas of Good and Evil.\"\n\nUp to 1899, when Mr. Yeats's serious efforts to build up an Irish\nnational drama began with \"The Irish Literary Theatre,\" he devoted his\nhappiest moments to lyric poetry, though the play of \"The Countess\nCathleen\" made half of his second volume of verse, and the third was\nwholly given to the little play, \"The Land of Heart's Desire.\" Since\n1899, in which year \"The Wind among the Reeds\" appeared, Mr. Yeats has\npublished, of other than dramatic verse, only the little volume of \"In\nthe Seven Woods,\" the little series on Flamel, and a few snatches, in\nall about a thousand lines. Some of this verse Mr. Yeats wrote for the\npsaltery, and in 1902 he was determined to write all his shorter poems\nfor recitation to this instrument and \"all his longer poems for the\nstage.\"\n\nMr. Yeats was thirty-four when he practically gave up lyrical poetry for\ndramatic poetry. From the beginning he had written plays, but they were\nlyrical plays, dramatic only in form, and they were, as soon as he had\nmastered the technique of verse, great lyrical poems. In the plays he\nhas written since he has striven at that hardest of literary tasks, to\nmake true dramatic speech high poetry, he has written nothing more\nbeautiful than \"The Countess Cathleen\" and \"The Land of Heart's Desire.\"\nHe has rewritten and rewritten these later plays, and in almost every\nrewriting made them more dramatic, but sometimes the later versions have\nlost as poetry, not in the mere decorative features and \"lyrical\ninterbreathings,\" but in the accent of the play and in the sheer\npoetical qualities. To me it seems a pity, inevitable though it be, that\nthe poet who has struck the most distinctly new note of all the English\npoets since Swinburne should, at thirty-four, have changed from an art\nhe knew to an art he did not know. That is a ripe age for a poet to\nbegin to learn to write in a form barely essayed before. Unlike so many\nof the English poets, who as public school boys were bred up to write\nverse, Mr. Yeats had to teach himself to write verse. Overcoming\ntriumphantly this handicap, though losing by it years usually fullest of\nimpulse to write, Mr. Yeats greatly attained, and for the ten years from\n1889 to 1899 devoted himself to the writing of lyrics. For the past\nthirteen years he has been busiest with dramas, in none of which has he\nmore than approximated to a dramatic quality that is as great as the\nquality of his lyrics. He has owned himself one reason of such\nshortcoming, in the notes to \"Deirdre.\"[2] \"The principal difficulty\nwith the form of dramatic literature I have adopted is that, unlike the\nloose Elizabethan form, it continually forces one by its rigour of logic\naway from one's capacities, experiences, and desires, until, if one have\nnot patience to wait for the mood, or to rewrite again and again till it\ncomes, there is rhetoric and logic and dry circumstance where there\nshould be life.\"\n\nIt may be that Mr. Yeats will one day overcome the difficulties that he\nalludes to here, but he is now forty-seven, and I, for one, doubt if, at\nhis age, he can overcome them. As they are, his plays are beautiful in\nideas and words, and striking in a lyric and decorative way, if not all\nof them in a dramatic way, though in some he has in vain sacrificed\npoetry to attain true dramatic speech attaining instead only \"rhetoric\nand logic and dry circumstance.\" One values the plays of Mr. Yeats\nhighest when one thinks of them as a new kind of drama, as a\nredevelopment of epic and lyric poetry into drama, an epic and lyric\npoetry illustrated by tableaux against backgrounds out of faery. Let us\nnot forget that there is one effect which is of \"The Tempest,\" and\nanother effect which is of \"Lear,\" and that it is after all something of\na convention to call the latter a success of drama and the former a\nsuccess of something other than drama. Yet it is just as necessary to\nremember that drama does mean a definite sort of literature, and the\nsuccess of a new sort of drama, whether it be a \"static\" drama, as M.\nMaeterlinck has called his early drama, or whether it be the kind of\ndrama that Mr. Yeats has created, is the success of something other than\nwhat we conventionally term drama. It is curious that no matter how\ngreat may be the success of an author in a form he has invented, he will\nalmost invariably attempt also the accepted form from which he has\ndiverged. Impelled by a desire to see his wife in a drama of his own but\nof the old dramatic sort, M. Maeterlinck made \"Monna Vanna\" in accord\nwith the usual rules of the theatre, but to find it fall far short of\nthe strange new beauty of his earlier plays. As yet Mr. Yeats has not\ncompromised with the current taste in drama, but it may be that a desire\nto see some such actress as Mrs. Patrick Campbell in a part of his may\nlead to such compromise, as the thought of her acting his Deirdre\ninspired him to rewrite that part for Mrs. Campbell.\n\nMr. Yeats has not yet passed beyond the danger of falling between two\nstools. If it prove that he has really attained in a drama in which the\nverse is true dramatic speech and not lyric ecstasy or decoration, the\nsuccess of such drama will be worth the sacrifice of the lyric poetry\nthat he has not written because of the absorption of all of his energy\nin his dramatic writing. If it prove he has not so attained, we shall\nhave no adequate compensation for the lost lyrics that he is now too old\nto write. I say no \"adequate compensation,\" for compensation there is in\nthe lyrical passages that no play of his is without, lyrical passages\nthat arrest us as do his poems of the nineties; but, after all, these are\nbut passages, not poems with unity and finality of form.\n\nAnother question altogether, a question outside of the question of the\nvalue as art of the writing of Mr. Yeats which is what I am considering,\nis the question as to whether there would have been a dramatic movement\nat all comparable to what has been, if Mr. Yeats had not devoted so\nlarge a portion of his time to drama. I believe there would have been a\ndramatic movement, but I am sure, from what I know of the other dramatic\norganizations in Dublin, that they would not have amounted to much\nunless some other great writer as loyal to art as Mr. Yeats had played\nfor them the beneficent tyrant. And other such great writers, as loyal\nto art, and as devoted to drama, are far to seek in Ireland as in other\ncountries. It is not in Mr. Russell's nature so to act; it is not in Dr.\nHyde's plan of life to foster in others other than propagandist\nliterature; it is more than likely that had Mr. Martyn attempted it it\nhad come to the end to which he has come as playwright. Without Mr.\nYeats as moving power, Synge had not been, without Mr. Yeats to\ninterest her in the movement, Lady Gregory had not written her farces\nand folk-histories; and without the Abbey Theatre's plays as standard,\nthe younger playwrights of Cork and Belfast would have written plays\nvery other than those they have written.\n\nNo wonder Mr. Yeats wants to see his dreams take on bodily reality upon\nthe stage, and to hear beautifully spoken the words in which he has\ncaught them. There can be no greater pleasures than these to a writer\nwhen he is past the imaginative intensity of youth. In youth his\nimaginings are so real to him he needs no objective embodiment to see\nthem, and the roll and sing of their lines are always sounding to his\ninner ear, but as he passes \"out of a red flare of dreams,\" such as is\nyouth's, \"into a common light of common hours\" in middle age, his\nimaginative life grows less intense and needs the satisfaction of seeing\nitself concretely represented.\n\nMr. Yeats leaves out of his collected poems the plays of his boyhood,\n\"The Island of Statues\" (1885) and \"Mosada\" (1886). They were not of\nIreland, but the Arcady of the one and the mediaeval Spain of the other\nhe could easily have paralleled in Irish legend, where anything\nwonderful and tragic is possible. Nor is \"The Countess Cathleen\"\n(1892-99), in its presentation of the drama of a woman that sells her\nsoul that the souls of her tenantry may be saved, essentially Irish. It\nis curious that among English poets of Mr. Yeats's generation it should\nbe Mr. Kipling that has happened upon the same legend, which he adapts\nto his ends in \"The Sacrifice of Er-Heb.\" The background of \"The\nCountess Cathleen\" in the earlier versions was not more essentially\nIrish than the story. \"The great castle in malevolent woods\" and the\ncountry about it is very like the part of fairyland that M. Maeterlinck\nrefound by following the charts of early discoverers in Arthurian\nlegend. In its later versions \"The Countess Cathleen\" is more Irish and\nperhaps more dramatic, though its greatnesses, after that of atmosphere,\nthe great lines we may no more forget than those about \"the angel\nIsrafel\"\n\n\n  \"Whose heart-strings are a lute\";\n\n\nor about\n\n\n        \"magic casements, opening on the foam\n  Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn\";\n\n\nor about\n\n\n      \"old, unhappy, far-off things\n  And battles long ago\";\n\n\nor about hearing\n\n\n      \"the far-off curfew sound\n  Over some wide-watered shore\n  Swinging slow with sullen roar,\"\n\n\nwere most of them in the earlier versions. There were those lines of\nMaire's denouncement of the two demons and her prophecy to them:--\n\n\n  \"You shall at last dry like dry leaves, and hang\n  Nailed like dead vermin to the doors of God\";\n\n\nand those wonderful lines of Cathleen dying:--\n\n\n  \"Bend down your faces, Oona and Aleel:\n  I gaze upon them as the swallow gazes\n  Upon the nest under the eave, before\n  He wander the loud waters\";\n\n\nand those last lines of all, great as only the greatest lines are\ngreat,--\n\n\n  \"The years like great black oxen tread the world,\n  And God the herdsman goads them on behind,\n  And I am broken by their passing feet.\"\n\n\nIt was about this time, too, that Mr. Yeats wrote that most startling of\nall his lines,--\n\n\n  \"And God stands winding his lonely horn\",\n\n\nand \"The Lake Isle of Innisfree,\" that so charmed Stevenson that he had\nto write its author, and say it cast over him a spell like that of his\nfirst reading of the \"Poems and Ballads\" of Swinburne and the \"Love in\nthe Valley\" of Meredith.\n\nThere is no greater lyric poetry anywhere in the writing of Mr. Yeats\nthan in \"The Land of Heart's Desire\" (1894), that little folk-play whose\nconstant boding and final tragedy cannot overcome, either while it is\nplaying or as you remember it, the sing and lilt that are in the lines.\nIt tells of the luring away by a fairy child of the soul of a newly\nmarried bride on May-Eve, and of her death when her soul has passed to\nthe \"Land of Heart's Desire\"--\n\n\n  \"Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,\n  Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,\n  Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue,\n  And where kind tongues bring no captivity.\"\n\n\nIt is a story out of folk-lore, and so far back in time, and so far away\nfrom the life that we know is it, that all that happens seems not only\npossible but inevitable.\n\n\"The Land of Heart's Desire\" was the first play of Mr. Yeats to be put\non the stage, being presented at the Avenue Theatre in London in 1894;\nand it was also the first play of Mr. Yeats to be put on in America,\nbeing presented with Miss Mabel Taliaferro in the fairy's role as the\ncurtain-raiser to Mrs. Le Moyne's production of \"In a Balcony,\" in the\nspring of 1901. Fragile as is its charm, it crossed the footlights and\nmade itself felt as a new beauty of the theatre. It was the lyrical\ninterbreathings that appealed most to me, but the strife of priest and\nfairy for Maire Bruin's soul was very real drama. It was the fairy's\nsong, however, that haunted me after I left the theatre, as it could not\nbut be. It haunts me still, coming into my mind whenever I think of Mr.\nYeats, as inevitably as the last lines of \"The Countess Cathleen,\" or as\n\"The Lake Isle of Innisfree,\" or \"The Valley of the Black Pig,\" or \"The\nRose of the World,\" or the ecstasies of Forgael and Dectora, or the song\nin \"Deirdre.\" \"The lonely of heart is withered away\" is its burden, a\nburden that will not out of mind.\n\n\"The Land of Heart's Desire\" has probably been most often played,\ncounting American performances as well as performances in Ireland and\nEngland, being played as frequently by amateurs as by professionals in\nthis country, but the prose play \"Cathleen ni Houlihan,\" because of its\nnational theme, has had more playings in Ireland. Its effect upon the\nstage is very different from its effect in the study. Read, it seems\nallegory too obvious to impress. The old woman, Cathleen ni Houlihan,\nwith \"too many strangers in the house\" and with her \"four beautiful\ngreen fields\" taken from her, is so patently Ireland possessed by\nEngland, all four provinces, that one fails to feel the deep humanity of\nthe sacrifices of Michael Gillane for her, his country, even though that\nsacrifice be on his wedding eve. Seen and listened to, \"Cathleen ni\nHoulihan\" brings tears to the eyes and chokes the throat with sobs, so\nintimately physical is the appeal of its pathos. He is, indeed, dull of\nunderstanding or hard of heart who can witness a performance of this\nplay and not feel that something noble has come his way. It seizes hold\nof the Irishmen of the patriotic societies as does \"The Wearing of the\nGreen,\" and even the outlander, little sympathetic to the cause of\nIreland and holding patriotism a provincial thing, is moved in some\nstrange way he does not understand. Performance brings out its\nhomeliness, its touches of humor, its wistfulness, its nobility. It is\nwith this thought of its nobility that every thought of \"Cathleen ni\nHoulihan\" ends, that is every thought of it on the stage. Off the stage\nit is, except to him to whom the cause is all, something that falls\nshort of nobility, to many little more than eloquent allegory. In the\nautumn of 1904 Miss Margaret Wycherly played \"The Land of Heart's\nDesire\" and \"Cathleen ni Houlihan\" a few times in America, and \"The\nCountess Cathleen\"; and \"The Hour-Glass\" (1903) and \"A Pot of Broth\"\n(1902), both plays in prose. \"The Hour-Glass,\" a morality, was written\nafter \"Everyman\" had won Mr. Yeats, and \"A Pot of Broth\" was written,\nperhaps, to prove that its author could do farce.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"The Hour-Glass\" is based on a story that Mr. Yeats found in Lady\nWilde's \"Ancient Legends of Ireland\" (1887), the story of a wise man\nwho is saved from eternal damnation by the faith of a child. Mr. Yeats\nleaves the wise man the great scholar that he was in the old tale, a\nscholar whose teaching had taken away the faith of a countryside, but he\nchanges the child who saved the scholar into Teig the Fool, and infuses\ninto the record of the frantic hour, in which the wise man knows his\nlife ebbing away as the sand falls, a spirit that is as reverent as the\nspirit of the old religious drama.\n\n\"A Pot of Broth\" is a variant of a widely spread folk-tale in which a\nbeggarman tricks a provident housewife out of a meal. He pretends a\nstone that he has, and which he gives her after his meal, makes good\nbroth, but it is her chicken that has made the broth. It is a trifle,\namusing enough, but remarkable chiefly for its difference from other\nwork of Mr. Yeats. There is little doubt, I take it, in the mind of any\none that it is not chiefly Lady Gregory's, as it surely is in its\nwording, and in its intimacy with the details of cottage life.\n\nProse also is \"Diarmid and Grania,\" written in collaboration with Mr.\nGeorge Moore and played at the last year's performance (1901) of \"The\nIrish Literary Theatre.\" As this play as performed was in tone more like\nthe writings of Mr. Moore than of Mr. Yeats, I have considered it among\nhis plays rather than among the plays of Mr. Yeats.\n\nHis other prose play, \"Where there is Nothing\" (1903), is a statement of\nrevolt against \"the despotism of fact\" that is perhaps as characteristic\nof the artist as of the Celt. The world would say that its hero, Paul\nRuttledge, was mad, but no one that reads can deny him a large share of\nsympathy. This play was produced by the Stage Society in London in 1904.\nLady Gregory having had a share in its creation, Mr. Yeats has since\nrelinquished the theme to her; and now rewritten by her alone as \"The\nUnicorn from the Stars,\" it would hardly be recognized as the same play.\n\nHis Paul Ruttledge, gentleman, becomes her Martin Hearne, coach-builder.\nBoth are alike at the outset of their frenzy, in that they would be\ndestroyers of Church and Law, both use tinkers as their agents of\ndestruction, and both die despised of men. Both are \"plunged in trance,\"\nbut their trances differ. That of Lady Gregory's hero is cataleptic and\ndirectly productive of his revolt, from a revelation, as he thinks it\nis, that comes to him while he is \"away.\" Paul Ruttledge, on the other\nhand, deliberately gives up his conventional life, and that as largely\nbecause of boredom as because of belief in its wrongness. One cannot, as\none reads \"Where there is Nothing,\" fail to see in its hero much of Mr.\nYeats himself. He is not the professional agitator, literary or social,\nas was Oscar Wilde and as is Mr. Shaw, but he here delights in turning\nthings topsy-turvy, just as they do, in a fashion that has been\ndistinctive of the Irishman for many generations. Mr. Yeats is himself,\noften, like his hero, \"plunged in trance,\" if one may call trance his\n\"possessed dream,\" such as that in which \"Cap and Bells\" or \"Cathleen ni\nHoulihan\" came to him. The lyric came to him, he says, as a \"vision,\"\nand so, too, the play. It is in the dedication to volumes I and II of\n\"Plays for an Irish Theatre,\" volumes containing \"Where there is\nNothing,\" \"The Hour-Glass,\" \"Cathleen ni Houlihan,\" and \"A Pot of\nBroth,\" that he tells us of the latter vision, and of the beginnings of\nthat collaboration with Lady Gregory that taught her her art, and so\nprofoundly influenced his. So informing is it that I quote it in full.\n\n     MY DEAR LADY GREGORY:--\n\n     I dedicate to you two volumes of plays that are in part your own.\n\n     When I was a boy I used to wander about at Rosses Point and\n     Ballisodare listening to old songs and stories. I wrote down what I\n     heard and made poems out of the stories or put them into the little\n     chapters of the first edition of the \"Celtic Twilight,\" and that is\n     how I began to write in the Irish way.\n\n     Then I went to London to make my living, and though I spent a part\n     of every year in Ireland and tried to keep the old life in my\n     memory by reading every country tale I could find in books or old\n     newspapers, I began to forget the true countenance of country life.\n     The old tales were still alive for me, indeed, but with a new,\n     strange, half-unreal life, as if in a wizard's glass until at last,\n     when I had finished \"The Secret Rose,\" and was halfway through \"The\n     Wind among the Reeds,\" a wise woman in her trance told me that my\n     inspiration was from the moon and that I should always live close\n     to water, for my work was getting too full of those little jewelled\n     thoughts that come from the sun and have no nation. I have no need\n     to turn to my books of astrology to know that the common people are\n     under the moon, or to Porphyry to remember the image-making power\n     of the waters. Nor did I doubt the entire truth of what she said to\n     me, for my head was full of fables that I had no longer the\n     knowledge and emotion to write. Then you brought me with you to see\n     your friends in the cottages, and to talk to old wise men on Slieve\n     Echtge, and we gathered together, or you gathered for me, a great\n     number of stories and traditional beliefs. You taught me to\n     understand again, and much more perfectly than before, the true\n     countenance of country life.\n\n     One night I had a dream, almost as distinct as a vision, of a\n     cottage where there was well-being and firelight and talk of a\n     marriage, and into the midst of that cottage there came an old\n     woman in a cloak. She was Ireland herself, that Cathleen ni\n     Houlihan for whom so many songs have been sung and about whom so\n     many stories have been told and for whose sake so many have gone to\n     their death. I thought if I could write this out as a little play I\n     could make others see my dream as I had seen it but I could not get\n     down out of that high window of dramatic verse, and in spite of all\n     you had done for me I had not the country speech. One has to live\n     among the people, like you, of whom an old man said in my hearing,\n     \"She has been a serving-maid among us,\" before one can think the\n     thoughts of the people and speak with their tongue. We turned my\n     dream into the little play, \"Cathleen ni Houlihan,\" and when we\n     gave it to the little theatre in Dublin and found that the\n     working-people liked it, you helped me to put my other dramatic\n     fables into speech. Some of these have already been acted, but some\n     may not be acted for a long time; but all seem to me, though they\n     were but part of a summer's work, to have more of that countenance\n     of country life than anything I have done since I was a boy.\n\nI should like also to quote in full Mr. Yeats's account of how \"Where\nthere is Nothing\" passed into \"The Unicorn from the Stars,\" as that\naccount throws much light on the methods of collaboration that have\nadded so greatly to the success of the dramatic movement, and that are\nespecially valuable to beginners, whose plays, without reshaping in\ncollaboration, might never win their way to the boards. But I have not\nthe space for it all, and I must content myself with that portion of it\nin which Mr. Yeats confesses that belief of his in the _rapprochement_\nof scholar and tinker that one notes so often in Irish life. Speaking\nof Lady Gregory's rewriting of \"Where there is Nothing\" into \"The\nUnicorn from the Stars,\" he says:--\n\n     Her greatest difficulty was that I had given her for chief\n     character a man so plunged in trance that he could not be otherwise\n     than all but still and silent, though perhaps with the stillness\n     and the silence of a lamp; and the movement of the play as a whole,\n     if we were to listen to hear him, had to be without hurry or\n     violence. The strange characters, her handiwork, on whom he sheds\n     his light, delight me. She has enabled me to carry out an old\n     thought for which my own knowledge is insufficient and to commingle\n     the ancient phantasies of poetry with the rough, vivid,\n     ever-contemporaneous tumult of the roadside; to create for a moment\n     a form that otherwise I could but dream of, though I do that\n     always, an art that prophesies though with worn and failing voice\n     of the day when Quixote and Sancho Panza long estranged may once\n     again go out gaily into the bleak air. Ever since I began to write\n     I have awaited with impatience a linking, all Europe over, of the\n     hereditary knowledge of the countryside, now becoming known to us\n     through the work of wanderers and men of learning, with our old\n     lyricism so full of ancient frenzies and hereditary wisdom, a\n     yoking of antiquities, a marriage of Heaven and Hell.\n\nInteresting, however, as these plays in prose are, and significant of\ntheir author's desire to do work in a medium that was perhaps more\nimmediately acceptable to the audience of the National Dramatic Society\nin its then culture, there is no doubt at all that the plays in verse\nare nearer his heart. They are himself, and in all of the prose plays\nthere is a good deal of Lady Gregory. All this time that he was\ncollaborating in these prose plays he was still dreaming over \"The\nShadowy Waters,\" retouching it, rearranging it, until it became in\ndetail a very different play from the play that was published under that\nname in 1900. Its hero and heroine, Forgael and Dectora, are much as\nthey were then, their fateful meeting in misty northern seas remains the\ncentral incident, and the climax is still their choice to be left alone\nin the Viking ship at the world's end; but more than half the lines are\nchanged. \"The Shadowy Waters\" was staged in 1904, and with telling\nweirdness, but like many another author's best-loved and most elaborated\nwork, it has not made the appeal of plays less favorite to him. Mr.\nYeats has written that he has been brooding over \"The Shadowy Waters\"\never since he was a boy, and he told me, when I asked him once which\nwriting of his he cared most for, \"That I was last working at, and then\n'The Shadowy Waters.'\" It is too much to say that it expresses the dream\nof his life, but it is not too much to say that a dream that has haunted\nall his life is told here, or half told, for dream such as this eludes\ncomplete expression. \"The Shadowy Waters\" is a poem so long considered,\nso often returned to, so loved and elaborated and worked over, so often\ndreamed and redreamed, that one would expect to find in it its author's\n_credo_, if its author is one who could hold to one confession of faith.\nFew authors can, few authors should, and Mr. Yeats is not one of them\nthat can or should. He wrote once that he would be accounted\n\n\n  \"True brother of that company\n  That sang to lighten Ireland's wrong,\n  Ballad and story, rann and song,\"--\n\n\nand Nationalist though he still is he has grown more and more\npreoccupied with art. There was a time when a love of the occult\nthreatened his art, but from that the theatre has saved him, if it has\ntaken him from the writing lyrics, in which his powers are at their\nhighest. To old Irish legend, Mr. Yeats has, however, been true from the\nstart, and from the start, too, there has never been a time the two he\nhas not been preoccupied with dream. And if the two loves to which he\nhas been constant cannot be said with exactitude to be in the story of\nForgael and Dectora, because that story is not a reshaping of any one\nlegend out of old Irish legend, it is of the very spirit of the journeys\noversea in which that legend abounds, and it is steeped in dream. It\nwould be here, then, that one would look for an expression as like a\n_credo_ as is possible to Mr. Yeats, and here we do find it on the lips\nof Forgael, his hero, who, can we doubt? speaks also for the poet\nhimself:--\n\n\n                        \"All would be well\n  Could we but give us wholly to the dreams,\n  And get into their world that to the sense\n  Is shadow, and not linger wretchedly\n  Among substantial things; for it is dreams\n  That lift us to the flowing changing world\n  That the heart longs for. What is love itself,\n  Even though it be the lightest of light love,\n  But dreams that hurry from beyond the world,\n  To make low laughter more than meat and drink,\n  Though it but set us sighing?\"\n\n\n\"On Baile's Strand\" (1903) follows very closely the story of Cuchulain's\nslaying of his own son as retold Lady Gregory in her \"Cuchulain of\nMuirthemne\" (1902). Like Rustum he does not know who is the youth he is\nfighting until he has given him his death wound. Its high tragedy rends\nthe more by the ironic setting of Blind Man and Fool, two wastrels, one\nof whom might have prevented the tragedy, but would not because the\nfight would give him and his fellow a chance to rob the larders in\nhouses whose owners were watching it. No one can doubt the high\nintention of \"On Baile's Strand,\" no one can deny that its story is\nessentially dramatic, no one can pass by certain passages without\nrealization that here is great verse, blank verse that is true dramatic\nspeech. Men remember Cuchulain's description of Aoife as men remember\nMaud Gonne.\n\n\n                     \"Ah! Conchubar, had you seen her\n  With that high, laughing, turbulent head of hers\n  Thrown backward, and the bowstring at her ear,\n  Or sitting at the fire with those grave eyes\n  Full of good counsel as it were with wine,\n  Or when love ran through all the lineaments\n  Of her wild body.\"\n\n\nOne remembers these things, but if one has not seen the play on the\nstage, he does not bear with him memories of beauty such as one bears\nalways with him from even the reading of \"The Countess Cathleen\" or of\n\"The Land of Heart's Desire.\" Nor is one moved by \"On Baile's Strand\" as\none is moved by other tellings of the same world story, as one is moved\nby the epic telling of it by Matthew Arnold in \"Sohrab and Rustum,\" or\neven by such a casual telling of it as is Mr. Neil Munro's in \"Black\nMurdo.\" If it were not for \"Deirdre,\" in fact, one would have to say\nthat the verse plays of Mr. Yeats after \"The Shadowy Waters\" grow, play\nby play, less in poetic beauty, and that their gain in dramatic\neffectiveness does not compensate for such a loss.\n\n\"The King's Threshold\" (1904) is as near a play with a purpose as Mr.\nYeats has written. It vindicates the right of the poet in Ireland's\nHeroic Age to sit at the highest table of the King, and as it was\nwritten and played in 1903, when its author was being accused of caring\nmore for his art than for his country, it looks very like a defense.\nSeanchan, the poet, removed from his high seat at the request of\n\"Bishops, Soldiers, and Makers of the Law,\" takes his stand on the\nKing's threshold, with the intention of starving himself to death there,\nas there is, as the King says,--\n\n\n                          \"a custom,\n  An old and foolish custom, that if a man\n  Be wronged, or think that he is wronged and starve\n  Upon another's threshold till he die,\n  The common people, for all time to come,\n  Will raise a heavy cry against that threshold,\n  Even though it be the King's.\"\n\n\nIt was at this time that the clamor against \"In the Shadow of the Glen\"\nhad stirred up a great deal of feeling against Mr. Yeats and the other\nmanagers of the Irish National Theatre Society. And Mr. Yeats, it may\nbe, wrote the play not only to symbolize his contention that the poet is\nas important to society as is the man of action, but also to assert that\npoetry cultivated for its own sake, the sake of art, is as necessary to\na nation, to Ireland, as what Ireland calls patriotism. By the way, he\nillustrated the fact that that kind of patriotism that assumes the King\ncan do no wrong,--that is, that the Irish people can do no wrong,--and\nthat whoever exposes their wrongdoing is no patriot, is a mistaken sort\nof patriotism.\n\nLate in 1906 his \"Deirdre\" was successfully produced at the Abbey\nTheatre, Dublin. It presents only the last chapter of this, the saddest\ntale of the three heart-burdening tales that are known as \"The Three\nSorrows of Story-Telling,\" but it presents it so poignantly and with so\nkeen an emphasis on the quick-passing of all things sweet, that it takes\nplace, for all its slightness, with the world's greatest tragedies that\nare tragedies because of the overthrow therein of \"queens ... young and\nfair.\" There are few Irish writers whose concern is with things Irish\nwho have not retold this, the greatest love story of Ireland, but none\nof them, from Sir Samuel Ferguson down to our own day, have retold it so\nnobly as Mr. Yeats, save only Synge, and his restatement of it, of the\nwhole story from Deirdre's girlhood to her death, has about it a\ngrandeur and triumphing beauty that make further retellings not to be\ntolerated.\n\nIt is not lines, \"purple patches,\" one remembers from \"Deirdre,\" but the\nwhole play, its every situation, its setting. That setting so\nquintessentializes, in the words Mr. Yeats used to describe it, the\nromance of the old haunted woods where any adventure is possible, that I\nmust quote it in full:--\n\n     A Guest-house in a wood. It is a rough house of timber; through the\n     doors and some of the windows one can see the great spaces of the\n     wood, the sky dimming, night closing in. But a window to the left\n     shows the thick leaves of a coppice; the landscape suggests\n     silence and loneliness. There is a door to right and left, and\n     through the side windows one can see anybody who approaches either\n     door, a moment before he enters. In the centre, a part of the house\n     is curtained off; the curtains are drawn. There are unlighted\n     torches in brackets on the walls There is, at one side, a small\n     table with a chessboard and chessmen upon it, and a wine flagon and\n     loaf of bread. At the other side of the room there is a brazier\n     with a fire; two women, with musical instruments beside them,\n     crouch about the brazier: they are comely women of about forty.\n     Another woman, who carries a stringed instrument, enters hurriedly;\n     she speaks, at first standing in the doorway.\n\nBut if one does not carry in memory so many lines of \"Deirdre\" as one\ndoes of the earlier less dramatic plays, there are passages in plenty\nthat arrest and exalt. One such is those lines of Fergus that so well\ndescribe one phase of the imagination of Mr. Yeats--\n\n\n                     \"wild thought\n  Fed on extravagant poetry, and lit\n  By such a dazzle of old fabulous tales\n  That common things are lost, and all that's strange\n  Is true because 't were pity if it were not.\"\n\n\nAnother such is the song of the musicians, of Queen Edain's tower, \"When\nthe Winds are Calling There\"; and another such, the crying of a woman's\nheart in Deirdre's offer to go with Conchubar that Naisi may be saved:--\n\n\n                     \"It's better to go with him.\n  Why should you die when one can bear it all?\n  My life is over; it's better to obey.\n  Why should you die? I will not live long, Naisi.\n  I'd not have you believe I'd long stay living;\n  Oh, no, no, no! You will go far away.\n\n  \"You will forget me. Speak, speak, Naisi, speak,\n  And say that it is better that I go.\n  I will not ask it. Do not speak a word,\n  For I will take it all upon myself.\n  Conchubar, I will go.\"\n\n\nThis is true dramatic speech, this has the accent of high tragedy, and\nweakly human as it is it does not take away at all from the queenliness\nof Deirdre. There are other passages that have such a tendency, however,\ntrue though they may be to the life they depict and to human nature of\nall time when in such a frenzy of fear and sorrow. Longer even than this\nheart's cry, however, I think I shall remember that line so near the\nopening of the play--\n\n\n  \"She put on womanhood and he lost peace.\"\n\n\nLines greater than that are far to seek in English drama.\n\n\"The Green Helmet\" (1910), a rewriting in a form of verse alien to the\nstage of the earlier prose \"Golden Helmet\" (1908), is hardly done out of\nany high intention, and although it is not wanting in a kind of strange\nand grotesque fascination, it is in result no higher than it was in\nintention. In fact the past five years, years much of whose time has\nbeen spent in forwarding the work of the Abbey Theatre, have not\ninspired Mr. Yeats to much work of importance. Mr. Yeats promises us\nmore plays, but one cannot help wishing, if he must do verses other than\nlyric, he would put his hand now to a great epic. His \"Wanderings of\nOisin\" is nearest this, near enough, for all the preponderance of lyric\nin it, to show that he could do it, were we without such lines of \"large\naccent\" as I have quoted from \"The Countess Cathleen\" to prove that\nbeyond doubt. There is no better material for epic as yet unused than\nIrish legends, but there is none the old bard developed into epic\nproportions. There would be here the largest scope for the shaping power\nof the poet. Mr. Yeats must, of course, have thought of epic, but\npreferred drama as more in harmony with our time. Lionel Johnson said\nthat Mr. Yeats took to drama because he liked to hear his lines finely\nspoken, but, surely, if that were his greatest delight, he could invent\nsome way in which to bring story in verse to listeners. It were surely a\nlesser task than that of stimulating Mr. Dolmetsch to make a psaltery to\nwhich his lyrics may be musically spoken.\n\nFrom the beginning, the verse of Mr. Yeats has had vocal quality, a\nquality that is unfortunately often rarer in good poetry than in verse\nthat is good rhetoric. I cannot see that his interest in the psaltery,\nthat developed after 1900, has brought about any change in the quality\nof his verse. There have been constant to it since \"The Wanderings of\nOisin\" all the qualities that distinguish it to-day,--its eloquence, its\nsymbols that open up unending vistas through mysteries, its eeriness as\nof the bewildering light of late sunset over gray-green Irish bog and\nlake and mountain, its lonely figures as great in their simplicity as\nthose of Homer, its plain statement of high passion that breaks free of\nall that is occult and surprises with its clarity where so much is dim\nwith dream. First one and then another of these qualities has most\ninterested him. He has written in explanation of patriotic verse, of\nfolk-verse, of verse based on the old court romances, of symbolism, of\nRosicrucianism, of essences, of speaking to the psaltery, of dramatic\nart; and all the time he has practiced poetry, the interest of the time\nresulting in now the greater emphasis on one quality in the poetry, and\nnow on another quality. It would be superfluous to do more than point\nout most of these qualities, but a word on his use of symbols may help\nto a fuller understanding of his poetry. I am very sure that I read\nwrong meanings from many of these symbols, as one who has not the\npassword must. They require definite knowledge of magical tradition, and\nof the poet's interpretation of Celtic tradition, for a full\nunderstanding. As the years go by, I think their exact meaning will\nescape more and more readers until they will have no more significance\nthan Spenser's allegories have to us. Only to the student deeply read in\nElizabethan politics do these mean to-day what must have been patent to\nthe inner circle at Elizabeth's court. Those symbols of Mr. Yeats that\nwe may understand intuitively, as we may \"The white owl in the belfry\nsits,\" other generations also may understand, but hardly those that have\nmeanings known only to a coterie. But we may read Spenser with enjoyment\neven if all the inner allegories are missed, and so, too, many read Mr.\nYeats to-day, neglectful of the images of a formal symbolism.\n\nI do not know that I get more enjoyment from the poetry of the verses\nentitled \"The Valley of the Black Pig\" because Mr. Yeats's note tells us\nthat it is the scene of Ireland's _Goetterdaemmerung_, though it is an\nunquestionable gratification to the puzzle interest I have with my\nkind, and I would at times be more comfortable were I sure that the\n\"Master of the Still Stars and of the Flaming Door\" was he who keeps the\ngates of the Other World, the real world we shall enter when death sets\nus free of that dream men call life. Mr. Yeats is not so kind to the men\n\"in the highway\" as the old Irish bards. When they wrote enigmas they\nwere apt to explain them fully, as does the poet of \"The Wooing of Emer\"\nwhen he tell what was meant by the cryptic questions and answers\nexchanged between that princess and Cuchulain. When the symbolism is of\nthe kind found in \"Death's Summons\" of Thomas Nash, which of all poems\nMr. Yeats quotes oftenest, all cultivated men may understand--\n\n\n  \"Brightness falls from the air;\n  Queens have died young and fair;\n  Dust hath closed Helen's eye.\"\n\n\nThe difference between the symbol Helen and each one of the several\nsymbols Mr. Yeats employs in \"The Valley of the Black Pig\" is the\ndifference between a symbol universally recognized throughout the world\nand a symbol recognized by one people; but there is the further\ndifference that one is intimately associated with the thing symbolized,\nis the name of a woman the context tells us is a queen and beautiful,\nand the other is only the scene of a battle that symbolizes the ending\nof the world. It is more natural to use a beautiful woman as a symbol of\nall beauty than to use a black boar that shall root up all the light and\nlife of the world as a symbol of the ending of the world. But neither of\nthese is a symbol that would be understood intuitively, as the rose\nused as a symbol of beauty or the wind as a symbol of instability.\nSometimes Mr. Yeats's symbols are very remote, but perhaps they were\nremote in the old stories in which he found them. The details in\n\n\n                 \"the phantom hound\n  All pearly white, save one red ear,\"\n\n\nand \"the hornless deer\" which it chases, seem arbitrary. The hound, it\nis true, is known of all men as the pursuer, and the deer as the\npursued; but does this knowledge suggest immediately \"the desire of the\nman which is for the woman, and the desire of the woman which is for the\ndesire of the man\"? Mr. Yeats does not, as I take it, expect all his\nsymbols to be understood so definitely as this hound and deer, which, of\ncourse, are not only symbols, but figures from the tapestry of\nfairyland. It is often enough, perhaps, that we understand emotionally,\nas in \"Kubla Khan\" or \"The Owl.\" From some of his writing it would\nappear he believed many symbols to be of very definite meaning and to be\nunderstood by generation upon generation. In the note to \"The Valley of\nthe Black Pig\" he writes, \"Once a symbol has possessed the imagination\nof large numbers of men, it becomes, as I believe, an embodiment of\ndisembodied powers, and repeats itself in dreams and visions, age after\nage.\"\n\nThis is but another phase of Mr. Yeats's belief that when a poem stirs\nus as by magic, it is a real magic has been at work. The words have\nloosened the seals that the flesh has fastened upon the universal memory\nwhich is subconscious in all of us, until that memory possesses us and\nwe are one with all that has been since the beginning of time, and may\nin such moments live over all that has been lived. He thinks that in\nsuch moments the poet's magic brings before us the past and the unseen\nas the past and the unseen were brought before our pagan ancestors by\nthe magical rites of their priests.\n\nIn his younger years Mr. Yeats held that poetry is \"the words that have\ngathered up the heart's desire of the world.\" His heart's desire was\nsimpler in those days than his heart's desire of after years. Then he\nhad a child's wistfulness for little things and put lines in his poems\nof Blake-like innocence and freshness. \"The brown mice\" that\n\n\n                               \"bob\n  Round and round the oatmeal chest\"\n\n\nare out of memories of childhood, and many other of the similes of these\nearly poems are out of the ways of wild little things that appeal so to\nchildren, perhaps because they are wild little things themselves. A\nlater mood of Mr. Yeats is to hold of less account the things of\nout-of-doors, but still he uses as similes the ways of birds, as did the\nold Irish bards whose stories have so informed his. He never did\ndescribe nature for its own sake, but natural things gave him more\nfigures than they do now, although always there have been in his lines\nmany out of mythology. Summer days between Slieve Echtge and the western\nsea are, however, bringing the plovers and curlews and peewits back to\nhis poetry. In the country of the Countess Cathleen, as everywhere in\nIreland, you may hear \"wind cry and water cry and curlew cry,\" and\nthere, as all the world over,--\n\n\n  \"Ill bodings are as native unto our hearts\n  As are their spots unto the woodpeckers.\"\n\n\nIt is from such knowledge of country things come the fine lines about\n\n\n  \"The dark folk, who live in souls\n  Of passionate men like bats in the dead trees\";--\n\n\nand such lines are coming again into his verse, even into the blank\nverse of his plays. The poems in which \"the strong human call\" is heard\nare more than the many who read Mr. Yeats hurriedly will think, and to\nthose who know his story they reveal again and again a great and common\nsorrow. Whole poems and plays are often symbols of the poet's life. So\nmay \"The Countess Cathleen\" be taken as well as \"The King's Threshold.\"\n\"Ephemera,\" \"The Dedication to a Book of Stories,\" \"In the Seven Woods,\"\n\"The Old Age of Queen Maeve,\" \"The Folly of Being Comforted,\" \"Old\nMemory,\" \"Adam's Curse,\" as well as the folk-poems of the first volumes,\nare but little \"dream-burdened,\" and passages elsewhere have the human\ncall. The feeling of Oisin nearing the coast of Ireland is, for\ninstance, the common joy on nearing the shore of the homeland at the end\nof exile:--\n\n\n  \"Remembrance, lifting her leanness, keened in the gates of my heart.\n  Till, fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of new-mown hay\n  Came, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like berries fell down;\n  later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far away,\n  From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-weeds brown.\"\n\n\nIt is true, though, that the dream-drenched poems are those most\ncharacteristic of the author, those that give a note entirely new to\nEnglish poetry. It is impossible to pick out one as more representative\nthan another where so many are representative and where all are of\nhighest achievement. Nowhere is his own individual note better\nsustained, however, than in the Michael Robartes poems or in \"The Rose\nof Battle\" or \"Into the Twilight\"; and the hold that dream has of him\nand the hold that human things have, chief among them love of country,\nare told with utmost distinction and inevitability of phrase in \"To\nIreland in the Coming Times\" and in \"To the Rose upon the Rood of Time.\"\n\nI sometimes wonder, is the reason for the poet's holding so devotedly to\nspiritual things of his kind not the very same holding of his peasant\ncountryman to the folk-tales that take him to a world as rich and\ngorgeous-hued as the Ireland about him is bare and gray, and to a church\nthat prepares him for a better world after death? A large part of all\npoetry is the realization of the brevity of all beautiful things,--of\nbloom, of youth, of life; but no poet has more often lamented \"Fate and\nTime and Change\" than Mr. Yeats. It is, he says, \"our narrow rooms, our\nshort lives, our soon ended passions and emotions put us out of conceit\nwith sooty and feeble reality.\" So the poet seeks refuge in his own\ndream and in contemplation of the life from which he came and to which\nhe will return, and--one almost dare say--in communication with which he\nnow knows such joy. The poet's life is little because he has found out\nthe littleness of earthly things; the peasant holds life little because\nhis share of it has been so poor. If the peasant acquires riches by\nchance or by emigration, he sees as the poet that all he can have is as\nnothing, so short is the time he may hold it. Irish writers of the past\nhave made this peasant only the jarvey wit; but if you read the old\nromances, or listen to the folk-tales still alive, you will learn that\nMr. Yeats is at one with his countryman in this basic likeness.\n\nThere is a side of Irish life, the side the world knows best, that Mr.\nYeats does not present, but that which he does present is true, though\nthe poet's personality is so dominant that we get more of this than of\nIreland in his poetry. So it should be, so it is with every artist. All\nthe world can ask of him is his interpretation of what he knows. Yet so\nnative is Mr. Yeats that the atmosphere of his poetry is the very\natmosphere of Ireland. The artist and the setting of his art are in an\nunwonted harmony. No reader of Mr. Yeats who knows the brooding\nlandscape of West Ireland can escape that realization, but only he who\nhas met the poet amid the scenes that inspired his verse may know how\ncomplete is their accord. Such a meeting was mine one lowering August\nday, in whose late afternoon we walked in the Woods of Coole. Then I\nknew at last what Mr. Yeats meant by \"druid charm\" and \"druid light.\" I\nfelt the \"druid charm\" that was potent in gray skies over gray water and\ngray rock and gray-green woods; the bewildering \"druid light\" flashed\nout as the sun followed westward the trail to Hy Brasil, leaving in the\nAtlantic skies wild after-glow of winter yellow.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[2] _Collected Works_. Stratford-on-Avon, 1908, vol. II, p. 251.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nMR. EDWARD MARTYN AND MR. GEORGE MOORE\n\n\nThe announcement of Mr. Edward Martyn as playwright of \"The Irish\nLiterary Theatre\" was, outside of the narrow circle of his friends, a\ngreat surprise to all interested in letters in Ireland. But the almost\nsimultaneous announcement that Mr. George Moore was lending his aid to\nthe adventure was an even greater surprise. Mr. Moore had, of course,\nwritten more than once of Ireland, and there were many who had not\nforgotten the unpleasantnesses of \"A Drama in Muslin\" (1886), and Mr.\nMartyn, though the author of \"Morgante the Lesser\" (1890), was not known\nas its author, as he had published it anonymously, and as it had not\nmade enough of a stir for its anonymity to be disclosed. Yet for the\nlandlord-author, who had turned his back on Ireland, to return to his\ncountry with a greater interest in its life and its writers than he had\never betrayed, was more remarkable than for another landlord of the same\nfamily connection, comparatively a stay-at-home landlord, to turn from\nsport and religion to the stage. Mr. Martyn had lived in London and his\nlove of music had taken him to the Continent, but he had been something\nof a Nationalist, whereas Mr. Moore had lost few opportunities to scoff\nat the country his father had striven so unselfishly to aid. What of Mr.\nMoore that was not French in 1899 was confessedly English.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nNow that those interested have read \"Ave,\" the first volume of the three\nof \"Hail and Farewell,\" in which Mr. Moore is confessing the reasons of\nhis return to Ireland and of his second departure from Ireland, they\nknow that he had been mildly interested in Ireland as material for art\nas far back as 1894, and that it was Mr. Martyn who had interested him\nin the things of home. Mr. Moore tells us all about it more than\nexplicitly in the \"Overture\" to his trilogy. In the first chapter he\ntells us that the interest faded away gradually, to be reawakened in\n1899 by a visit paid him in London by Mr. Martyn and Mr. Yeats, who came\nto ask his help in founding a \"Literary Theatre in Dublin.\" Then Mr.\nMoore learned the story of that theatre's inception, a story to him\n\"disappointingly short and simple. When Yeats had said that he had spent\nthe summer at Coole with Lady Gregory, I saw it all. Coole is but three\nmiles from Tillyra [Mr. Martyn's estate in Galway]; Edward is often at\nCoole; Lady Gregory and Yeats are often at Tillyra; Yeats and Edward had\nwritten plays--the drama brings strange fowls to roost.\"\n\nIt takes Mr. Moore many pages to tell why it was he joined the three in\ntheir project, and many more pages to tell of their collaboration during\nthe first two years of the three years that were the life of \"The Irish\nLiterary Theatre.\" The four are, indeed, the principal characters of Mr.\nMoore's \"Ave\"--I had almost said his novel \"Ave\"--himself, Mr. Martyn,\nMr. Yeats, and Lady Gregory, to mention them in the order of prominence\nthat Mr. Moore gives them.\n\nLady Gregory and Mr. Yeats have learned their art, the highest and most\ndifficult of all forms of literary art, so that each is sure in the\nshaping of fable and emotion to the stage, though neither is to drama\nnative-born as was Synge. Mr. Martyn and Mr. Moore have neither of them,\nhowever, learned the art of the playwright. Mr. Martyn has the root of\nthe matter in him, but he remains the amateur. Mr. Moore was once the\namateur, even in the novel, in \"A Modern Lover\" (1883), for instance,\ntrue as that story is to the London art life and aristocratic life it is\nintended to reflect, but he has since then won his way, book by book, to\nthe position, now that Mr. Hardy has given up the novel, of first\nnovelist of the English-speaking peoples. Had he studied the play as\npainfully and as long as he has studied the novel, it may be that Mr.\nMoore had conquered it, too, though I doubt it, for the concentration\nnecessary to drama is alien to his method as a novelist. As it is, his\nbest plays are but the good journeyman work of one who is a skilled\nliterary craftsman. Mr. Martyn has more originality of theme, more\nintimacy with Irish character, a surer instinct for effective situation,\nand more nobility of intention, though Mr. Moore's greater power over\nwords gives his plays a dignity as art that the plays of Mr. Martyn do\nnot attain.\n\nAlone of the quartette that founded \"The Irish Literary Theatre,\" Mr.\nMartyn is possessed of none of the instincts of the publicist. Lady\nGregory has edited articles about ideals in Ireland at home, and on the\nlecture platform she has stoutly fought the battles of \"The Playboy of\nthe Western World\" in America; Mr. Yeats has ever delighted in writing\nletters to the newspapers and he has preached the evangel of the\nRenaissance from Edinburgh to San Francisco; and Mr. George Moore is a\ncontroversialist pamphleteer even before he is a novelist. In the few\narticles about the movement that Mr. Martyn has written, brief articles\nall of them, there is, however, clear indication of the spirit in which\nhe wrote his plays, if comparatively little discussion of his art. In\nthe second number of \"Beltaine\" (February, 1900), in an article entitled\n\"A Comparison between Irish and English Theatrical Audiences,\" Mr.\nMartyn declares that he sees in Ireland, instead of the \"vast\ncosmopolitanism and vulgarity\" of England, \"an idealism founded upon the\nancient genius of the land.\" It is wholly in accord with the spirit of\nthis declaration that Mr. Martyn has written his more important plays,\nall of them, in fact, but the satires on weaklings and officials he\ncalls \"A Tale of a Town\" (1902) and \"The Place Hunters\" (1905). He\nwrites little of the peasants, being less interested in them than are\nMr. Yeats and Lady Gregory, and therefore less acquainted with them. If\none may judge from his writings the intimates of Mr. Martyn have been\namong his own landlord class, the priests, and the politicians. It is\nthe landlords and middle-class people that occupy the foreground of his\nplays, Peg Inerny in \"Maeve\" (1899) being the only important character a\npeasant, unless Mrs. Font in \"The Enchanted Sea\" (1902) can be called a\nmember of a class that she was born to, but from which her marriage\nremoved her.\n\nThis question of the class the plays should present was one of those\nthat led to the withdrawal of Mr. Martyn from the dramatic movement. A\nmore definite cause, perhaps, was the unanimous determination of Lady\nGregory, Mr. Yeats, and Mr. Moore that his \"A Tale of a Town\" could not\nbe presented by \"The Irish Literary Theatre\" as he wrote it if the\nstandards of that theatre were to be preserved. Its author's magnanimity\nin turning it over to Mr. Moore to be rewritten,--as it was, being\npresented as \"The Bending of the Bough\" (1900),--was revealed by Mr.\nMoore in \"Samhain\" (October, 1901), and very much more fully, if less\nkindly, in \"Ave\" (1911).\n\nIn its way their refusal to play Mr. Martyn's \"A Tale of a Town\" was as\ncreditable to the other powers in the theatre as was his magnanimity in\ngiving them the play to do with as they would. They knew their refusal\nto play it might lead him to withdraw his support of the theatre and, in\nthe end, it was a factor in bringing about that result. After their\nrejection of \"A Tale of a Town,\" however, he still gave \"The Irish\nLiterary Theatre\" his support, allowing it to put on his \"Maeve,\" and in\n1901 contributing to \"Samhain\" (October), \"A Plea for a National Theatre\nin Ireland.\" Such a theatre Mr. Martyn had the power to give Ireland,\nbut he did not give it, when it was thought he might, and in 1902 all\nhope of his giving his money for such a purpose was destroyed by his\ntransference of a fund of fifty thousand dollars to the Catholic\nPro-Cathedral in Dublin \"for the purpose of founding and supporting a\nPalestrina choir.\"\n\nThat Mr. Martyn was still a force to be reckoned with is revealed by the\ntrouble Mr. Yeats went to, in \"Samhain\" of October, 1902, to explain why\nit was that the plays of the Irish National Dramatic Company were either\nfolk-drama or drama whose life was the \"life of poetry\" Mr. Martyn had\nargued in \"The United Irishmen,\" which up to the time of the\npresentation of \"In the Shadow of the Glen\" was a stanch supporter of\nthe dramatic policies of Mr. Yeats, that the actors of the company\nshould be trained to the drama of modern society. \"The acting of plays\nlike 'Deirdre,' and of 'Cathleen ni Houlihan,'\" writes Mr. Yeats, \"with\nits speech of the country people, did not seem to him a preparation. It\nis not, but that is as it should be. Our movement is a return to the\npeople, like the Russian movement of the early seventies, and the drama\nof society could but magnify a condition of life which the countryman\nand the artisan could but copy to their hurt. The play that is to give\nthem a quite natural pleasure should either tell them of their own life\nor of that life of poetry where every man can see his own image, because\nthere alone does human nature escape from arbitrary conditions. Plays\nabout drawing-rooms are written for the middle classes of great cities,\nfor the classes who live in drawing-rooms, but if you would uplift the\nman of the roads you must write about the roads, or about the people of\nromance, or about great historical people.\"\n\nNeither \"Maeve\" nor \"The Enchanted Sea\" can be called a drawing-room\nplay, though both introduce us to \"drawing-room people,\" but \"The\nHeather Field\" (1899), Mr. Martyn's first play, and his greatest success\nis a drawing-room play, as in a minor way are \"A Tale of a Town\" and\n\"The Place Hunters.\" These last two plays are failures; but they are not\nfailures, I think because they are drawing-room plays, but because Mr.\nMartyn is less effective with a full stage than with two couples or so\nand, principally, because he is less successful with social and\npolitical questions than with those that concern the individual.\n\nWhatever value one puts upon \"The Heather Field\" it cannot be denied\nthat it was a popular success and that it was praised by critics whose\njudgment is discerning. It is perhaps because it is a variant of the old\ntheme of the war between man the idealist and woman the materialist that\nit so appealed to young men, troubled themselves as to whether to follow\ntheir star or to accept the chains that; wife and children impose. It\nwas enough for the audience that witnessed its first performances in the\nAntient Concert Rooms, Dublin, May 9, 10, 13, 1899, that it showed a man\nat war with the despotism of fact, as Ireland, preeminently the Celtic\nLand, has so long been. It was not remarkably acted, by an\ninsufficiently rehearsed and not very understanding scratch company, and\nyet it impressed its audiences more favorably than \"The Countess\nCathleen\" (1892), an unequivocally great poetic drama; and these\naudiences were the most cultivated Dublin can boast.\n\n\"The Heather Field\" is the story of the going-mad of Carden Tyrrell, a\nlandlord of the west of Ireland. From the first he is represented to us\nas a man to whom as to so many of his countrymen dream is reality and\nreality dream. His wife, to whom the realities are very instant, urges\nhim to do as others do, to entertain, to hunt, at least to do something\npractical. For her he has abandoned the ideal world he had built up for\nhimself from his books and his dreams and is trying farming. Yet his\ntemperament is such that he must idealize even this. When the curtain\nrises he is still busy with the project, long since undertaken, of\nreclaiming a wind-swept heather field fronting the Atlantic and of\nmaking it into the best of pasture land. That reclamation and\ntransformation has become a passion with him, and soon we feel that it\nis the symbol of that quality in him that is untamed, incurably \"ideal.\"\nTo free that field of rocks and to drain its bogs he has mortgaged his\nestate, and, in the play, before the success or failure of his\nundertaking is proved, he mortgages almost all that remains to him to\nimprove the land below, which the draining of the heather field has\nturned into a swamp. His wife, to prevent this last folly, strives to\nhave control of his property taken away from him, but his friend, Barry\nUssher, believing that restraint would make Tyrrell mad indeed, so\nintimidates a hesitating physician that Mrs. Tyrrell fails in her most\nnatural plan to save herself and her child from ruin by having her\nhusband declared incompetent, and, if necessary, restrained. With his\nfriend's assistance Tyrrell has won his fight against his wife.\nObstinacy in the treatment of some tenants that his debts have driven\nhim to evict rouses such hatred against Tyrrell, until then a loved\nlandlord, that the police hold it necessary to follow him with an escort\nthat he may not be shot by his people. To avoid being so followed,\nTyrrell keeps within doors and so intensifies his malady. The\ncatastrophe comes when, on his boy's first spring search for wild\nflowers, the child brings him a handful of heather buds from the heather\nfield. Their message is that the mountain will revert to waste again.\nEven in his \"ideal domain\" reality has asserted itself. His ideal world\ncrumbles for the instant, and his reason with it, and forever. But after\na moment's agony ideality triumphantly reasserts itself, and in mad\necstasy Tyrrell, his years fallen from him, passes from sight crying out\nat the beauty of a world that is to him now forever a world of mornings\nin which, as he says, \"the rain across a saffron sun trembles like gold\nharpstrings through the purple Irish spring.... The voices--I hear them\nnow triumphant in a silver glory of song!\" Such is the play, \"aching and\nlofty in its loveliness.\"\n\nIs this ending, or is it not, sadder than the catastrophe of \"Ghosts\"?\nCertainly to \"Ghosts\" it owes something, and to \"The Wild Duck\" more\nthan something. A quality as of Ibsen pervades the play, and it has,\ntoo, back of it a background of nature and of thought that is beautiful\nin the way the background of nature and of thought is beautiful and\ncompensating in the plays of Ibsen.\n\nIn his introduction to \"The Heather Field,\" which was published before\nits presentation, Mr. Moore writes, \"Although all right and good sense\nare on the wife's side, the sympathy is always with Carden.\" So it was\non the presentation of the play in Dublin, Mr. Yeats writing in \"The\nDome,\" \"Our Irish playgoers sympathized with this man so perfectly that\nthey hissed the doctors who found that he was mad.\" Such an attitude is\ncharacteristically Irish; and equally characteristically English was the\nreception of this play when Mr. Thomas Kingston presented it at a\nmatinee at the Strand Theatre in London. Mr. Yeats is again the\nauthority: \"The London playgoers ... sympathized with the doctors, and\nheld the divine vision a dream.\" Mr. Moore praises \"The Heather Field\"\nmore forthrightly in \"Samhain\" of October, 1901, holding that \"'The\nHeather Field' has been admitted to be the most thoughtful of modern\nprose plays written in English, the best constructed, the most endurable\nto a thoughtful audience.\" Patriotism or kinship, love of paradox or\ndesire to assuage feelings hurt by the rough treatment of \"A Tale of a\nTown,\" may any or all of them be called upon to explain so sweeping a\nstatement. But none of such motives could account for its praise by Mr.\nBeerbohm in the London \"Saturday Review.\" \"Max\" is often paradoxical,\nbut he is not paradoxical here: \"Not long ago this play was published as\na book, with a preface by Mr. George Moore, and it was more or less\nvehemently disparaged by the critics. Knowing that it was to be produced\nlater in Dublin, and knowing how hard it is to dogmatize about a play\nuntil one has seen it acted, I confined myself to a very mild\ndisparagement of it. Now that I have seen it acted, I am sorry that I\ndisparaged it at all. It turns out to be a very powerful play indeed.\" I\nhave quoted Mr. Yeats and Mr. Moore and Mr. Beerbohm, not only because\nI have not seen the play on the stage but because, on reading it, its\neffect is one that puts my judgment at sea. Years ago as I read it it\ngripped me hard, but when I read it now and think it over now, I am at a\nloss to see why, done as it is done, I should have been so moved by it.\nNow I am moved greatly by but two situations. Both of these are in the\nlast act. One of them is Tyrrell's revulsion against the bad news that\nhis brother Miles brings from Dublin of the mortgagee's refusal to\nextend. His wife tells their friends that she is ruined, that \"pretty\nnearly all\" their property is mortgaged, but Tyrrell cries out, \"All, do\nyou say? No--not all. This vulture cannot touch the heather field! My\nhope,--it is my only hope, and it will save me in the end. Ha, ha! These\nwise ones! They did not think the barren mountain of those days worth\nnaming in their deed. But now that mountain is a great green field worth\nmore than all they can seize, (_with a strange intensity_) and it is\nmine--all mine!\"\n\nThe other situation that moves me greatly is that at the very close of\nthe play, that from which I quoted a while back, in which Tyrrell's\nmadness becomes evident in his belief that he is a youth again, with all\nthe world before him to do with as he will.\n\nThe characters in \"The Heather Field\" are less rigid than those in the\nlater plays, but even in this play you feel about them, as you feel so\noften about the characters of Hawthorne, that they are characters chosen\nto interpret an idea rather than children of the imagination or\nportraits done from observation of life.\n\nAs one recalls the motive and situations and background and symbolism\nof \"The Heather Field,\" not having read the play for some time, it seems\nfar finer than when one returns to it. Fine, too, it must seem to any\none reading a scenario of it and not offended, as one reading it\nconstantly is by the inability of its dialogue to represent more of the\nperson speaking than his point of view. The dialogue of Mr. Martyn is\nalmost never true dramatic speech, and not only not true dramatic\nspeech, but despite the very clear differentiation of the characters,\nwith little of their personality or temperament in it.\n\n\"Maeve\" has always seemed to me a lesser play than \"The Heather Field,\"\nand it now leaves me even colder than of old. Nor, though I can see how\nfine in conception was the character of Mrs. Font in \"The Enchanted\nSea,\" does that one character seem to me, now, to redeem the undeveloped\npossibilities of the situations of the play, the incomplete characters\nof Guy and Mask and the failure of the dialogue assigned to the\ncharacters to approach true dramatic speech. \"Maeve\" is the better play\nof the two. With all its shortcomings it has about it an unearthliness\nof atmosphere, a quiet coldness of beauty that has come of the thought\nMr. Martyn had, as he wrote it, of the moonlight on the Burren Hills in\nhis home country. In this one respect Mr. Martyn has done what he would,\nfor he holds that \"the greatest beauty like the old Greek sculptures is\nalways cold.\"\n\nMr. Martyn calls \"Maeve\" \"a psychological drama in two acts.\" It relates\nthe story of the last day and night in the life of a visionary girl, the\nhereditary princess of Burren in Clare, in the west of Ireland. On the\neve of her marriage to Hugh Fitz Walter, a rich young Englishman, whom\nshe will wed only for her father's sake to reestablish him in his\nposition as \"The O'Heynes\" among the neighboring gentry, she wanders off\ninto the Burren Hills with her old nurse Peg Inerny. Peg has fascinated\nMaeve O'Heynes with tales of \"the other people,\" convincing Maeve, as\nshe is convinced herself, that she changes from the old vagrant peasant\nwhom the countryside half fears into Queen Maeve, the great Amazon of\nthe Cuchulain legends. Maeve O'Heynes in her own dreams has seen great\nheroes and heroines of Ireland's legendary past, and she believes that\nthey still live among the fairies as many a peasant to-day beside Peg\nInerny believes. So Maeve follows Peg to the mountains, though it is her\nwedding-eve, to see these great people of old time and to meet a lover\nshe has seen in vision, the ideal man of her dreams. She finds her way\nhome several hours later through the white moonlight of the bitter March\nnight. Then, in a sort of trance, looking out of her window in the\nhalf-ruined castle to the ruined abbey, the mysterious round tower, the\nstony mountains, she beholds the vision of Queen Maeve, with an\nattendant troupe of harpers and pages, rise from the cairn and approach\nthe castle. As the troupe returns from castle to cairn Maeve's spirit\npasses with it under the Northern lights into the land of the ever-young\nof Tir-nan-Ogue. When her sister goes to call her to make ready for her\nwedding, she finds Maeve sitting still and cold at the open casement.\nMaeve has found the supernatural lover, once human, of \"boyish face\nclosehooded with short gold hair,\" and again only \"a symbol of ideal\nbeauty,\" to be truly a \"Prince of the hoar dew,\" for he is death. Maeve\nhas renounced life and sought \"perfection in what unfolds as death.\"\n\nMr. Yeats explains the play (\"Beltaine,\" February, 1900) to \"symbolize\nIreland's choice between English materialism and her own natural\nidealism, as well as the choice of every individual soul.\" Does it\nfollow that the lesson of \"Maeve\" is that it were better for Ireland to\nbe depopulated in her pursuit of national individuality, of ideal\nbeauty, than to drift along to complete Anglicanization, even though\nthat bring riches, peace, and content? An austere policy, surely, if I\nread rightly the meaning of Mr. Yeats.\n\n\"Maeve\" was not so well played at its production during the second\nseason's performances of \"The Irish Literary Theatre\" in February, 1900,\nas \"The Heather Field\" had been performed in 1899, but it was almost as\nenthusiastically received. It has not won for itself, however,\nreproduction outside of Dublin, as did Mr. Martyn's first play, which\nwas played in New York, at the Carnegie Lyceum, in April, 1900, and\nwhich was revived in London in 1903.\n\nIf objection be made to \"The Enchanted Sea\" as a reflection of \"The Lady\nfrom the Sea,\" it can be replied that the call of the sea that may not\nbe resisted is as old as the heart of man. Sea fairies, mermaids and\nmermen, and the voice of the waters tugging as irresistibly on the tired\nspirit as the undertow on the body tired with long swimming, are in\nGaelic literature from the beginning, and before Mr. Martyn had written\nof the sea enchantment it had lent its charm to many of the stories of\n\"Fiona Macleod.\" It was two years after its publication in 1902 that, on\nApril 18 and 19, 1904, \"The Enchanted Sea\" was put on at the Antient\nConcert Rooms, Dublin by \"The Players' Club.\" It was not well played,\nbut according to Mr. Standish James O'Grady it was much better, seen and\nlistened to, than read. Writing, in his \"All Ireland Review,\" of its\nproduction, he puts it on record \"I never saw an audience so attentive\nand at the same time so undemonstrative. It was like being in church.\"\nThe audience probably felt the dignity of conception back of the\ninsufficiency of execution in the play and its ineffectiveness of\npresentation. The story that Mr. Martyn dreamed to carry over the\nfootlights is of Mrs. Font, a peasant woman who has sent her husband, a\ngentleman, to his grave a broken-spirited man because of her sacrifice\nof his honor to advance their material position. When the curtain rises,\nMrs. Font has been thwarted, by the death of her son, in her lifelong\ndream of obtaining possession of the Font estates. The estates have\nreverted to her nephew, Guy Font, a strange boy, who has been brought up\nby the peasantry of the west coast and so has come to share many of\ntheir beliefs. He is fascinated by the sea by which he lives, and his\nfamily's friend, Lord Mask, has been drawn to him, although there is\nsuch disparity in their years, by this love of the sea which he and the\nboy have in common. Mrs. Font wishes her daughter to marry Mask, but the\nyoung people are but half in love with each other. Agnes Font cannot\nshare his visionariness, as her other lover, Commander Lyle, plainly\nsees. So the North of Ireland man never gives up hope of winning her.\nMrs. Font vulgarly throws Mask and Agnes together, in her determination\nthat they shall make a match of it, and as vulgarly tells Lyle the girl\nis not for him. Mask cannot but marry Agnes, Mrs. Font thinks, if Agnes\nhas a large fortune. To secure the fortune and the lord for her\ndaughter, Mrs. Font determines to get Guy Font out of the way. Her\npurpose coincides with her peasant belief that he is a \"changeling,\" and\nis really of the sea people. So she goes with him to a sea cave he is\nfond of visiting, and only she comes from the cave. She is suspected,\nbut before the officers come for her, she learns that her crime has\ndefeated its own end. Mask is driven mad by the loss of his friend and,\nseeking to join him by the sea, is overwhelmed and drawn out by the\nundertow. As the officers come to arrest her, Mrs. Font hangs herself\nfrom the landing of the great staircase of Font Hill with the rope Guy\nused there as a swing.\n\n\"The Enchanted Sea\" is cruder, colder, more amateurish than the two\nother plays of its class, full of the sort of talk that falls from the\nlips of a boy of seventeen just awakened to ideals. Its characters act\nas openly and as petulantly as children. Mrs. Font, really fine in\nconception, is in realization only a typical villain of the cheap\nmelodrama; and Commander Lyle, of the Royal Navy, a man of thirty, is as\nchildish in love as a schoolboy whose beloved takes an ice from his\nrival at a church festival.\n\nWhat Mr. Martyn could have done with \"A Tale of a Town,\" had he been\nwilling to learn when opportunity was his with Mr. Yeats and Mr. Moore\nand Lady Gregory, is partially shown in the rewriting of the play by Mr.\nMoore into \"The Bending of the Bough.\" The motives remain as they were,\nand, in essentials, the action is the same, the first act being little\ndifferent in the two plays The four other acts, however, Mr. Moore has\nalmost entirely rewritten, and though everywhere the fundamental\nbrainwork is Mr. Martyn's, the last acts are finer in the revised\nversion. Mr. Moore makes far more plausible the girl, Millicent Fell,\nfor love of whom, and a life of ease, the political leader Jasper Dean\ngives up a leadership through which he could largely right his country's\nwrongs. Not only does Mr. Moore make believable the action of the play,\nbut he puts words on it, which, if not true dramatic speech, reveal,\nafter the manner of the novelist, just what are the thought and emotion\nof the characters, and the words are in themselves beautiful.\n\nIn \"A Tale of a Town\" the political situation from which evolves the\naction of the play is the unification by Jasper Dean of the corporation\nof a town, unnamed, on the west coast of Ireland, to prosecute a lawsuit\nagainst an English town, Anglebury, which owes the Irish town a large\nindemnity, promised the Irish town when it gave up a line of steamers in\nthe interest of the Anglebury line of steamers. After uniting all the\nvarious elements save the place hunter Alderman Lawrence against\nAnglebury, Dean gives up the leadership because his fiancee, whose uncle\nis the mayor of the English town, turns against him because he is\nopposed to the interests of her set. To hold her he betrays his town.\n\n\"A Tale of a Town\" is so crude, so naked, so obvious, so uninspired,\none wonders why it can be taken seriously at all. But the reason is not\nfar to seek. The play is true, in the main, to the life it depicts, and\nthere is vehement feeling back of its satire; and truth and intensity of\nfeeling cannot be denied effect on the stage any more than on the\nrostrum. Where it falls short of reality is in the dialogue of the\naldermen. No politicians, even when egged by their envious womankind,\nwould ever give themselves away as do these of \"A Tale of a Town.\" They\nare as frankly self-revelatory as if they were characters in a morality\nplay.\n\nIt would, perhaps, be inexact to call Mr. Martyn a misogynist, but he\nhas that attitude toward women of some priests his countrymen, as of\nmany priests of all creeds, that there is something belittling if not\ndegrading in absorbing association with women. His feeling is not at all\nthe commoner feeling of men that leads them all to cry, \"The woman\ntempted me.\" Women tempt Mr. Martyn no more than they did Ruskin, but he\nseems to feel that the majority of them are nuisances if not baggages.\nSo strong is this feeling in \"A Tale of a Town\" that it leads him to\nmake Millicent behave in a way no Jasper Dean in real life would ever\nstand, for Jasper Dean is not a man pronouncedly uxorious until his\nabject surrender at the end of Act IV.\n\nThere are almost as many indictments of women as there are of England in\nthe plays of Mr. Martyn: Mrs. Tyrrell in \"The Heather Field\" and Mrs.\nFont in \"The Enchanted Sea,\" as well as all of the women in \"A Tale of\na Town\" save Miss Arabella Dean. In \"Maeve,\" the heroine and Finola are\nsympathetically presented, and there is a kind of attraction as well as\ndecided repulsion in Peg Inerny. But such sympathy as Mr. Martyn does\nexpress here seems to be expressed not because the women are fellow\nhuman beings, but because Maeve and Peg Inerny symbolize Ireland's\nresistance to English ways and because Finola is filled with\nloving-kindness for Maeve. Agnes Font in \"The Enchanted Sea\" escapes the\npillory rather inexplicably, for she is poor, weak girlhood unable to\nunderstand the other-worldly idealism of her cousin and Lord Mask. But\nsince Mrs. Font was altogether repulsive and the men either too dreamy\nfor \"common nature's daily food\" or too hard in the way of the Black\nNorth, Mr. Martyn felt, I suppose, that his hearers would be utterly\nalienated were there not some one in the play sympathetic in the\nordinary way of human nature.\n\n\"A Tale of a Town\" was put on for the first time at Molesworth Hall,\nDublin, late in October of 1905, by Cumann nan Gaedheal, not very\nnotably, but it was hailed by the Irish Ireland newspapers as admirable\npropagandist material, \"The United Irishmen\" declaring that \"an Irish\nplay which brings home to us, as this does, the secret of the endurance\nof foreign government in this country, is a national asset.\"\n\nMr. Martyn has not cared enough for \"The Place Hunters\" (1905) to\npublish it in book form, contenting himself with its printing in a\nlittle periodical. It is, as its title indicates, a fellow of \"A Tale of\na Town,\" but it has not back of it intensity of feeling enough to lift\nitself out of farce.\n\nBetween \"The Place Hunters\" and \"Grangecolman\" is an interval of seven\nyears, but it is the Mr. Martyn of earlier plays, still faithful to\nIbsen and still of a dialogue more formal than that of life, that we\nfind in this play of his middle age. As you read \"Grangecolman\" you\nthink of \"Rosmersholm,\" as you thought of \"The Wild Duck\" when you read\n\"The Heather Field.\" \"Grangecolman\" is the story of a daughter's\nfrustration of her elderly father's intention to marry his young\namanuensis, by playing the role of the family ghost, long fabled but\nnever seen, and being shot by the girl she feels is driving her out of\nher home. Katherine Devlin is another creature of her maker's misogyny.\nShe is a bitter, barren woman of suffragette type, whose marriage and\ncareer as a doctor have been alike failures, and who has alienated\nherself from all, even her mild father, by her selfishness and\ndiscontent. It is she who has brought Miss Clare Farquhar into her\nfather's home to render him those services in his pursuit of heraldry\nand genealogy that were irksome to her, and so she herself is\nresponsible for his dependence on his secretary, which, when once the\ndaughter recognizes it, threatens annihilation of what little pleasure\nshe has in her life. Her husband is a dreamy sort of man, slack-fibred\nand pottering, who goes about waving the banner of the ideal and\nrefusing to work. The fifth character of the play is the butler, Horan.\nAll are clearly characterized, but if the dialogue is less stiff than\nthat of the earlier plays, it is little more distinctive of the people\nwho speak it, and in the latter part of the play labored and stodgy.\n\"Grangecolman\" is a picture of life as we all know it, and there is in\nit a fidelity of purpose that gives it a kind of effectiveness. There is\nnot in it, however, any keenness of vision, any deep reading of life,\nany great underlying emotion, to relieve its abject sordidness. There is\nno gusto, no beauty, no intensity of bitterness even, to make its\nsordidness interesting in any other than a pathological way.\n\nAs one reads \"Hail and Farewell,\" one might readily come to believe that\nMr. Martyn is only an eccentric character, \"gotten up\" by Mr. Moore for\na novel. Mr. Martyn is, in reality, a very vital force working for the\nnationalization of Irish art, if not an artist himself. The pity is that\nhe is not wholly an artist, for he might have been. He knows and is\ninterested in classes of Irish society that the dramatists of the Abbey\nTheatre have not tried to depict, and had he realized twelve years ago\nwhat a chance was his to learn the art of the stage, with the help and\ncollaboration of Mr. Moore, Mr. Yeats, and Lady Gregory, he might now be\nwhat he seemed to be after the triumphant production of \"The Heather\nField,\" the Irish playwright who had adapted the modes of Ibsen to the\npresentation of the life of Irish landlords and bourgeois politicians.\n\nBut Mr. Martyn would not realize that ideas--and he is rich in\nideas--constitute the larger part of originality; he thought technique\nin drama must come from the man himself, too. Such technique, of course,\ncomes most often from the study of other drama. Certainly it was an\noriginal possession of none of the dramatists of the Celtic Renaissance,\nand Mr. Martyn might have been content to be a fellow learner, along\nwith the rest of them, from one another, and from all the great\ndramatists of the world. It may be that Mr. Martyn never would have\nattained style, but he could, I think, have learned to make his\ncharacters express themselves in a way nearer to true dramatic speech\nthan the lifeless dialogue of his that only just manages to give you\ntheir thought, with none of their mood of the moment or of their\npersonality.\n\nIn every one of Mr. Martyn's plays the plot is interesting, save in \"The\nPlace Hunters\"; in every other play it is significant; and in all it is\ncome largely of his individual experience of life. Back of all the plays\nbut these two political satires there is brooding that is deep if not\npassionate. In all the characters are natural, though some of them are\nunusual in the way of the unusual characters of Ibsen. And all the plays\nare marred, \"The Heather Field\" less than any other, by the fumbling\ntouch of the amateur. Ironically, Mr. Martyn is strong where most\nIrishmen are weak--in his plot construction: even Mr. Yeats, who never\npraises with his tongue in his cheek, owning to \"the triumphant\nconstruction of the 'The Heather Field'\"; and weak, where most Irishmen\nare strong, in the dialogue. It would not have aided Mr. Martyn, for the\nkind of play he prefers, to have listened to the speech of the peasant\nas Lady Gregory has listened to it, but he might have learned, with such\ncompeers, how to select and to condense from actual upper-class speech a\nspeech that would represent the thoughts and emotions and personalities\nof his characters. It is far more difficult, of course, to write\ndialogue for upper-class people, save humorous dialogue, since, as many\nfrom Wordsworth's day on have pointed out, upper-class people do not\nexpress their thoughts and emotions as frankly as do the folk. As Mr.\nYeats puts it, they look into the fire instead.\n\nAmateur as he is, however, Mr. Martyn has one play to his credit that he\nwho has read will remember, \"The Heather Field.\" It is often thus with\nthe amateur. We need go no further than Mr. Martyn's countryman who gave\nus \"The Burial of Sir John Moore\" for witness. Mr. Martyn has, too, like\nother amateurs, given suggestions to others that they have realized as\nfine art. It is more than likely, for instance, that Mr. Yeats had in\nhis mind some memory of Peg Inerny when he created Cathleen ni Houlihan.\nThere is, too, about the best plays of Mr. Martyn, a quality of a\ncertain kind. They have the distinctness of objects seen under the\nbright hard light of late winter, when the sun grows strong, but when\nthe winds are still keen from the northwest and there are no leaves as\nyet on the trees.\n\nThere are many characterizations of Mr. Martyn in his kinsman's \"Ave.\"\nHe is now \"a fellow ... with an original streak of genius in him, and\nvery little literary tact\"; but he is more generally characterized in\nsome such fashion as this, which Mr. Moore makes a deliverance of his\nown: \"A good fellow--an excellent one, and a man who would have written\nwell if his mother hadn't put it into his head that he had a soul. The\nsoul is a veritable pitfall.\" However that may be, it was the discovery,\nor at least suppositious discovery, that he had a soul, a soul in\nharmony with the melancholy soul of Ireland, that drove Mr. Moore back\nto Dublin, and, for moments, even farther west to the home country of\nhis family about Lough Gara in Mayo. This discovery was foreshadowed in\n\"Evelyn Innes\" (1898), in which Mr. Moore grows curious about the belief\nin ancestral memory and other esoteric beliefs of Mr. Yeats; it is\nlatent in the introductions to \"The Heather Field\" and \"The Bending of\nthe Bough\"; and it is made manifest in the parts of the latter play that\nare Mr. Moore's. Who most helped him to the discovery it is not easy to\nsay, but an interest in his country entered into and possessed him as\nKirwan's ideas entered into and possessed Dean. No doubt Mr. Yeats\nhelped him to find his soul, and Mr. Russell, but it must be it was Mr.\nMartyn through whose agency the first glimmerings of such a recognition\nbegan to break upon his mind. Is it only dramatically that Mr. Moore\nwrote when he put upon Kirwan's lips in 1900 the words, \"Life is the\nenemy--we should fly from life\"? But whether this is only a dramatic\nrepetition of what he might have heard any time from \"A.E.\" had he\nchosen to listen, there is no doubt that Mr. Moore did discover a new\nquality in himself in the late nineties after he became intimately\nassociated with the new Irish movement. There is a wistfulness of\nfeeling and a beauty of thought in his writing, from \"Evelyn Innes\" on,\nthat there was not in it before \"Evelyn Innes.\"\n\nThere are those who think the greatest excellence of Mr. Moore is as an\nart critic, and that \"Modern Painting\" (1893) is his great book. Mr.\nMoore himself says that \"Esther Waters\" (1894) is his only book that he\ncan read with admiration and content; and those particularly interested\nin the Renaissance will hold out for \"Evelyn Innes\" or \"The Lake\"\n(1905). To me \"A Drama in Muslin\" (1886) is the best story of Mr. Moore\nin his earlier realistic manner and \"The Lake\" in his later manner, a\nmanner that is now wistful and now mellow, as in \"A Drama in Muslin\" his\nmanner is uniformly as hard as winter sunshine.\n\nMr. Moore is, as I said at the outset, a hard-working amateur in \"A\nModern Lover\"; three years later, in \"A Drama in Muslin,\" he writes with\nauthority and insight; as he does, too, in \"Parnell and his Island\"\n(1887), though here with scant sympathy; but it is not until \"Evelyn\nInnes\" that he becomes deeply concerned with beauty of subject or beauty\nof background, or, except at haphazard, possessed of any mastery of\nstyle. \"Evelyn Innes\" is very well written,--in spots,--but \"The Lake\"\nis of a wholeness of good tissue that is attainable only through an art\nthat has labored long and earnestly to achieve beauty. Had Mr. Moore\nnever recaptured his ancestral tradition, had he remained the writer\nthat Paris and London had made him, he had never written so finely as he\nwrites in \"The Lake.\" An infancy and boyhood in Ireland; a youth in\nLondon; the ten years from twenty-one to thirty-one in Paris; eleven\nyears of hard writing in London, years comparatively lean after those of\nluxury that anteceded them, brought Mr. Moore at forty-two to a\nknowledge of what was beautiful and significant in his home country. He\nand Mr. Martyn were not many years apart when they began to write about\nIreland, but Mr. Moore had back of him not only ten years of writing,\nbut back of that ten years of living life as an art in Paris and his\nattempts in the art of painting and his years of discussion of art in\nthe studios. Mr. Martyn, at home, had been more concerned with religion\nand nationality and politics, and a shift to art as the principal career\nof life after forty--\"Morgante the Lesser\" was no more than an incursion\ninto art, about as much of his life as a trip to Bayreuth--is only in\nrare instances productive of results interesting to others than the\n\"artist.\" The difference in the achievements of the two men is not so\nmuch the result of the difference of the powers with which both were\ngifted as the result of the difference of time at which the will began\nto work to realize those powers. Had Mr. Martyn begun soon enough and\nhad he been enough interested in his writing he might have made drama as\nfull of insight and beauty and as true to human nature as are the novels\nof his kinsman. It is another irony of Mr. Martyn's life that it was he\nwho should have led Mr. Moore to the subject on which Mr. Moore was to\ndo his most harmonious and beautiful work, though it is possible,\njudging from \"Parnell and his Island,\" that Mr. Moore might in the end\nhave found his own way back.\n\nAfter his wont Mr. Moore puts his intimates into books made out of Irish\nlife. In \"Evelyn Innes\" Ulick Dean, fashioned in the first version of\nthe novel after Mr. Yeats, is the only wholly Irish character. Evelyn is\nnot Irish at all, and her Scotch father is given the musical interests\nof Mr. Dolmetsch, a Bohemian, I believe. But Sir Owen Asher has in him\nmuch of Mr. Moore himself, though most of Mr. Moore that is there is the\nEnglish Mr. Moore. There is something of Mr. Martyn in Monsignor Mostyn,\nthough an actual and not a potential ecclesiastic is drawn upon for the\nbasic characteristics of the character In the second version of \"Evelyn\nInnes\" there is more of Mr. Russell than of Mr. Yeats in Ulick Dean, at\nleast in his appearance and sayings, though Mr. Moore could not divest\nhis composer of the personality of Mr. Yeats. There is less of Ireland\nin \"Sister Theresa\" (1901) than in \"Evelyn Innes,\" but \"The Untilled\nField,\" short stories written after the removal of Mr. Moore to Dublin\nand gathered together in 1903, are wholly concerned with Ireland. As Mr.\nMoore makes Jasper say to Millicent in \"The Bending of the Bough\": \"It\nis the land underfoot that makes the Celt. Soon you will feel the\nfascination of this dim, remote land steal over you.\" It was when this\naesthetic homesickness overtook Mr. Moore that he grew to feel lonely in\nEngland, at least momentarily, and to believe that \"we are lonely in a\nforeign land because we are deprived of our past life; but the past is\nabout us here [he is speaking through the mouth of Dean and in Ireland];\nwe see it at evening glimmering among the hollows of the hills.\"\n\nIn \"Memoirs of my Dead Self\" (1906) there are chapters which tell of the\nreturn of his thought to his boyhood in the west and that record his\nwish to be buried with his father by Lough Gara; and all three volumes\nof \"Hail and Farewell,\" the first of which was published in 1911 as\n\"Ave,\" and the second in 1912 as \"Salve,\" are the fruit of his ten\nyears' partial residence in Ireland, 1901-11.\n\nOur concern with Mr. Moore here, however, is with Mr. Moore the\ndramatist, so I shall not dwell on the short stories and the novels save\nto say that they, more than any writing of his, reveal his inherent\ndramatic power. By dramatic power I mean not his power of situation and\nevolution of dramatic technique, but his power to change his point of\nview with the character he is creating A sensual exquisite himself whose\npredominant thought is of woman, and of woman from a standpoint closely\nakin to an epicure's toward an ideal meal, Mr. Moore can identify\nhimself with people in whom there is none of himself but the essential\nhumanity common to mankind. Most wonderful of many wonderful\nrealizations of viewpoint so different from what is his personally is\nhis realization of the attitude of Father MacTurnan, an old priest,\ncelibate by nature, who put aside his books, as ministering to the pride\nof the intellect, and sat, night after night, with them by his side in\nthe study, but always unopened, while he was knitting socks for the poor\nof his parish. Better known, of course, than this character of Father\nMacTurnan is that of Father Gogarty in \"The Lake,\" but for all his\nsympathetic elaboration of this bemused and distraught cleric the\ncharacter is never wholly opposed to that of Mr. Moore himself as is the\ncharacter of Father MacTurnan.\n\nIt is this power of Mr. Moore that makes him the great novelist that he\nis, this power of identifying himself with the personality and this\nlooking out on life from the viewpoint of Esther Waters or Lewis\nSeymour, or Edward Dempsey or Rose Leicester, of Kate Lennox or Mr.\nInnes. Such a power is akin to one of the greatest powers of the Gael,\nhis quick sympathy with what appeals to him in others, his momentary\nabsorption in their interests and his passing possession by their\npurpose. It is this habit of his nature that makes the Gael tell people\nwhat they wish to hear, it is this that makes him so courteous, it is\nthis that makes him so good an actor. And the power that makes one man a\ngood actor, a real actor,--not one who happens to fit a part, but one\nwho can change his personality from part to part,--is but another\nmanifestation of the power that enables a man to identify himself\nwholly, now with this character, now with that, in a story which he is\nwriting. If a man can express such identification in dialogue, he can,\nif he master dramatic construction, make himself into a dramatist; if he\nexpress it in subtle analytic writing about the character, it gives him\none of the great powers of the novelist, a power which, if it is united\nwith the power of story-telling, makes him a great novelist, and,\noftentimes, even if he be but a fair story-teller, a great novelist. The\nEnglish novel has been famously deficient in story-telling ability since\nScott's day, and Mr. Moore is no exception to the rule. As, however, the\nemphasis of all his stories is on character, his deficiency in narrative\npower matters hardly at all.\n\nMr. Moore is, then, Ireland's greatest novelist because he has in\ngreatest measure--in full measure--this greatest gift of the Gael, the\ngift of dramatic impersonation of all manner of men in all their\nchanging moods. A personality as intense as was that of Meredith, as is\nthat of Mr. Hardy, Mr. Moore has not always one attitude, as have both\nWelshman and Saxon of the Saxons, however completely they write from the\nstandpoint of each character they create. By the side of the characters\nof Meredith is always Meredith, high-hearted and confident, and by the\nside of the characters of Mr. Hardy is always Mr. Hardy, lamenting what\nwoe fate has brought them, but by the side of Ned Carmady or Oliver\nGogarty, the Mummer or Montgomery, Sir Owen Asher or Ulick, there is\nseldom Mr. Moore. He almost never plays chorus to his characters, either\nthrough a commenting character or by direct interposition in the manner\nof Thackeray, though, of course, the characters again and again express\nhis views. So in \"The Wild Goose,\" in which Ned Carmady represents one\nyear's outlook of Mr. Moore, there is only one choric observation.\n\nWhen one considers how alien to Ireland were all the interests of Mr.\nMoore for years, his rendering of the Irish characters of \"The Untilled\nField\" and \"The Lake\" is realized to be all the more remarkable. It is\nnot easy to pick up threads that one has dropped in a period of one's\nlife that is dead and done, but Mr. Moore has picked them up more than\nonce. From time to time he had, of course, made visits home, writing \"A\nMummer's Wife\" in Galway in 1884 and finding there then, no doubt, the\nmaterial for \"A Drama in Muslin\" and the sketches of \"Parnell and his\nIsland\"; but these visits were none of them of long duration until his\n\"return\" in 1901.\n\nIt is far easier to paint in the background of landscape remembered\nfrom childhood than it is again to get into touch with people parted\nfrom in childhood. The landscape changes little in far-off, lonely\nplaces, but people nowhere are what they were when the past years\nsufficient to bring up beside the old folks a new generation with ideals\nchanged. Ireland, for all the agitation of the Land League, was landlord\nIreland when Mr. Moore got \"A Drama in Muslin\" from Ireland; Ireland was\npassing to the peasant proprietor when Mr. Moore returned to it to write\n\"The Untilled Field\" and \"The Lake.\" Social and economic questions,\nhowever, interest Mr. Moore only as they concern the individual, but the\nchanging conditions in Ireland cannot be prevented from finding their\nway here and there into his writing through the changes they have\nbrought about in the people of whom he writes, though many of those he\nwrites of are survivals from an older generation.\n\nThere are glimpses in his writing of many phases of Irish life, his\ncharacters varying all the way from such old-timers as his Cousin Dan,\nwho, as he himself intimates, might have come out of the pages of Lever\nor Lover, to the very modern Father Gogarty, whose outlook is on an\nIreland that \"perhaps, more than any other country, had understood the\nsupremacy of spirit over matter, and had striven to escape through\nmortifications from the prison of the flesh.\" One wonders, at times, if\nMr. Moore, who joined the cause of Mr. Martyn and Mr. Yeats,\nself-confessedly, to have his finger in a new literary pie, really felt\nthe landscape as he says he does in his books, or whether he just\nmomentarily caught the power of seeing it through their eyes. Can one\nwho was once so resolute a realist really appreciate \"faint Celtic haze;\na vision of silver mist and distant mountain and moor\"? Perhaps he can,\nas a good actor appreciates a part alien to his sympathy, that he is\nplaying. But whether or not Mr. Moore learned to love the lonely\nlandscape for a while, he eventually tired of it, as his Father Gogarty\ntired of it. Surely Mr. Moore is speaking personally as well as\ndramatically when he writes, \"This lake was beautiful, but he was tired\nof its low gray shores; he was tired of those mountains, melancholy as\nIrish melodies, and as beautiful.\"\n\nAlmost any novelist, sooner or later in his career, dabbles in drama,\nand Mr. Moore no doubt would have attempted drama in the natural course\nof things, even if he had not been interested in \"The Independent\nTheatre\" and thus led to a situation in which consistency demanded that\nhe write a play. It was his articles on the drama, gathered into\n\"Impressions and Opinions\" (1891), that provoked Mr. G.R. Sims to taunt\nhim into \"The Strike at Arlingford\" (1893). In \"Our Dramatists and their\nLiterature,\" one of these papers, Mr. Moore, in hitting all the heads of\nall the contemporaneous dramatists, so stung Mr. Sims that he said he\nwould give a hundred pounds for a stall from which to witness a\nperformance of \"an unconventional play\" written by Mr. Moore. Mr. Moore\naccepted the challenge, and \"The Strike at Arlingford,\" as I have said,\nwas the result, Mr. Sims having agreed to withdraw the word\n\"unconventional\" on Mr. Moore's objection that he would be at the mercy\nof Mr. Sims' judgment if the word was retained. \"The Independent\nTheatre\" played the play and Mr. Sims paid the money. It was perhaps\njust as well for Mr. Moore that the adjective was withdrawn, for the\nplay was little less conventional than \"The Second Mrs. Tanqueray\" or\n\"Sowing the Wind,\" to mention two successes of that year by play-makers\nthat took their art a little more seriously than Mr. Sims. In a way,\ntoo, \"The Strike at Arlingford\" is unoriginal. Lady Ann Travers is only\na more fortunate Hedda Gabler who in the end accepts the protection of\nher Chancellor Brack, the capitalist Baron Steinbach, after her Loevberg\nturned labor agitator, John Reid has, like his prototype, made a wreck\nof his life. \"The Strike at Arlingford\" has its excellences: its plot is\nlogically unfolded; it is believable; it is true to human nature; it has\nmoments of intensity. Had Mr. Moore power of dialogue it might have been\na fine play, for the characterization is what one would expect from so\nconscientious a depicter of life as Mr. Moore, and the problem, a man's\nchoice between his love and his duty, one that has never failed to\nappeal to men. Mr. Moore is careful to tell us that, in his own\nconception of the play, \"the labor dispute is an externality to which I\nattach little importance.\"\n\nIts performance and publication, though neither event was of very much\nmore than journalistic importance, served to give Mr. Moore something of\na position as an authority on the drama, coming as they did after his\nassociation, since 1891, with \"The Independent Theatre.\" So it is that\nwe find him collaborating with Mrs. Craigie in \"Journeys End in Lovers\nMeeting\" (1894), which served for a year or so as one of the little\nplays that characterized the repertoire of the Irving-Terry Company.\nJust what was Mr. Moore's share in this play I do not know, but that,\nslight as it is, it served as apprentice work in the art of\ncollaboration there can be no doubt, or that it added to his familiarity\nwith the stage.\n\nIt is certain that Mr. Martyn and Mr. Yeats were glad of the assistance\nof Mr. Moore in founding \"The Irish Literary Theatre,\" not only for the\nprominence of his name as novelist and as Moore of Moore Hall, and for\nhis known provocativeness in pamphleteering and his capacity for drawing\nthe fire of opponents, but for what knowledge he had of playwriting and\nfor what experience he had in getting together and training actors for\nspecial performances such as those of \"The Independent Theatre.\"\n\nI have already spoken of what Mr. Moore did to \"A Tale of a Town\" to\nmake it \"The Bending of the Bough.\" From the beginning of Act II on to\nthe end, he rewrote almost all of it, retaining only now and then an\neloquent or a biting line from Mr. Martyn's play. Mr. Moore changes the\nscene of the play from Ireland to Scotland, that its allegory may not be\nso obvious; he develops Kirwan's character until he becomes not only a\nsort of composite spiritual portrait of the leaders of the Renaissance\nbut a believable leader of men; and he makes Millicent's moulding of\nDean to her will human, as I have said, and--Dean being the weakling\nthat he was--inevitable. Mr. Moore cuts the play down where it is\nstodgy, he expands it where expansion realizes for you more of\ncharacter and motives of his people, he infuses into it more of the\nspirit of the movement, and he makes its patriotism wider in its appeal,\na bigger and a better thing at once more concrete and more concerned\nwith the things of the spirit.\n\n\"Diarmid and Grania\" (1901), the prose play written in collaboration by\nMr. Yeats and Mr. Moore, I write of here rather than in the chapter\ndevoted to Mr. Yeats because, as the legend is shaped in the play, it\nhas more of Mr. Moore than of Mr. Yeats in it. As neither of the\ncollaborators was satisfied with the play as produced, and as neither\nhas been willing to give it up to the other to rewrite, \"Diarmid and\nGrania\" has never been published. The notices of its production, on\nOctober 21, 1901, at the Gaiety Theatre, Dublin, are so full, however,\nand the legend on which it is based so familiar, that it is possible to\nsay as I have said, when one knows well the work of both authors, whose\ninfluence is dominant in it. It seems, from the notices, to have been\nfinely played by the Benson Company, which was brought over from England\nespecially to produce it. The results of \"the scratch company\" of the\nsecond year's performances, even though these were transferred from the\nAntient Concert Rooms to the better stage of the Gaiety Theatre, were\nnot very satisfactory artistically, but the third year's experiment was\nin every way more successful. \"The Daily Express\" of Dublin, in those\ndays very much interested in Irish Ireland, thus records, on October 22,\n1901, the impressions of the first night. \"The 'house' was not merely\ncrowded but representative. We counted among the audience the heads of\nall the great professions in Dublin, a considerable number of literary\ncritics, and an extremely large representation of 'le monde ou l'on\ns'amuse.' The Gaelic League, which flooded the gallery, was very\nfriendly to Mr. Moore and Mr. Yeats, and became enthusiastic over Dr.\nDouglas Hyde ['The Twisting of the Rope,' by Dr. Hyde, was played by him\nand company of amateurs, in Irish]. Between the acts of 'Diarmid and\nGrania' several members of the 'gods' sang number of Gaelic songs with\ngreat gusto and a good deal of musical ability.\"\n\nThere are several versions of the old legend, some of them cynical,\nleaving Grania in the end lighter even than Helen of Troy; others\nclosing with Diarmid slain by the boar as Adonis is slain, and Grania\nweeping his death. In all it is Grania who tempts Diarmid to take her\naway from Finn on the eve of her wedding to the old king. In some he\ngoes willingly, in love with her, in others unwillingly, ashamed of his\ndisloyalty to Finn, but under _giesa_ not to refuse a woman's request.\nIn the play of Mr. Moore and Mr. Yeats Diarmid and Grania \"do not live,\"\nsays the \"Daily Express,\" \"the exciting life of flight from cromlech to\ncromlech. They settle down very comfortably in the monotony of a\nprosperous farm. Diarmid busies himself with his sheep. Grania ...\nbegins to pine for the society from which she has wilfully cut herself\noff, and to think more and more of the grim old warrior Finn. Then Finn\ncomes upon the scene, patches up a sort of truce with Diarmid, and\nbecomes more friendly with Grania, his lost sweetheart, than Diarmid is\nable to tolerate. Mutual recriminations ensue between Diarmid and\nGrania, and finally Diarmid goes forth to his portended death, with the\ntaunts of Grania and the rude jeers of the Fianna ringing in his ears.\nAs the play closes, the Fianna bear away the body of Diarmid, Finn\ncomforts the weeping Grania, and we remember the words of the legend\nthat 'some say she was married to Finn.' The curtain falls--a happy\ntouch of purely modern cynicism--upon the solitary figure of Conan, the\nThersites of the play, the prophet of evil chances, the scorner of high\nthings, the prompter of foul suggestions.\"\n\nAs the play was being written a good deal of discussion about it found\nits way into the newspapers. It was rumored that it would be translated\ninto Irish, and then back again, by Lady Gregory, into English, but no\nsuch fantastic scheme as that Mr. Moore tells us of in \"Ave\" was\nsuggested in any of the paragraphs that came my way. Because they could\nnot agree on the kind of diction they were to use in the play, Mr.\nYeats, who wanted a peasant Grania, agreed, writes Mr. Moore, to his\nsuggestion that he write the play in French. Mr. Moore gives these as\nthe words of Mr. Yeats: \"Lady Gregory will translate your text into\nEnglish. Taidgh O'Donoghue will translate the English text into Irish,\nand Lady Gregory will translate the Irish text back into English.\" \"And\nthen,\" Mr. Moore makes himself reply to Mr. Yeats, \"you'll put style\nupon it.\"\n\nMore remarkable than the scheme was the actual attempt of Mr. Moore to\nrealize it. On leaving Galway, where he and Mr. Yeats had been\ncollaborating at Coole, Mr. Moore began the second act in French. He\ngives us enough of the dialogue (pages 370 to 376 of \"Ave\") to show us\nhis high pride in his French, the tolerance of his humor, and his idea\nof the kind of style the play should have.\n\nIf Mr. Moore had given the subject to Mr. Yeats and to Lady Gregory, as\nhe had some thought of doing, it would only have been a return of a\nsubject already theirs by right of their long discussion of it together.\nLady Gregory was not yet working upon it for \"Gods and Fighting Men\"\n(1904); but it was she who had reduced it to the proportions of a\nscenario for them to work upon. This scenario was published in \"Samhain\"\nof October, 1901, that all of the audiences of the play might be in\npossession of the story as a Grecian audience was in possession of the\nstory of Elektra. And did not Mr. Moore say in his speech at the dinner\ngiven to the supporters of \"The Irish Literary Theatre\" in February,\n1900, in speaking of his collaboration with Mr. Yeats in \"Diarmid and\nGrania\": \"It would be difficult to name any poet that Ireland has yet\nproduced more truly elected by his individual and racial genius to\ninterpret the old legend than the distinguished poet whose contemporary\nand _collaborateur_ I have the honor to be\"?\n\nThe story, of course, had been retold only less often than the story of\nDeirdre by Irish writers, in one form or another, but there had been no\nmemorable play made out of it. Mr. Yeats had met it in \"The Death of\nDermid,\" which Sir Samuel Ferguson included in \"The Lays of the Western\nGael\" (1864), as well as in the direct translations of such scholars as\nMr. Standish Hayes O'Grady and in the versions of such popularizers as\nDr. Joyce. One cannot, not having read the play, declare it is not what\nMr. Moore would have it, \"that dramatic telling of the story which\nIreland has been waiting for these many years,\" but it does not seem so\nto have impressed those who saw it and heard it at the performances in\nthe Gaiety Theatre.\n\nNow that Lady Gregory has done her \"Grania\" (1912), it is hardly likely\nthat Mr. Yeats will return to the story, and with the waning of Mr.\nMoore's interest in old Irish legend it is very unlikely that he will\nwish to rewrite the play. It would seem we have lost it, whatever its\nvalue, until the \"literary remains\" of Mr. Moore are given to the\npublic.\n\nThe quarrel with Mr. Yeats over \"Diarmid and Grania,\" coming as it did\nat the end of the three years' venture of \"The Irish Literary Theatre,\"\nexplains why Mr. Moore wrote no plays for the Irish National Dramatic\nCompany and its successors on through the Abbey Theatre Players. He was\nstill interested, however, in the \"cause\" as far as it was possible for\none of his temperament and taste, and he was conspicuous on first nights\nat the Abbey Theatre down to the time of his departure from Dublin in\n1911.\n\nSince \"Diarmid and Grania\" (1901) Mr. Moore has published the two books\nof his that since \"A Drama in Muslin\" (1886) reveal his deepest\nknowledge of Irish life, the volume of stories of varying length to\nwhich he gives that title, so symbolic, \"The Untilled Field\" (1903),\nand \"The Lake\" (1905), but there are few incidents in either that he is\nlikely to develop into plays. \"The Lake\" could not be dramatized, but if\nit could be dramatized, it would be as little likely to be presented in\nIreland as \"The Tinker's Wedding.\" Mr. Moore, for all that he was born a\nCatholic, would not hesitate any more than did the son of the Protestant\nminister to put a priest into a realistic modern play, and that, of\ncourse, would be a mild audacity for Mr. Moore now that he has published\nthe scenario of \"The Apostle\" (1911). His Paul, in \"The Apostle,\" a\n\"thick-set man, of rugged appearance, hairy in the face and with a\nbelly,\" is wonderfully alive, and his Jesus is a distinct and realizable\npersonality, if not the Jesus of Christian dream. It is a curious\nillustration of Mr. Moore's almost disciple-like attitude toward Mr.\nG.W. Russell that he should make his Christ talk like \"A.E.\" It seemed\nto me, as I read the words that Mr. Moore puts first on the lips of\nJesus, that they were phrases that I had heard on the lips of Mr.\nRussell. They are of the very quality of his speech and writing: \"How\nbeautiful is the evening light as it dies, revealing every crest; the\noutline of the hills is evident now, evident as the will of God.\" And\nnow each time, as I re-read them, they sound in my ears to the\nremembered rhythm of Mr. Russell's voice. Should Mr. Moore ever evolve a\nplay from this scenario, and the play be played--and why should it not,\nnow that the way is so plainly blazed by the score and more of miracle\nplays of the past decade?--it will have to be chanted as \"A.E.\" chants\nhis verse, as one would wish mass to be chanted.\n\nOnly a year ago Mr. Moore made his last adventure of the theatre. With\nthe help of Mr. Lennox Robinson he dramatized \"Esther Waters,\" but later\nhe threw out the latter's work, feeling, no doubt, about it as Mr.\nMartyn felt about Mr. Moore's rewriting of his \"A Tale of a Town\"; and\nwhen it was put on, in the early winter of 1911-12 by the Stage Society,\n\"Esther Waters\" the play was like \"Esther Waters\" the novel, solely the\nwork of Mr. Moore. The critics seem agreed that it was long drawn out\nand undramatic, but that it was well written and well acted. I suppose\nthat the preoccupation with \"Esther Waters\" that this dramatization\nreveals is because \"Esther Waters\" was written in that period of his\nlife when Mr. Moore was most himself. After ten years in London he had\nescaped considerably from the French influence of his young manhood, and\nhis genius had not been warped out of its true plane, as he would\ndoubtless now say, by Irish mists. Mr. Moore must have felt that there\nwas something not wholly himself in much of \"The Untilled Field\" and in\nmuch of \"The Lake,\" that the minds of Mr. Yeats and Mr. Russell had in a\nway dominated his mind, and that not even the hardly tolerated Mr.\nMartyn had been without influence upon him.\n\nSuch a realization is not the professed motive for the return of Mr.\nMoore to England, but I have no doubt at all that it is somewhere in the\nback of his mind, where he would like it to be hidden and forgot. At any\nrate, by the time of his return to England, Mr. Moore had come to see\nclearly that the Celtic episode of his maturity was closed.\n\nIt is not, I think, particularly difficult for one who understands the\nold-fashioned camp-meeting \"getting of religion\" to understand this\n\"Celtic episode.\" Mr. Moore got Celtomania; a sort of \"spiritual\nconsumption,\" he calls his possession in one place, as a certain other\ntype of sinner \"got religion\" in the old shouting days. That is, Mr.\nMoore wrought himself up partly in the spirit of the Playboy, and was\nwrought up to some degree willy-nilly until he could write his speech of\nFebruary, 1900, on \"Literature and the Irish Language,\" and, finally, a\nlittle later, could return happily to the country that until then he\ncould endure only now and again.\n\nBut as a matter of fact the motive that led Mr. Moore back to Ireland\nmatters not at all to literature. What beauty of writing that return led\nto matters a great deal. Had he not returned to Ireland, we should not\nhave had a good deal that adds to the joy we win from satiric laughter,\nwe should not have had \"Hail and Farewell\"; had he not returned we\nshould not have had a book that adds to the treasure of beautiful\nfeeling and beautiful writing there is in English literature, a treasure\nthat there is no chance of ever having too large; we should not have had\n\"The Lake,\" which is Ireland, West Ireland, Catholic Ireland, a land\nunder gray skies that the priests its masters would, too many of them,\nmake a land of gray lives.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nMR. GEORGE W. RUSSELL (\"A.E.\")\n\n\nSynge is the one instinctive dramatist of the earlier group of writers\nof the Celtic Renaissance, the one to whom drama was the inevitable\nmedium for the expression of the best that was in him. Yet even Synge\ncame to write plays only through an external stimulus, the urging of Mr.\nYeats on their meeting in Paris. It was fortunate for the Irish drama,\nthis meeting, and fortunate for Synge. If he had not been brought to the\ntheatre of his own country, he would probably never have written\nanything of first importance. Mr. Yeats himself, of course, had been\ninterested in verse plays from boyhood, but he, for all the energy he\nhas expended in learning his own particular art of the stage, speaks\nmore beautifully through his lyrics and the lyrical passages of his\nplays than through their passages that are dramatic speech, and not only\nmore beautifully but with more of dignity and power. Nor is Lady\nGregory, any more than Mr. Yeats, essentially a dramatist. Her great\npower is the power of dialogue, and dialogue, of course, is as often\nemployed in the service of the story as in the service of the play. Yet\nit is not difficult to understand how in Lady Gregory the dialogue and\nin Mr. Yeats the love of the spoken word led, when opportunity was made,\nto writing for the stage, and for success on the stage. But in the case\nof \"A.E.\" it is as difficult to find a foreshadowing of the playwright\nin the mystical poet as it would be to see in all but all of the essays\nof \"The Treasure of the Humble,\" any proof that their author was a\nplaywright. To those who knew Mr. Russell only through his verses, and\nwere unaware of the versatility of the man, his turning dramatist was as\nsurprising as Emerson turned dramatist would have been to the America of\nanti-slavery days.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIt was not, of course, because of an impulse from within that Mr.\nRussell attempted drama in \"Deirdre\" (1902), but because the young\nenthusiasts of Ireland's national literary movement wanted plays that\nshould be at once native in quality and the work of writers of standing.\nIt did not seem a strange request to Cumann nan Gaedheal to ask Mr.\nRussell for a play. What if he had never written a play? He was hardly\nin their estimation more of an amateur than Mr. Yeats or Mr. Moore or\nMr. Martyn, who had written plays for \"The Irish Literary Theatre\" that\nhad achieved success of a kind, and he was surely as ardent a\nNationalist as any of these. So he was asked for a play to be played at\nthe Spring Festival of 1902 by the Irish National Dramatic Company that\nwas forming, and he did what he was asked to do, blocking it all out in\nsix hours, and finishing it sufficiently in three days for it to be put\nin rehearsal. It was in the summer following its first presentation that\nI saw it again in rehearsal in a little hall back of a produce shop in\nDublin, and got to know Mr. Russell as playwright before I read his\nplay. One of the actors, himself maker of verses and plays, gave me his\ncopy of \"Deirdre,\" with cues marked. I had seen notices of its first\nperformance in the Irish papers and I had written Mr. Russell to see if\nI could get a copy, but he had not yet published it. Then he wrote me of\nyoung poets I met this night in Dublin, and the names on the lips of the\nenthusiasts we talked to, and their names were names Mr. Russell had\nwritten me of four months before. Here were they introducing me to his\nwork as he had thus introduced me to theirs: \"There are many poets here\nwho write beautiful lyrics who are quite unknown out of Ireland because\nthey never collected them from the pages of obscure magazines.... I have\nseen many verses signed 'I.O,' 'Alice Milligan,' 'Ethna Carberry,'\n'Oghma,' 'Paul Gregan,' which I enviously wish I could claim as my\nown.... I think myself many of these unknown poets and poetesses write\nverses which no living English writer could surpass.\" The best of the\nverses of some of these and of others among his following Mr. Russell\ncollected in \"New Songs\" (1904), which bore out much that he claimed for\nthem.\n\nIt was to six of these young poets he dedicated his last volume of\nverse, \"The Divine Vision\" (1904), as he had dedicated his two earlier\nvolumes to poet-mystics, \"Homeward\" (1894) to Mr. Charles Weekes and\n\"The Earth Breath\" (1898) to Mr. Yeats. The young writers (for they were\nalmost all writers as well as actors) we met this Saturday night in\nDublin, one and all, looked to \"A.E.\" as leader, and some of them looked\nto him as high priest of their cult, as seer of that ancient type that\ncombined as its functions the deliverance of religious dicta, prophecy,\nand song. My thoughts went back to our Concord of half a century ago,\nyet I wondered was Emerson's fascination as compelling as this.\n\nIt was in a commonplace-looking editorial sanctum that I found \"A.E.\" on\nthe following morning, at 22, Lincoln Place, to which he had descended\nfrom his office in the Irish Agricultural Organization Society, to edit\n\"The Homestead\" in its editor's absence. I was to see him, in the hour I\nwas to spend with him there, in many roles. First was that of one of the\nbeginners of the Irish Literary Revival. He has himself given the credit\nto Mr. Standish James O'Grady for furnishing the initial stimulus to the\nmovement, in his \"Heroic Period\" and \"Cuchulain and his Contemporaries\"\nof 1878 and 1880; but to \"A.E.\" and Mr. Yeats and Dr. Hyde also is due\nmuch of the credit. Mr. Russell said that when he came up to Dublin, a\nboy from Lurgan, there was no independent thought in Dublin, but now he\nthought there was a good deal, and he and his fellows of the Hermetic\nSociety, he took mild pride in believing, had had something to do with\nthe change. Even then, as a boy, he could not read most English\nliterature, and so he took to reading the literature of the East, the\nBhagavad-Gita and the Sufis. From his reading of these, with other young\nmen that somehow found each other out, came the Hermetic Society, at\nwhose meetings everything mystic from the Upanishads to Thomas Taylor\nwas discussed. From the study of the universal, he said, they came at\nlast to the national, to the study of the ancient folk-lore and stories\nof their people, which, had it not been for the Danes and Normans, would\nhave been shaped into literary form long before now, when, he said,\nthey were only being so shaped.\n\nHis disciples had told me the night before that \"A.E.\" had helped them\nmuch in the National Dramatic Company, painting scenery for them,\ndesigning costumes, and aiding in a hundred other ways. He was silent\nabout these matters and not very proud of the play. \"Of course,\" he said,\n\"I was very familiar with the story of Deirdre, and I had thought of its\ndramatic effectiveness, but I knew nothing of the stage and I was very\nmuch surprised it went so well.\" That it went well, I, who had seen it\nbut the night before, could testify, though that rehearsal could give\nbut a suggestion of the beautiful stage pictures it presents when played\nin the costume of the Heroic Age. Despite its intensely dramatic\nsituations, it is, however, essentially a decorative rather than a\ndramatic play, and its exalted prose is seldom true dramatic speech. But\nyou carry from it the memory of beautiful pictures, and a feeling that\nsomething noble has passed your way, to enter into and become a part of\nyou.\n\nAs we were talking of the \"movement,\" in came a young Roscommon\nlandlord, and with him another of its phases and my discovery of Mr.\nRussell, man of business, organizer of the Irish Agricultural\nOrganization Society. The talk was now of the erection of a hall, and\nMr. Russell seemed as familiar with stone and lime and sand as with\nmysticism and poetry, which we had discussed, and with painting, which\nwe were considering in a few minutes, when Mr. J.B. Yeats, Jr., arrived,\nto talk over an exhibition of his pictures to be held in Dublin the\nfollowing week. A few days later I was reading Mr. Russell's review of\nMr. Yeats's pictures, but before I left 22, Lincoln Place, I had a\nmental picture of \"art critic\" added to the already long list of titles\nafter \"A.E.'s\" name, and I had still another evidence of his\nimpressiveness. Mr. J.B. Yeats, Sr., his son said, would be around to\nhave Mr. Russell sit for him next morning, in order to get on with the\ntwo orders he had of portraits of the mystic, one of them from an\nadmirer in America. It was pleasant on leaving him to go away with his\nlaugh ringing in my ears as a surety that the high seriousness of his\npurpose, and the higher seriousness with which some of his admirers take\nhim, had not dulled his sense of humor.\n\nEight o'clock the next evening saw us in the eminently Philistine\nsuburban street where was the little house of conventional exterior that\nsheltered the high dreams of \"the Irish Emerson.\" Once entered, his\nembodied visions attract you from all four walls of the study. Piles of\nthem in corners make you wonder is Mrs. Russell a saint. The pictures\nare of Irish landscape; of \"the Other People\"; of heroes and heroines of\nIreland's prehistoric days; of souls that have yet to be born; of souls\nthat have passed through incarnation after incarnation, never to rise\nabove an animal existence; of souls whose every rebirth has taken them\nto higher spirituality, and that now wait to pass along the \"path of\nliberation\" into that immortality from which they shall never be born\nagain. These visions have come to him, as the visions whose presence he\nrecords in his poetry, in all places--as he left the office and looked\ndown the sun-gilded streets at close of day; as he wandered in the\nmountains under the stars with peasants who had \"second sight\"; as he\ntalked with fellow Hermetists in meeting-rooms in back streets whose\nshabby interiors grew rosy gloom as the talk turned on mysteries.\n\nTo us Mr. Russell talked much, talked kindly of all men, talked well of\nmany things, said startling things of society and art and poetry so\ngently that you did not think until afterwards that in another you would\nhold them gages of combat. I can hear him yet, as I sat and tried at the\nsame time to listen to him and to look at his flaming-hearted spirits\nwith luminous angel wings and flashing halos enveloped in an atmosphere\nin which \"the peacock twilight rays aloft its plumes and blooms of\nshadowy fire\"--I can hear him saying, \"You can't read Shakespeare, can\nyou?\" As I thought over this question later, I understood. Then I was\ntoo far rapt by the pictures to wonder at it greatly. Later came to mind\nEmerson's declaration that Homer, Milton, and Shakespeare \"do not fully\ncontent us,\" that the \"heavenly bread\" is to be found in Zoroaster,\nPlato, St. John, and Menu. Both Emerson and Mr. Russell fail to use art\nas the standard. To the mystic, to whom this world is not reality, what\nappeal may have its seeming truths and shows as compared to the certain\ntruth of the idealists and the beauties of the eternal life? The deep\nhuman knowledge, the great pageants of Shakespeare's kings and queens,\nare but \"glories of our blood and state ... shadows, not substantial\nthings.\"\n\nMr. Russell talked very simply of his pictures, of how their subjects\ncame to him, and of his enjoyment in thus recording them. He does not\nconsider himself a painter, but he thinks there was the making of a\npainter in him had he had instruction in his earlier years. This\nattitude towards his various powers, as well as the attitude towards him\nof ardent young countrymen of his, came out in a story he told us of a\nboy that he found waiting for him one night at a street corner near his\nhome. The boy timidly asked him was he not Mr. Russell, and then walked\nsilently by his side until the house was reached. They entered and the\nboy mustered up courage to say he had waited for him two hours at the\nhead of the street. \"A.E.\" had been waiting for the boy to say what\nbrought him, but he was obliged to encourage the boy before he would out\nwith it. Said \"A.E.,\" \"You came here to talk with me. You must be\ninterested in one of the three interests I have given much time to. Is\nit economics?\" \"No,\" replied the boy, indignantly. \"Is it mysticism?\"\ncontinued \"A.E.\" \"No,\" cried the boy, almost angry at such an interest\nbeing attributed to him. \"It must be literary art, then?\" \"Yes,\" said\nthe boy, with a sigh, his haven reached at last. \"A.E.\" soon found the\nboy an exquisite who thought the literary movement was becoming\nvulgarized through so many people becoming interested in it. Finally the\nboy turned questioner and found that \"A.E.\" was seeking the Absolute.\nHaving found this out, he again sighed, this time regretfully, and said\ndecidedly that \"A.E.\" could not be his Messiah, as he abhorred the\nAbsolute above everything else. He was infected with Pater's Relative,\nsaid Mr. Russell, \"which has fallen like a blight on all English\nliterature.\" So the boy--he was not yet twenty-one--went out into the\nnight with, I suppose, another of his idols fallen.\n\nAs this boy came to \"A.E.,\" so come scores of others, and most of those\nthat have real troubles go away comforted, to return for advice and\ncounsel and friendship, as their need is. This I knew before I met\n\"A.E.,\" and his kindness I felt and certain magnetism, but the qualities\nthat make him the leader of men, and hierophant to his personal\nfollowing, do not lie on the surface to be quickly distinguished by\nevery comer. Neither, we are told, did Emerson's, who was leader of men\nand hierophant. I thought often of \"A.E.'s\" pictures as I looked at the\npictures of Watts in the Tate Gallery in London, and I have thought more\noften of them since I have come to know haloed Rosicrucian drawings and\nstrange symbols in such books as our own Wissahickon mystics, Kelpius\nand his brethren, brought with them to \"The Woman in the Wilderness\"\nfrom Germany late in the seventeenth century. How notable the impression\nof Mr. Russell's paintings and visions upon two Irish writers the\nEnglish-speaking world reads to-day may be learned from their\nexploitation in Mr. Stephen Gwynn's \"The Old Knowledge\" (1901), whose\nOwen Conroy owes being to \"A.E.\" and his pictures, and from Mr. George\nMoore's \"Evelyn Innes\" (revised edition, 1901), whose Ulick Dean has his\nappearance and his power of seeing visions.\n\nAs the evening wore on, Mr. Russell picked up a manuscript collection of\npoems--that we were to have two years later as \"The Divine Vision\"--and\nread us several. Most distinctly of these I remember \"Reconciliation\"\nwhich he chanted most lovingly of all he read. It is a poem I do not\npretend to understand in detail, but I do feel its drift, and I can\nnever read out its stately music, or even read it silently, without\nhearing his sonorous chanting. Many of his poems are like this poem in\nthat you must content yourself with their general drift and not insist\non understanding their every phrase. I suppose to the initiate mystic\nthey are more definite, but I doubt whether some of them are more than\npresentations of emotions that need not be translated into terms of\nthought for their desired effect.\n\nTo Mr. Russell poetry is a high and holy thing; like his friend Mr.\nYeats he is at one with Spenser in believing it the fruit of a \"certain\nenthousiasmos and celestial inspiration\"; it is his religion that Mr.\nRussell is celebrating in his verses, many of which are in a sense hymns\nto the Universal Spirit, and all of which are informed by such sincerity\nthat you do not wonder that his followers make them their gospel. In his\nown words:--\n\n     The spirit in man is not a product of nature, but antecedes nature,\n     and is above it as sovereign, being of the very essence of that\n     spirit which breathed on the face of the waters, and whose song,\n     flowing from the silence as an incantation, summoned the stars into\n     being out of chaos. To regain that spiritual consciousness, with\n     its untrammelled ecstasy, is the hope of every mystic. That ecstasy\n     is the poetic passion.... The act which is inspired by the Holy\n     Breath must needs speak of things which have no sensuous existence,\n     of hopes all unearthly, and fires of which the colors of day are\n     only shadows.\n\nAbout a score of the less than tenscore poems of \"A.E.\" are definitely\ndeclarations of belief, but declarations so personal, so undogmatic,\nthat you would hardly write him down a didactic poet at first reading \"A\nNew Theme\" tells of his desertion of subjects \"that win the easy\npraise,\" of his venturing\n\n           \"in the untrodden woods\n  To carve the future ways.\"\n\nHere he acknowledges that the things he has to tell are \"shadowy,\" that\nhis breath in \"the magic horn\" can make but feeble murmurs. In the\nprologue to \"The Divine Vision\" he states the conditions of his\ninspiration:--\n\n  \"When twilight over the mountains fluttered\n  And night with its starry millions came,\n  I too had dreams: the songs I have uttered\n  Came from this heart that was touched by the flame\";--\n\nthat is, the flame of his being that, \"mad for the night and the deep\nunknown,\" leaps back to the \"unphenomenal\" world whence his spirit came\nand blends his spirit into one with the Universal Spirit. This same\nunion through the soul's flame \"A.E.\" presents in his pictures, and in\nhis prologue to \"The Divine Vision\" he writes that he wishes to give his\nreader\n\n  \"To see one elemental pain,\n  One light of everlasting joy.\"\n\nThis elemental pain, as I take it, is the pain of the soul shut up in\nits robe of clay in this physical, phenomenal world, and so shut off\nfrom the spiritual world, the world of the unphenomenal or unknowable.\nThe \"everlasting joy\" I take to be the certainty of eventual union with\nthe Universal Spirit in the unphenomenal world, a union and a joy\nanticipated in the occasional temporary absorptions of the soul into\nthe Universal Spirit in moments Emerson experienced as \"revelation\" and\nPlotinus as ecstasy.\n\n\"A.E.'s\" friend, Mr. Charles Johnston, records the two young Irishmen's\njoint attempts to attain ecstasy, when he writes of those days when \"we\nlay on our backs in the grass, and, looking up into the blue, tried to\nthink ourselves into that new world which we had suddenly discovered\nourselves to inhabit.\" Do not think this ecstasy too rare and wonderful\na thing. To Plotinus it meant an utter blotting-out of self, a rapture\nof peace, and to Mr. Russell it frequently means that he is entirely\n\"heart-hidden from the outer things,\" but I suspect it means sometimes\nmere lift of the heart through lungs full of fresh air, or through green\nfields for tired eyes, or through mountain air for worn nerves, or\nthrough skies thick-sown with stars for the vexed spirit.\n\nThe typical poem of \"A.E.\" is that in which the sight of beautiful\nthings of this phenomenal world in which we live lifts his soul to\nparticipation in the Universal Spirit. It is most often through some\nbeauty of the sky at sunset, when\n\n  \"Withers once more the old blue flower of day,\"\n\n\nas in \"The Great Breath\"; or at twilight, when\n\n  \"Dusk wraps the village in its dim caress,\"\n\nas in \"Dusk\"; or at night, when\n\n  \"The yellow constellations shine with pale and tender glory\n  In the lilac-scented stillness,\"\n\nas in \"The Singing Silences\"; or at sunrise, when there is\n\n  \"Fire on the altar of the hills,\"\n\n\nas in \"Dawn\";--it is most often through some beauty of the sky at such\ntimes that he becomes one with the Universal Spirit in \"the rapture of\nthe fire,\" that he is \"lost within the 'Mother's Being,'\" he would say\nthat the soul returns to the Oversoul, Emerson would There are ways by\nwhich the soul homes other than these--sometimes it is\n\n  \"By the hand of a child I am led to the throne of the King.\"\n\nbut it is most often by way of beauties of the sky. Some reasons are not\nfar to seek. From sunset to sunrise the poet is free as he may be from\nthe treadmill of the \"common daily ways,\" and the high moods he tries to\nexpress are most easily symbolized by skyey images--massed clouds and\nsweeping lights of diamond, sapphire, amethyst; the still blue black of\nheaven thrilling with far stars; the purples of twilight horizons. In\nhis use of these splendid symbols he is but following Proclus, whom he\nfound quoted by Emerson as saying that \"the mighty heaven exhibits, in\nits transfiguration, clear images of the splendor of intellectual\nperceptions, being moved in conjunction with the unapparent period of\nintellectual natures.\"\n\nHow important the symbol is to \"A.E.\"--as important as it is to\nEmerson--may be gathered from \"Symbolism,\" which, read in the light of\nwhat I have quoted, needs, I hope, no further interpretation.\n\n  \"Now when the giant in us wakes and broods,\n  Filled with home-yearnings, drowsily he flings\n  From his deep heart high dreams and mystic moods.\n  Mixed with the memory of the loved earth things:\n  Clothing the vast with a familiar face;\n  Reaching his right hand forth to greet the starry race.\n\n  Wondrously near and clear the great warm fires\n  Stare from the blue; so shows the cottage light\n  To the field laborer whose heart desires\n  The old folk by the nook, the welcome bright\n  From the housewife long parted from at dawn--\n  So the star villages in God's great depths withdrawn.\n\n  \"Nearer to Thee, not by delusion led,\n  Though there no house-fires burn nor bright eyes gaze:\n  We rise, but by the symbol charioted,\n  Through loved things rising up to Love's own ways:\n  By these the soul unto the vast has wings\n  And sets the seal celestial on all mortal things.\"\n\nIn this poem is the proof of how intimately \"A.E.\" could write of the\nsweet things of earth did he so choose. But he does not so choose,\nexcept rarely, and sometimes he leaves out the statement of beautiful\nmaterial things by which he customarily bids farewell to earth in his\naspiration to spiritual things, and writes only of unearthly things--as\nof some girl that he, an Irishman living in the Dublin of to-day, loves\nin the Babylon of three thousand years ago, to the annihilation of space\nand time. This is written in the very spirit of Emerson's declaration\nthat \"before the revelations of the soul, Time, Space, and Nature shrink\naway.\" Need I quote further to show that \"A.E.,\" like Emerson, holds\nthat the true poet is he who \"gives men glimpses of the law of the\nUniverse; shows them the circumstance as illusion; shows that Nature is\nonly a language to express the laws, which are grand and beautiful; and\nlets them, by his songs, into some of the realities\"? Emerson yearns\nthat \"the old forgotten splendors of the Universe should glow again for\nus,\" and \"A.E.\" believes that we at times attain \"the high ancestral\nSelf\"; his restless ploughman, \"walking through the woodland's purple\"\nunder \"the diamond night\"\n\n  \"Deep beneath his rustic habit finds himself a King\"\n\n\"A.E.'s\" poems on death are little different from those in which he\ncelebrates the soul's absorption into the Universal Spirit, since death\nmeans to him only a longer absorption into the Universal Spirit or\nsometimes such absorption forever. In the event of this last, he in some\nmoods sees\n\n  \"Life and joy forever vanish as a tale is told.\n  Lost within the 'Mother's Being,'\"\n\nor no sense of individuality in souls in heaven; in other moods he sees\nindividuality preserved after death among those \"High souls,\" that,--\n\n  \"Absolved from grief and sin,\n  Leaning from out ancestral spheres,\n  Beckon the wounded spirit in.\"\n\nSo sustained is the habitual altitude of Mr. Russell's thought, so\npreoccupied his mood with spiritual things, that the human reader must\nfeel lonely at times, must feel the regions of the poet's thought alien\nto him. At such times it is a positive relief to find the poet yearning\nfor the concrete sweet things of earth. It is perhaps only in\n\"Weariness\" that Mr. Russell's high mood does fail, but I rejoice when\nthat failure makes him acknowledge--\n\n  \"Fade the heaven-assailing moods:\n  Slave to petty tasks I pine\n  For the quiet of the woods,\n  And the sunlight seems divine.\n\n  \"And I yearn to lay my head\n  Where the grass is green and sweet;\n  Mother, all the dreams are fled\n  From the tired child at thy feet.\"\n\nIt is love, love of country, love of countryside, and love of woman that\nhe writes of when he does write of \"loved earth things.\" \"A Woman's\nVoice\" and \"Forgiveness\" are poems so simple that none may\nmisunderstand; they have the human call so rare in \"A.E.,\" but it is not\na strong human call. Of such love songs he has written but few--poems\nout of the peace and not out of the passion of love; of passion other\nthan spiritual ecstasy and rapt delight in nature there is none in his\nverse. Although he has been given \"a ruby-flaming heart,\" he has been\ngiven also \"a pure cold spirit.\" Only about a fourth of his poems have\nthe human note dominant, and even when it is so dominant, as when he\nwrites of his country, he is very seldom content to rest with a\ndescription of the beauty of place or legend; the beautiful place must\nbe threshold to the Other World, as \"The Gates of Dreamland,\" which he\nfinds at the end of \"the lonely road through bogland to the lake at\nCarrowmore,\" Carrowmore, the great cemetery of the great dead of\nprehistoric Ireland under Knocknarea near Sligo; or the legend must be\nsymbol of some mystic belief--\"Connla's well is a Celtic equivalent of\nthe First Fountain of mysticism.\"\n\nHe can draw starkly, when he will, a picture of bare Irish landscape:--\n\n  \"Still rests the heavy share on the dark soil:\n  Upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies:\n  The horse waits patient: from his lowly toil\n  The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.\n\n  \"The unbudding hedgerows dark against day's fires\n  Glitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rim\n  Over the unregarding city's spires\n  The lonely beauty shines alone for him.\"\n\nIn \"In Connemara\" and \"An Irish Face,\" poems with earthly titles, you\nexpect only things earthly, but in these too, he uses the picture of the\nconcrete only as the symbol of the universal. The reason Mr. Russell\nmust take you to the supernatural in these poems is because he sees\nspirits everywhere he goes in Ireland. \"Never a poet,\" he writes, \"has\nlain on our hillsides, but gentle, stately figures, with hearts shining\nlike the sun, move through his dreams, over radiant grasses, in an\nenchanted world of their own.\" Start \"The Memory of Earth\" and you think\nyou are to read one of the many fine poems of twilight in our\nliterature, but the fourth line undeceives you:--\n\n  \"In the wet dusk silver sweet,\n  Down the violet-scented ways,\n  As I moved with quiet feet\n  I was met by mighty days.\n\n  \"On the hedge the hanging dew\n  Glassed the eve and stars and skies;\n  While I gazed a madness grew\n  Into thundered battle-cries.\n\n  \"Where the hawthorn glimmered white,\n  Flashed the spear and fell the stroke--\n  Ah, what faces pale and bright\n  Where the dazzling battle broke!\n\n  \"There a hero-hearted queen\n  With young beauty lit the van.\n  Gone! the darkness flowed between\n  All the ancient wars of man.\n\n  \"While I paced the valley's gloom\n  Where the rabbits pattered near,\n  Shone a temple and a tomb\n  With the legend carven clear.\n\n  \"Time put by a myriad fates\n  That her day might dawn in glory;\n  Death made wide a million gates\n  So to close her tragic story.\"\n\nAnd so it is in \"A.E.'s\" score and more poems that are suggested by\nIrish places and Irish legends and Irish loves. Never an Irish exile but\nwill have a dear home place brought before him by such lines as\n\n  \"The Greyhound River windeth through a loneliness so deep\n  Scarce a wild fowl shakes the quiet that the purple boglands keep\";\n\nand a story of the home place brought before him by such lines as\n\n  \"Tarry thou yet, late lingerer in the twilight's glory;\n  Gay are the hills with song: earth's fairy children leave\n  More dim abodes to roam the primrose-hearted eve,\n  Opening their glimmering lips to breathe some wondrous story\";\n\nand a girl of the home place brought before him by such lines as\n\n  \"Dusk, a pearl-grey river, o'er\n  Hill and vale puts out the day--\n  What do you wonder at, asthore,\n  What's away in yonder grey?\"\n\nbut all these poems, of which these lines are the fine onsets, lead past\n\"the dim stars\" and \"unto the Light of Lights.\"\n\nA man that believes that his spirit is one with the Universal Spirit\ncannot but be an optimist if he believe that Spirit is the Spirit of\nGood, and that a Platonist must believe. Yet \"A.E.\" so longs to be rapt\ninto everlasting union with the Universal Spirit that he tires of the\nearth, where that union is interrupted by the necessities of daily life.\nThe fairies call to him and he would away--\n\n  \"'Come away,' the red lips whisper, 'all the world is weary now;\n  'Tis the twilight of the ages and it's time to quit the plough.\n  Oh, the very sunlight's weary ere it lightens up the dew,\n  And its gold is changed and faded before it falls to you.'\"\n\nBut it is not always twilight to him, and there are many blither moods.\nOver against these lines you may put,\n\n  \"I always dwell with morning in my heart,\"\n\nand\n\n  \"Oh, but life is sweet, is sweet.\"\n\nEarth is not an unhappy place, but he sighs sometimes for the happiness\nunalloyed of heaven.\n\nWhen we come to consider the technique of Mr. Russell's art, we find him\nanything but Emersonian. Mr. Russell has, in general, command of form,\nmelody, harmony, distinction. Who reads carefully will remember many\nfine lines; who reads only once will be as one lost in sun-filled fog\nlike that of \"A E.'s\" own Irish mountains, but he should be patient, he\nshould wait and look again and again, and finally he will see, even if\nearth be still dimmed with fogbanks, much of the heavens, free of fog,\nand radiant with cold white light.\n\n           \"Forest glooms\n  Rumorous of old romance\"\n\nand\n\n  \"But joy as an Arctic sun went down\"\n\nthe kind of lines rarest in his verse; more characteristic are,\n\n  \"Hearts like cloisters dim and grey,\"\n\n                  \"the great star swings\n  Along the sapphire zone,\"\n\n  \"The Angel childhood of the earth,\"\n\n  \"Glint the bubble planets tossing in the dead black sea of night,\"\n\n  \"The old enchantment lingers in the honey heart of earth.\"\n\nThere are comparatively few \"purple patches\" in Mr. Russell's poetry,\nfor the reasons that each poem depends for its chief appeal on one mood\nor thought or dream immanent in it, rather than on any fine phrasing.\nThe effort to catch the meaning of the verse--seldom apparent at first\nglance--prevents the noting of as many purple lines as there are. Nor\nwhen noted are such lines readily memorable, since they are apt to lack\nassociation with known and loved things to bring them home to the\nreader. And again the poems are very short,--intimations, suggestions\nrather than expressions,--and their intangible themes are often much\nalike, and poem becomes confused with poem in the memory.\n\nIt may be that to those to whom the Other World is very instant, as it\nis to many Irishmen, or to those that go about daily preparing for the\nworld beyond the grave, as did our Puritan ancestors of the seventeenth\ncentury, these poems of Mr. Russell's speak familiar language, as they\nof a certainty do to the mystic, but to the many modern art lovers who\nhold to Pater's \"New Cyrenaicism,\"--as Mr. Russell would say, \"those\nunder the blight of the Relative,\"--as well as to the man in the street\ntheir language is new and difficult to understand. But the poems have\nfound their audience--there is no doubt about that--and they are\nregarded as oracular by hundreds. This is the more curious in that there\nis so little personality in them, surprisingly little when one knows how\nstrong is the personality of the man that made them But this lack of\npersonality follows naturally on the mystic's creed--he must put into\nhis writings chiefly his relation with God,--for all other relations are\nas nothing to that,--and if he attain his desire he is rapt away from\nhimself and his fellows into oneness with God.\n\nQuality, a very definite quality, these verses of Mr. Russell's have,\nbut it is an almost unchanging sameness of quality; almost all his\nverses, as I have said, have the same theme. So there is a monotony\nabout them, and their reader is apt to cry out that mysticism is\ninimical to art. It may well be that this unswerving following of one\ntheme is of definite purpose; that Mr. Russell feels that he as Irishman\nand mystic has a mission, as indeed Mr. Charles Johnston owns. Speaking\nof Irishmen, in \"Ireland\" (1902), he says,--\n\n     We live in the invisible world. If I rightly understand our mission\n     and our destiny, it is this: To restore to other men the sense of\n     that invisible; that world of our immortality; as of old our race\n     went forth carrying the Galilean Evangel. We shall first learn and\n     then teach, that not with wealth can the soul of man be satisfied;\n     that our enduring interest is not here but there, in the unseen,\n     the hidden, the immortal, for whose purposes exist all the visible\n     beauties of the world. If this be our mission and our purpose,\n     well may our fair mysterious land deserve her name: Inis Fail, the\n     Isle of Destiny.\n\nVery like Emerson this, too, but very Irish. Let us not forget that\nBerkeley and Scotus Erigena were Irishmen.\n\nI do not wish to overemphasize the influence of Emerson on \"A.E.,\" and\nindeed it is no greater than Emerson's influence over M. Maeterlinck. I\nbelieve Emerson was as much guide as master, that he pointed \"A.E.\" the\nway to the mystics. I might dwell on the resemblance between thoughts\ncommon to the two much more than I have--there are even lines of the\nyounger man's that show the influence of lines of the elder. But that is\nnot my object. I wish to point out that Puritanism in Ireland has\nflowered up into the mystic poetry of \"A.E.,\" into poetry of that\nstrange quality, cold ecstasy, as Puritanism in America has flowered up\ninto the mystic poetry of Emerson, poetry of cold ecstasy. In England,\nso far as I know, Puritanism, that has given us so great a poet as\nMilton, has never so flowered. Crashaw was born of a Puritan father, but\nit was through the Old Faith his greatest inspiration came, and his\necstasy, as that of his latter-day disciple, Francis Thompson, is warm\necstasy, not cold like that of the two Puritan poets. Henry More,\nPlatonist and seer of visions, never attained ecstasy in his poetry. It\nmay be that it required transplantation of Englishmen into Ireland and\ninto America to bring about this phenomenon. Nor is it the only quality\nthese two earliest bodies of English colonists alike developed. But it\nis more than dangerous to dogmatize where so many races went to the\nmaking of a people as went to the making of Anglo-Irishmen and\nAmericans.\n\nHow different are the types of Anglo-Irish I could not but ponder as we\nleft \"A E.'s\" home and went out into the chill rain of that August\nnight. To the right hand, as we walked with \"A.E.'s\" disciples, they\npointed to Maud Gonne's house. \"Irish Joan of Arc\" they call her, leader\nof men whom men worship at first sight; most exciting of Ireland's mob\norators, all proclaim her, a very Pytho whose prophecies stir unrest and\ntumult! And here next door the Quietist, the man of dreams and visions,\nto whom all the war of the world is of as little moment as all other\nunrealities, since here in this world he has begun already the real, the\nspiritual life. Both are types that have been as long as Ireland has\nbeen; both Pytho and priest were among the high order of druid and\ndruidess of old time; agitator and reconciler, by Mr. Russell's belief,\nmight well be reincarnations of the wise women and wise men of\nprehistoric days. To the world Maud Gonne is more representative of\nIreland than Mr. Russell, but he is just as truly a symbol of Ireland as\nshe: to those who know Irish history the thought of her quiet\nmonasteries of the seventh century, whence she sent out teachers to all\nof Europe, is as recurrent as her political agitation of the nineteenth,\nand to those who know her countryside the memories of soft sunny rains\nand moonlit evenings are as lingering as those of black angry days and\nwild blind nights. Her very colors, her grays and greens and purples,\nproclaim her peace. It is of this peace and of the greater peace of that\nunphenomenal or spiritual world, that lies nearer to Ireland than to\nany Western land, that Mr. Russell is interpreter.\n\nYou may think of Mr. Russell as you will, as organizer of the Irish\nAgricultural Organization Society, as stimulator of the Irish Literary\nRevival, as economist, playwright, poet, painter, preacher, but always\nas you put by his books you will think of him as mystic, as stargazer,\nwandering, as he so often tells us in his poems, on the mountains by\nnight, with his eyes keener with wonder at the skies than ever\nshepherd's under the Star of Bethlehem; you will see him, the human\natom, on the bare Dublin mountains, thrilling as he watches the sweep of\nworld beyond world; and yet, atom that he is, the possessor of it\nall;--you will think of him as stargazer whose \"spirit rolls into the\nvast of God.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nLADY GREGORY\n\n\nWhen one stops to think how much of the blood of the Gael, Irish and\nScotch, there is in us in America, one realizes that we owe a debt of\ngratitude to Lady Gregory second only to that owed her by \"The Men of\nIreland and Alban\" themselves. For it is Lady Gregory, in her \"Cuchulain\nof Muirthemne\" (1902) and in her \"Gods and Fighting Men\" (1904) and in\nher \"Book of Saints and Wonders\" (1908), who has done more than any\nother writer of the Gaelic countries to bring home to us the wonders of\nGaelic romance. That they should have to be brought home to us is a\nshame to us. With so much of Irish and Scotch blood in us the names of\nthe heroes of the Red Branch and Fenian Cycles should not be so foreign\nin aspect and sound as they undoubtedly are, and their deeds should be\nas familiar as those of Robin Hood. A hundred years ago our grandfathers\nhad, indeed, \"Ossian\" on their shelves, as we had in boyhood Dean\nChurch's stories of Greece and Rome, or, in some cases, the stories of\nhis doings in their memories, learned from their parents were they\nold-country born, or of their nurses were it their privilege, as it was\nthat of many more Americans of the second half of the nineteenth\ncentury, to have as foster mothers \"kindly Irish of the Irish.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTo her own countrymen the work of Lady Gregory, valuable as it is, is\nnot the revelation it is to us. Those of them that have not been brought\nup on the stories that she translates could read at least many of them\nin the \"Old Celtic Romances\" (1879) of Dr. P.W. Joyce, or in the\nversions of the Cuchulain and the Finn legends by Mr. Standish James\nO'Grady (1878 and 1880), books that somehow or other never came to be\nwidely read in America. Mr. Yeats admits it was Mr. O'Grady that\n\"started us all,\" that is, the writers who began the Renaissance in the\nlate eighties. It may be, of course, that the added beauty and dignity\nthe stories take on in the versions of Lady Gregory will inspire to\nnobler writing poets and dramatists and novelists that already owe much\nto Mr. O'Grady or Dr. Joyce or to the scholars they were sent back to by\nthese popularizers. It is certain that the writers of the younger group,\nthe group of those that are only now nearing distinction, owe much to\nLady Gregory. After all is said, however, her work is to be judged not\nfor its value to others, but as in itself an art product, of a class\nkindred to \"The Wanderings of Oisin\" of Mr. Yeats, although differing in\nform. I am not forgetting, of course, that she is following faithfully,\nor rather as faithfully as an artist may follow, the old legends. She\nhas, she owns, clarified them, condensed them, left out contradictory\nepisodes, woven now and then a Scotch version of an incident into a\ncycle arranged in one complete whole from many Irish versions. When Lady\nGregory has owned this she has owned that she has added something more\nof her own than a \"connecting sentence.\" Although she has labored\ncarefully to keep herself out of the stories, and although, if you have\nread only her versions of them, you may feel that she has succeeded in\nkeeping herself out of them, you will recognize, if you turn to her\noriginals in O'Curry or in Whitley Stokes or in Standish Hayes O'Grady,\nthat she has added that all-important thing, a personality. Some\nscholars object to this as \"too literary.\" And some literary men would\nrather have the old stories, they say, \"just as they are\" There is the\ncrux. How can we get them, even in an exact translation, \"just as they\nare\"? We cannot. This is not the place to discuss this most vexed\nquestion of translation, but I must go into it so far as to point again\nto the fact that we are more likely to have made upon us, by an\ninterpretative translation, an effect more nearly like that made upon\nthe listener contemporary to the time of the making of the story than if\nthe translation were literal. We are always forgetting the so obvious\nfact that the kind of metaphor or descriptive epithet of this sort or\nthat, which would make a certain effect on the listener of the tenth\ncentury, will make a very different effect on the reader of to-day. As\nLady Gregory points out, the description of the contortion of Cuchulain\nin his fight with Ferdiad seems very unheroic to us, and is therefore\nbest left out of the translation, or, if retained, conveyed in terms\nthat will make an effect on us similar to the effect the detailed\ndescription had on the audience of the old bards. Here again, however,\nis trouble. How can we get that effect? We cannot surely, but an\nimaginative translation by one who is scholar and _litterateur_ both\nwill take us nearest to it. We want, as a matter of fact, both kinds of\ntranslations, the interpretative and artistic translation of Lady\nGregory and the literal translation of Mr. Standish Hayes O'Grady. The\none is needed to check the other. We would have a gauge by which to\nmeasure how much such such a translator as Lady Gregory has taken from\nand added to the old story. We would know how great is the freedom in\nwhich we willingly acquiesce, remembering that the translations which we\ntreasure as great in literature are in greater or less measure \"free.\"\nSo checking Lady Gregory's translations we find that they represent a\nfair measure of freedom, as so checking the verses of FitzGerald's \"Omar\nKhayyam\" we find in them the utmost measure of freedom, a freedom indeed\nthat, in certain verses, is virtually a re-creation.\n\nMany, both scholars and literary men, object to the kind of English into\nwhich Lady Gregory translates the stories of Ireland's heroic age, her\n\"Kiltartan English,\" the English of the people of her home country on\nthe borders of Clare and Galway, the English made by a people who think\nin Irish. This familiar language, they say, has lessened the dignity of\nthe old tales, bringing them all to one level by a diction and style\nthat is one, whether they are romance or folk-tale. This objection can\nbe taken, however, only to the Cuchulain stories, which were court\nromance, and not to the Finn stories, which come out of the thatched\nhouses. This \"Kiltartan English\" seems to me in its more familiar\nmoments, less imposing than that in which I first heard stories of Finn\nMcCool told by our old gardener, Lawrence Kelly of County Wexford, but\nit may be I remember less clearly the homeliness of his \"discourse\"\nthan its \"grand speaking.\" It is, however, as peasant English, a fitting\nmedium for the telling of the stories of Brigit and St. Patrick in her\n\"Book of Saints and Wonders,\" for Brigit and Patrick are still household\nwords among all the children of the Gael. But by its very difference\nfrom the English of all other artists in words save of a few of her own\ncountry and generation, and from such conversational English as I know\nwell, this \"Kiltartan English\" brings me a foreign quality. I feel that\nthe art of these tale-tellers is an art of another race than the\nEnglish, just as I feel that the art of the teller of Beowulf is an art\nof another race than the English. The literature in our ancestral\ntongue is not to me English until it sloughs off the Germanic\nsentence-structure of Anglo-Saxon. Here lies, I think, the greatest\ndifficulty in translating Old English literature. And it will not be\nsuccessfully translated, I think, without the use of the syntax of some\ndialect that preserves an archaic sentence-structure.\n\nTo me, then, it seems singularly fortunate for Lady Gregory to have her\n\"Kiltartan English\" to fall back upon to give that foreign flavor that\nwe intuitively feel the need of in a translation. There may be a slight\nloss of dignity through its use, but there is a great gain in folk\natmosphere.\n\nIn quoting to show the style of Lady Gregory I should quote description\nrather than narrative, as the description seems to me better as well as\nbriefer. The three famous tales of Old Irish literature, \"The Three\nSorrows of Story-Telling,\" are \"The Fate of the Children of Usnach,\"\ncomparable, in the great wars it led to, to the rape of Helen; \"The Fate\nof the Children of Lir,\" a story that has as its base the folk-tale that\nunderlies \"Lohengrin,\" but which takes us back farther into the past in\nits kinship to \"Medea\"; and \"The Sons of Tuireann,\" which has been\ncalled the Irish Odyssey. Of these the first is incomparably the finest\nstory, and Lady Gregory has told it nobly in \"Cuchulain of Muirthemne,\"\nbut it alone of all the stories in her three books of translations has\nenough of humanity in it to put it side by side with the story of Sigurd\nand Brunhilde or the story of Paris and Helen. When one remembers that\nGreek and Scandinavian literature may boast five stories each, at least,\nbut little short of these their greatest stories, and that Irish\nliterature has but \"Diarmuid and Grania\" to boast as in any way\ncomparable to the story of Deirdre, it must be admitted that early Irish\nliterature representing Ireland's heroic age is not so beautiful as the\nliterature that represents the heroic ages of Scandinavia and Greece.\n\"The Fate of the Children of Usnach\" is rich in beautiful detail of\nincident and of description of nature; it preserves for us much of the\ninner life of old time; and it has dignity of proportion. It has not the\nfundamental weakness, as great art, of most of these old Irish stories,\ntheir characters' lack of interest because of their lack of body, their\nlack of personality, their running to type rather than moulding into\nindividuals; yet the feats performed by Cuchulain are so wholly\nsuperhuman, most of them, that they often put their doer beyond our\nsympathy, and at their worst make him absurd.\n\nIf these stories were simply extravagant folk-fancy, such as the Jack\nthe Giant Killer story, to delight children, we should not quarrel with\nthis quality in them, but there is so much in them of dignity that we\nmust take them seriously, as we take Homer. When their heroes are\ndefinitely gods we can accept almost any of their deeds, so we can\ndelight in the earlier stories of \"Gods and Fighting Men,\" the stories\nof the Tuatha de Danaan, Lugh and Angus, Midhir and Etain, Bran and\nConnla, as we cannot in those of Finn and Goll and Cuchulain and\nConchubar, who, because of their historical setting and more definite\ncharacterization, have more of the appeal of humanity. We know\nCuchulain, in Lady Gregory's pages, as a small dark man, constant in\nlove in comparison with his fellows, faithful to his friends, loyal to\nhis king; and we know Finn as a fair old man of ruddy countenance, a\nlover of women, somewhat pompous and somewhat quarrelsome; but neither\nhero is a clear-cut personality like Sigurd or Ajax. If either Cuchulain\nor Finn were surely a god we should accept his deeds as now we cannot\naccept them, and were either brought home to us as wholly human and\ndivested of his supernatural powers, and given a personality, we should\nbe far more moved by his fortunes.\n\nIt is in enchantments, visits to worlds oversea and under wave, and in\npraises of the beauties of this world, its woods, its waters, its real\nwonders, and in the celebration of sorrow and delight that \"Gods and\nFighting Men\" is at its best, not in the celebration of happy loves, or\nof wild loves, or of great victories. So it is that Gabhra, where the\nFianna were broken, is finer than \"The Battle of the White Strand,\"\nwhere they won against great odds.\n\nFiner, however, than any narrative power possessed by the old Irish\nbards is their power in the lyrical passages so freely interspersed\nthroughout the stories, and in the lyrics that come into them on the\nlips of the poets and warriors and on the lips of the women who have\nlost their lovers in fight. The farewell of Deirdre to Alban and her\nlament over Naoise, the song of the woman from oversea to Bran, the poem\nFinn made to prove his power of poetry, the sleepy song of Grania over\nDiarmuid, the lament of Neargach's wife, the song of Tir-nan-Og that\nNiave made to Oisin, and Oisin's own praise of the good times of the\nFianna--these are the passages in which the old tales reach their\nhighest poetry. Once read, these remain in memory, but certain episodes\nand certain sayings remain also. Mr. Yeats has picked out one of the\nsayings in his introduction to \"Gods and Fighting Men\" that will do for\nsample. It is the answer of Osgar dying, to the man who asks him how he\nis: \"I am as you would have me be.\" Starker even, perhaps, is the\nabsolute simplicity of the description of that last fight in \"The Battle\nof the White Strand,\" in which Cael and Finnachta go, locked in each\nother's arms, to their death under the waves without a word.\n\nWild nature is always about these warriors. The storm in the trees, the\nsorrow of the sea, the clatter of wild geese and the singing of swans\nfind echo in the poems that praise them. We see, too, at times, fields\nheavy with harvest, and often the apple trees in bloom and the cuckoo\ncalling among them,--indeed, the sweet scent of apple gardens, like the\nkeenness of the winds of spring, beautiful as are the phrases that\npresent them, become almost stock phrases. Always, too, there are\nwonders of the other world about the heroes; women from undersea and\nunderground come into their halls as naturally as the members of their\nown clans, and the twilight mists unfolding from familiar hills will\nreveal their marvelous duns, whitewalled with silver or marble, and\nthatched with the wings of white birds.\n\nThere has been frequent quarreling in certain quarters with Mr. Russell\nand Mr. Johnston and Mr. Yeats for introducing mysticism and a definite\nsymbolism and the ways of Eastern thought into their versions of Irish\nmythic tales and their records of Irish mood. There will be found some\njustification for such practices in Lady Gregory's translations.\nManannan, the sea-god, is here presented doing tricks like those of the\nEast Indian fakirs; Finn is reincarnated in later great leaders of the\nGael; and in \"The Hospitality of Cuanna's House\" there is out-and-out\nallegory, to say nothing of a possible symbolistic interpretation of\nepisodes in almost every other story. Even the willful obscurity of the\nmodern poetry can be paralleled by the riddling of Cuchulain and Emer.\n\nIt is, perhaps, because Lady Gregory has found the old stories not only\nin the dignity of their bardic presentation, but also in the happy\nfamiliarity of their telling by the people of the thatched houses in her\nown district, that she has been able to bring them so near to us. From\nthese same people, too, she has got some of her stories of St. Bride\nand Columba and poems and stories of recent and contemporary\ninspiration, poems and stories that have to do with humble life as well\nas with the highly colored heroic life that those who live bare lives\nthemselves are so fond of imagining. In her \"Poets and Dreamers\" (1903)\nare records of this collecting and of her study of local ways about\nCoole and on the Connemara coast and in the Aran Isles. One of the most\ninteresting of her chapters is that on the poet Raftery, whose poems Dr.\nHyde has published. Blind and bitter, Raftery wandered about Connacht\nuntil about 1840, when death took him, an old man, but still vigorous in\nmind and spirit. Another chapter of \"Poets and Dreamers\" is \"On the Edge\nof the World.\" Each reading of this is to me like a return to West\nIreland, the very quality of whose life it gives. It should be the first\nchapter of the book turned to by the reader, for it gives one the note\non which to read all. As Lady Gregory drives by the sea, people about\nher on the roadside and in the cabins are singing in Irish. The little\nexperiences of the day are, for them, experiences to brood over; and for\nher, too. And this thought is the last of her brooding: \"The rising\nagain of Ireland, of her old speech, of her last leader [Parnell],\ndreams all, as we are told. But here on the edge of the world, dreams\nare real things, and every heart is watching for the opening of one or\nanother grave.\"\n\nThere is creative writing in these essays of Lady Gregory's, for all\nthat she is playing middleman between her people and the reading public\nof the English-speaking world in many of them; and, as I would emphasize\nagain, in her three books of translations. But, after all translation\nwill not content, and the essay that is not self-revelation will not\ncontent, the writer who would have his writing a \"reading of life.\" So\nit is not surprising that Lady Gregory turned toward drama. And yet I do\nnot ever feel, after many readings of her plays, that Lady Gregory took\nto drama because of any overmastering impulse toward this most difficult\nof all literary forms. She has learned to handle some orders of drama\npleasantly, the farce more than pleasantly, and, very recently, the\nfolk-tragedy nobly; but had it not been that plays of other than\nromantic tone were needed for the Abbey Theatre as a foil to those of\nMr. Yeats and of Synge, I doubt whether it is drama that Lady Gregory\nwould have chosen as the medium through which to express her reading of\nlife. I can just as well imagine her shrewd kindliness of judgment upon\nthe foibles and virtues of her countrymen in stories whose form is very\nlike that employed by Miss Barlow in her \"Irish Idylls\" (1892) as in\nthese so original little plays that she has wrought out without\nprecedent, under the tutelage of Mr. Yeats.\n\nIt is more than likely, as I say, that had it not been that drama was\nneeded for the Abbey Theatre she would not have attempted drama. But\nmore than likely it is, too, that had she written plays not made to\norder they had reached wider through Irish society and plumbed deeper\ninto Irish life. Lady Gregory knows Irish life, from bottom to top, as\nfew Irishwomen and few Irishmen of her day know it; she has large heart,\nwide tolerance, and abounding charity; and yet she was long content to\nlimit her plays of modern Ireland to farce, at times of a serious enough\npurpose, but because it is farce, not of the first seriousness. It may\nbe, of course, that Lady Gregory knows best of any one her own powers,\nand it is true that in the plays she has written she is at her best when\nthey are at their merriest. I cannot, however, but feel that this is a\nsuccess of intention rather than a success of instinct. She would have\nthem the most successful in a quality as far removed as might be from\nthat quality of troubled dreaminess which is the best of the dramas of\nMr. Yeats. Synge, it must be remembered, did not begin as a writer of\ncomedy, and there is little of that ripe irony that has no precedent in\nEnglish literature in that first play that he wrote for the Abbey\nTheatre, \"Riders to the Sea\" (1903). Is it a coincidence that later, as\nhe found his bent for that sort of writing that culminated in \"The\nPlayboy,\" Lady Gregory turned at times to historical drama and a farce\nthat grew as serious as comedy? There is, of course, in all her plays\nserious indictment of national weaknesses, sometimes obvious indictment,\nas in \"The Deliverer\" (1911), which records, in terms of folk-biblical\nallegory, his countrymen's desertion of Parnell; sometimes indictment\nnot so obvious, as in \"The Canavans\" (1906), which rebukes that\nshoneenism in high places which has for generations been one of the\ncurses of Ireland. To him who knows only a little of Irish life it is\neasy to see the meaning but superficially concealed by the farcical\nbustle, the laughter, and the lamentations. But to him who looks but on\nthe surface there is merriness enough and wittiness enough and wisdom\nenough to make his loss of the deeper meaning, for him, but a little\nloss.\n\nThere are enough characters presented, too, peasants generally and\ntownsfolk of the lower class, to make the farces a \"reading of life.\"\nWhat is wanting to him who looks for more than what farce may do is the\nlargeness of utterance that will make a \"reading of life\" memorable.\nTake \"the image\" (1910), for instance, in which Lady Gregory is\nattempting more than in \"Spreading the News\" (1904) or \"Hyacinth Halvey\"\n(1906). This play, the longest that Lady Gregory has written, is what\nthe stage would call the character farce. She owns it a presentation of\ndreams of old men and old women which crumble at the touch of reality,\nbut it is not only this, but a symbolizing of the proneness of all\nIreland to accept as certainties on the eve of realization what are\nreally only signs that point to possibilities in a far to-morrow. In the\nplay four old men of a little village on the west coast are debating\nwhat they will do with their share of a windfall that has come to the\nvillage in the shape of two whales that have drifted up on the beach.\nWhen the priest determines that all the proceeds from the sale of the\noil from the whales be spent on something that will benefit the whole\ncommunity they plan a statue (one of them is a stone-cutter) to some\ngreat celebrity. The motives that lead them to choose Hugh O'Lorrha are\ntelling satire not only of Irishmen, but of all men. It would hardly be,\nhowever, in any other country than Ireland that the name of the one come\nat by way of accident would, unidentified for some time by any, be\nfinally revealed as that of the hero of a folk-tale. Four days after the\nwhales had come ashore, days wasted in planning what the village will do\nwith the prize money, and unutilized in securing the blubber and\nrendering out the oil, the quartette learned that \"the Connemara lads\nhave the oil drawn from the one of them, and the other one was swept\naway with the spring tide.\"\n\nThough \"The Image\" be farce, its characters are the characters of\ncomedy, and its purpose whole-heartedly serious. And even \"Spreading the\nNews\" has its lesson, of rumor's wild riot in Irish crowds. On the\nslightest grounds the reciting of an errand of helpfulness is turned by\nquick imagination into a story of a murder. Lightly sketched as are the\npeople here, from a caricature of a magistrate to the more serious\npresentment of Mrs. Fallon's \"nice quiet little man,\" they are very true\nto Ireland. Slighter even are the butcher and the postmistress and the\nmodel sub-sanitary inspector in \"Hyacinth Halvey,\" though all are fully\nunderstood and fully blocked out in their author's mind, if impossible\nof complete realization within limits so narrow; but the farce itself is\nnot lifted into dignity by any noble underlying attitude. \"The Jack Daw\"\n(1907) has rumor again as its motive, as had \"Spreading the News,\" but\nit is not the motive of the play or any of its incidents that is the\nbest thing about it, but the character of Michael Cooney, of the\n\"seventh generation of Cooneys who trusted nobody living or dead.\" He\nis, of course, caricatured, but he has possibilities of personality, and\nhe could have been worked into the fullness of a universal character had\n\"The Jack Daw\" been comedy, we will say, instead of farce. Of all her\ncharacters, that of Hyacinth Halvey is most nearly rounded out, but\nthen Lady Gregory has taken two little plays in which to present his\nportrait, \"The Full Moon\" (1911) recording some of his later experiences\nin Cloon and his final departure from the town, his introduction to\nwhich was recorded in the play bearing his name.\n\n\"The Workhouse Ward\" (1908), reaching from wild farce to sentimental\ncomedy, is hardly more than a dialogue, but it is given body by the\ntruth to Irish life out of which it is written, that quarreling is\nbetter than loneliness. Lady Gregory has disowned \"Twenty-five\" (1902),\nwhich is frankly melodrama, her only other experiment in which, in her\nplays of modern Ireland, is \"The Rising of the Moon\" (1903). This play\nrelates the allowed escape from a police officer of a political prisoner\nthrough that prisoner's persuading the officer that \"patriotism\" is\nabove his sworn duty to England.\n\nOf the plays that may be called historical, \"The Canavans\" (1906) is the\nbest, because it is of the peasantry, I suppose, who change so little\nwith the years, and whom Lady Gregory presents so amusingly and so truly\nin her modern farce comedy. \"Kincora\" (1903) takes us all the way back\nto the eleventh century, deriving its name from Brian's Seat on the\nShannon and ending with his death at Clontarf. It is undistinguished\nmelodrama. \"The White Cockade\" (1905) is better only in so far as it\ninvolves farce, farce in the kitchen of an inn on the Wexford coast just\nafter the Battle of the Boyne. \"Devorgilla\" (1908) is of a time between\nthe times of the two other historical plays, of the time a generation\nlater than the coming of the Normans to Ireland. It is pitched to a\nhigher key than any other of her historic plays, and it is held better\nto its key, but its tragedy is far less impressive than the tragedy of\n\"The Gaol Gate\" (1906) which pictures the effects upon his wife and his\nmother of the imprisonment of an Irish lad of to-day, and their learning\nthat \"Denis Cahel died for his neighbor.\" This little play is out of the\nlife that Lady Gregory knows and can deal with; it is finely conceived\nand finely executed, lingering in the mind as does the keen heard rising\nfrom some bare graveyard fronting the Atlantic.\n\nJust why Lady Gregory, who has rendered in prose so well old legends,\nshould render old Irish historic life so much less well I cannot\nexplain. Sometimes I think it is because she has found less of that\nhistory than of that legend among the people. Yet in \"A Travelling Man\"\n(1907), her little miracle, somewhat in the manner of Dr. Hyde's, that\nbrings Christ into a modern peasant home, she has made a play of a\ntender and reconciling beauty. With the success of \"A Travelling Man\"\nand \"The Gaol Gate\" before me I cannot say it is because her genius is\nfor farce; and to say that it is because her genius is for the plays of\nmodern peasant life does not help to account for the fact.\n\nThe idiom of all these plays is racy of the soil, and when it need be,\neloquent with the eloquence that is almost always in the English of the\nIrish. It is full of wise saws and proverbs, quips and quirks of\nexpression, the picturesquenesses and homelinesses of speech that are\ncharacteristic of a peasant to whom talk is the half of life. These\nrange from sayings like those of the clowns of Elizabethan drama, such\nas \"He had great wisdom I tell you, being silly-like, and blind,\" and\nsuch country wisdom as \"What would the cat's son do but kill mice,\" up\nthrough the elaborate maledictions of the two old paupers in \"The\nWorkhouse Ward\" and such delightful asperities as that of Maelmora anent\nhis bitter sister Gormleith, \"You were surely born on a Friday, and the\nbriars breaking through the green sod,\" to aphorisms that have an accent\nof eternity, as, \"It is the poor know all the troubles of the world,\"\nand \"The swift, unflinching, terrible judgment of the young.\"\n\nThe characters, even when they are purposely almost caricatures, have in\nthem the possibility of complete portrayals. There is no flagging of the\ninvention in any of them, no slipshod or careless composition. Her\ntechnique, too, at least in farce, is masterful, and in her plays of\nmodern life of other form adequate. That she could master historical\ndrama, as I have said, I must doubt, but that she need restrict herself\nso largely to farce and farce comedy in her plays of modern life, I do\nnot for a moment believe. \"The Gaol Gate,\" in fact, proved that she need\nnot so restrict herself, and \"MacDaragh's Wife\" (1911), written by Lady\nGregory at sea on her way to America, but perhaps for that all the\nfuller of the wild old life of her native Connacht. It would almost seem\nthat with \"Grania\" (1912), a tragedy too, following \"MacDaragh's Wife,\"\nLady Gregory is widening the scope of her work, as she well can, now\nthat there are other dramatists to provide comedies and farces for the\nAbbey Theatre. It is a haunting story that \"MacDaragh's Wife\" tells,\nand largely a true story, the story of a piper who, though a pauper,\ndraws all the countryside to the funeral of his wife, draws them,\nthrough the wild lamenting of his pipes, from the fair where they are\nsporting to follow, with a full fellowship, to the grave, her who died\nall but alone. Lady Gregory tells us in a note just what of it she\ngathered from old people about her girlhood's home at Roxborough, and\nwhat about her home of to-day at Coole, how she has shaped it, and what\nemotion is back of it, the \"lasting pride of the artist of all ages.\"\n\nAs Lady Gregory had restricted herself, until recently, in the forms of\nmodern life which she wrote of and in the kinds of people she selected\nto write of, so, too, she had restricted herself, until recently, in the\nmotives she considered. It is true that the motive most recurrent in her\nplays, that of fear of the opinion of the neighbor, an attitude probably\nsprung of the clan system, is dominant in Irish life; and it is equally\ntrue that the motive most notably absent, love, was until yesterday far\nfrom a dominant motive in the Irish life that Lady Gregory presents: yet\nthere are many other motives that, in true comedy, and even in farcical\ncomedy, might well have place. That these motives are not there is, I\nthink, not only that Lady Gregory, self-effacingly, put into her plays\nwhat was wanted to make them foils to the plays of Mr. Yeats and Synge,\nbut also because of the practice of one type of gentlewoman in\nliterature, of which Jane Austen is characteristic. And yet the mere\nmention of Jane Austen increases the wonderment that Lady Gregory has\nnot written of people of every condition in her neighborhood, whether\nthat be London or Dublin or Gort, as Miss Austen did of people of every\ncondition in her neighborhood, whether that be Steventon or Bath or\nChawton. It can hardly be said, even, that \"Grania\" her last play, is a\nplay about love. In her note to the play, Lady Gregory declares, \"Love\nitself, with its shadow Jealousy, is the true protagonist!\" And yet, I\nthink it is Jealousy only that is the true protagonist. There is much\ntalk about love, but it is not from love, but from jealousy that the\naction of the play arises. Among all this talk about love, among many\neloquent sayings about love, true readings of love, there stands out\nmost clearly in my memory this part of a speech of Finn, a speech\nuttered before Grania had turned from him to Diarmuid--\n\n     And as for youngsters, they do not know how to love because there\n     is always some to-morrow's love possible in the shadow of the love\n     of to-day. It is only the old it goes through and through entirely\n     because they know all the last honey of the summer-time has come to\n     its ferment in their cup, and there is no new summer coming to meet\n     them forever.\n\nThis I remember not only for its thought but for its style, the rhythm\nof its prose. It is Lady Gregory at her best, as \"Grania\" as a whole is\nLady Gregory at her best in tragedy. If \"Grania\" in every detail were as\ninspired as its explanation of the queen's quick turn from Diarmuid to\nFinn, it would be a great play, indeed. Grania is no light woman, and\nyet she turns, in the old legend, from the man who sacrificed all but\nall for her, on his death, to the High King who brought about his\ndeath, with a suddenness inexplicable. Lady Gregory makes that sudden\nturn plausible, for two reasons. One is that for seven years of\nwandering all over Ireland, Diarmuid by his own will and because of\nloyalty to Finn, had kept Grania a maid, making her his wife only after\nhe found her being carried off by the King of Foreign. The other reason\nis that as Diarmuid lies dying, wounded to death by that King of Foreign\nwhom he has killed, his thoughts are all of his long-delayed disloyalty\nto Finn, and not at all of Grania. Thus, she justifies herself, speaking\nto Finn:--\n\n     _Grania_. He had no love for me at any time. It is easy to know it\n     now. I knew it all the while, but I would not give in to believe\n     it. His desire was all the time with you yourself and Almhuin. He\n     let on to be taken up with me, and it was but letting on. Why would\n     I fret after him that so soon forgot his wife, and left her in a\n     wretched way?\n\n     _Finn_. You are not judging him right. You are distracted with the\n     weight of your loss.\n\n     _Grania_. Does any man at all speak lies at the very brink of\n     death, or hold any secret in his heart? It was at that time he had\n     done with deceit, and he showed where his thought was, and had no\n     word at all for me that had left the whole world for his sake, and\n     that went wearing out my youth, pushing here and there as far as\n     the course of the stars of Heaven. And my thousand curses upon\n     death not to have taken him at daybreak, and I believing his words!\n     It is then I would have waked him well and would have cried my\n     seven generations after him! And I have lost all on this side of\n     the world, losing that trust and faith I had, and finding him to\n     think of me no more than of a flock of stars would cast their\n     shadow on his path. And I to die with this scald upon my heart; it\n     is hard thistles would spring up out of my grave.\n\nI have spoken of Lady Gregory as translator, as collector of folk-lore,\nas essayist, and as dramatist; but there is another role in which she\nhas brought no less advantage to the Celtic Renaissance, though it is a\nrole that has not brought her, as have these other, the joys of\nrecapturing or of creating beautiful things. Always objective, though\nnever wholly able to subordinate personality, however near she may have\ncome to effacing it in her plays, Lady Gregory has in this role\nconsidered herself solely as an agent in the service of Irish letters.\nThe Irishman is naturally a pamphleteer, and Mr. Yeats, poet of the\nOther World though he be, can give as good blows in controversy as Mr.\nGeorge Moore. Almost all who have part in the Renaissance have skill in\nthe art of publicity. They have needed no publicists to fight their\nbattles as the Pre-Raphaelites needed Ruskin. Still, in some measure in\nthe way of publicity, and in large measure in other ways, Lady Gregory\nhas been to the Celtic Renaissance what Ruskin was to that last\nrenaissance of wonder. She has edited pamphlets on things national and\nartistic in Ireland, she has helped Dr. Hyde and Mr. Yeats in their\ncollecting of folk-lore and to a deeper knowledge of the people; she has\nbeen one of the forces that have made possible the Abbey Theatre, giving\nto it her power of organization as well as plays and patronage. More\nthan this, she has welcomed to Coole Park many a worker in the movement,\nwho in the comfort of a holiday there has been refreshed by the gray and\ngreen land so near the sea and reinspired by the contact with that Irish\nIreland so close to her doors. Like Ruskin, Lady Gregory is a great\npatron of letters, but like Ruskin she is much more. Lady Gregory is an\nartist in words who is to be valued as a presenter of Irish life, past\nand present, with a beauty that was not in English literature before she\nmade it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nJOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE\n\n\nIt is Synge himself who puts the just phrase on what his life was to\nhim, and it is, as it could not else be, from the lips of his Deirdre\nthat it falls. \"It should be a sweet thing to have what is best and\nrichest, if it's for a short space only.\" It is Deirdre alone of his men\nand women that is introspective at all, Deirdre--and Naisi when he is\nmastered by thoughts of home that will not down. Synge wrote the play of\nher triumph over death as he himself was dying, and he wrote it with\nhigh heart, and, what is higher, gladness, despite his foreknowledge of\nhis doom. It was to fulfill his dream of the most queenly girl of old\nIrish legend that he wrote \"Deirdre of the Sorrows,\" but he could not\nkeep out of his writing, had he wished to keep it out, his own love that\ndeath was so soon to end, and the thoughts of what was the worth of\nlife. \"It should be a sweet thing to have what is best and richest, if\nit's for a short space only.\" It is not a new saying, but it is not to\nbe identified with the proverbial \"a short life and a merry,\" with which\nsome confuse it, and of Synge it was a true saying. There are those who,\nbecause of the irony of his writing, an irony that is new to literature,\nand, maybe, to some cruel, or at least disillusionizing, may think there\nwas little joy for him; but the truth is there was never a writer in\nwhom there was more joy. This \"strange still man\" as he was even to\nthose who knew him best, gentle or simple, found all life that was\nnatural life, even of the barest and rudest, as thrilling as first love.\nIt is this man, his enemies at home the sated Parisian, who knew a gusto\nin living greater than that of any English writer since Borrow. Let no\none forget those lines with which Christy Mahon cries defiance to the\nMayo folk who have known his greatness and his fall: \"Ten thousand\nblessings upon all that's here, for you've turned me a likely gaffer in\nthe end of all, the way I'll go romancing through a romping lifetime\nfrom this hour to the dawning of the judgment day.\" I do not deny that\nthese words are in a sense wrung from the Playboy, but what I do hold is\nthat they prove how vital was the genius of the man who wrote them, who\nsaw the joy there was yet in life for this braggart wastrel just as he\nsaw that even such a miserable boyhood as Christy's knew a kind of\npoacher's joy in running wild on the bogs. Even for poor Nora, turned\nout on the roads with a tramp for companion, there is the joy of the\nroad once she learns to know it. The tramp knows it surely:--\n\n     You'll be hearing the herons crying out over the black lakes, and\n     you'll be hearing the grouse and the owls with them, and the larks\n     and the big thrushes when the days are warm: and it's not from the\n     like of them you'll be hearing a tale of getting old like Peggy\n     Cavanagh, and losing the hair off you and the light of your eyes,\n     but it's fine songs you'll be hearing when the sun goes up, and\n     there'll be no old fellow wheezing the like of a sick sheep, close\n     to your ear.\n\nOf like gusto, too, is the joy of Martin Doul and Mary Doul in their\nblindness; and the joy of the three tinkers in the escape of themselves\nand their half-sovereign from the priest and in the prospect of \"A great\ntime drinking that bit with the trampers in the green of Clash.\" And\nfrom such joys as these, wild and earthy and rallying, his exultations\nrange to the exalted serenity and sadness of Naisi and Deirdre as they\nlook back on their seven year of love in Glen Masain, of love almost too\nperfect and too happy to be human.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nYes, joy is as distinctive as irony and extravagance of the writing of\nSynge, joy in mere living, in life even at the worst, and joy, too, in\nlife at the best. \"It should be a sweet thing to have what is best and\nrichest, if it's for a short space only.\" It was for a short space of\nyears that Synge had \"what is best and richest,\" hardly for the seven\nyears of his great lovers. He did not have it when his thought homed to\nIreland in 1899, as a result of a meeting with Mr. Yeats in Paris. His\nwriting, then, was of little moment, but it grew better when, at home\nagain, he realized what Irish life was to him, when once renewed contact\nwith the Irish peasant brought back the familiarity that had been his in\nthe nursery. It was the Wicklow glens, to which memories of his people\ndrew him, and the Aran Islands, where he went to study Irish--until then\nlittle more than a book language to him--and to live a life perhaps\n\"more primitive than any in Europe,\" that enabled him to find himself.\nFurther 'prentice work, though of a new sort, followed his sojourns in\nWicklow and Aran, but by 1903 his art had matured to the ripe power of\n\"In the Shadow of the Glen\" and \"Riders to the Sea,\" which, after\nadjustment to the stage, were put on respectively October 8, 1903, and\nFebruary 25, 1904, at Molesworth Hall, Dublin. \"The Tinker's Wedding\"\nwhich has been played only once, and then in London, dates from about\nthe same time. \"The Well of the Saints\" was produced on February 4,\n1905, at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, and \"The Playboy of the Western\nWorld\" on January 26, 1907, at the same place, to the accompaniment of\nan uproar that a certain element of Irishmen have considered it proper\nto create ever since on its first appearance in all cities whatsoever,\nwhether in Great Britain or America. One wonders what they would have\ndone had he made it as biting as Ibsen made \"Peer Gynt.\" \"Deirdre of the\nSorrows,\" which Synge left unrevised, was first produced at the Abbey\nTheatre on January 13, 1910, the last of the six plays of his maturity.\nIt was in the years from 1902 to 1909 that he had \"what is best and\nrichest\"--a full life, lived largely in the Ireland that he loved; the\nartist's joy in making that life into a new beauty, a beauty that was\nall compact of exaltation and extravagance and irony; and love for a\nwoman in whom his man's life and his artist's life were united, for her\nwho embodied his dream of Pegeen Mike and added her life and her art of\nthe stage to his dream of Deirdre, as day by day it emerged from his\nmind. And so great was his joy in these good things that his precarious\nhealth, and even his year--long last illness, could not, while he had\nany strength, lessen the high spirit of his writing. There is none of\nhis plays more vital than \"Deirdre of the Sorrows.\"\n\nAnd yet this joy that is basic in Synge, this exaltation, is no more\nbasic than emotions and attitudes of mind that are often, in other men,\nat war with joy and exaltation--irony and grotesquerie, keen insight\ninto \"the black thoughts of men,\" and insistent awareness of the quick\npassing of all good things, _diablerie_ and mordancy. Strange, then,\nshould be his love passages and strange too, they are at times, ranging\nfrom the bizarre delight of \"In Kerry\" to the triumphing nobility of\nDeirdre's farewell to Alban. One thinks of Mr. Hardy and one thinks of\nDonne as one reads \"In Kerry\":--\n\n  \"We heard the thrushes by the shore and sea,\n  And saw the golden stars' nativity,\n  Then round we went the lane by Thomas Flynn,\n  Across the church where bones lie out and in;\n  And there I asked beneath a lonely cloud\n  Of strange delight, with one bird singing loud,\n  What change you'd wrought in graveyard, rock and sea,\n  This new wild paradise to wake for me ...\n  Yet knew no more than knew those merry sins\n  Had built this stack of thigh-bones, jaws and shins.\"\n\nOne thinks of no other writer at all, however, when one reads Christy's\nwooing of Pegeen, even when one puts down the book in the quiet that\nalways comes on one in the presence of something great; one thinks of no\nother writer, of course, when one sees the lovers and listens to their\nwords, on the stage, for one is rapt out of one's self by the perfect\naccord of drama and actors at one in the service of beauty:--\n\n     _Christy_ (_indignantly_). Starting from you, is it? (_He follows\n     her._) I will not, then, and when the airs is warming, in four\n     months or five, it's then yourself and me should be pacing Neifin\n     in the dews of night, the times sweet smells do be rising, and\n     you'll see a little, shiny new moon, maybe, sinking on the hills.\n\n     _Pegeen_ (_looking at him playfully_). And it's that kind of a\n     poacher's love you'd make, Christy Mahon, on the sides of Neifin,\n     when the night is down?\n\n     _Christy_. It's little you'll think if my love's a poacher's, or an\n     earl's itself, when you'll feel my two hands stretched around you,\n     and I squeezing kisses on your puckered lips, till I'd feel a kind\n     of pity for the Lord God is all ages sitting lonesome in His golden\n     chair.\n\n     _Pegeen_. That'll be right fun, Christy Mahon, and any girl would\n     walk her heart out before she'd meet a young man was your like for\n     eloquence, or talk at all.\n\n     _Christy_ (_encouraged_). Let you wait, to hear me talking, till\n     we're astray in Erris, when Good Friday's by, drinking a sup from a\n     well, and making mighty kisses with our wetted mouths, or gaming in\n     a gap of sunshine, with yourself stretched back unto your necklace,\n     in the flowers of the earth.\n\n     _Pegeen_ (_in a low voice, moved by his tone_). I'd be nice, so, is\n     it?\n\n     _Christy_ (_with rapture_). If the mitred bishops seen you that\n     time, they'd be the like of the holy prophets, I'm thinking, do be\n     straining the bars of Paradise to lay eyes on the Lady Helen of\n     Troy, and she abroad, pacing back and forward, with a nosegay in\n     her golden shawl.\n\nBorrow, who comes to mind more often than any other writer as one reads\nSynge, chose to avoid love scenes, and Borrow's follower, Mr. Hewlett,\nfor all his gusto, has no such exaltation as this. Had Harry Richmond\ntaken to the road with Kiomi we might have known something like it. A\nchapter out of the early life of Juggling Jerry and his \"Old Girl,\" done\nin the manner of \"Love in the Valley,\" would be still nearer to it. As\nit is, this passage of the third act of \"The Playboy of the Western\nWorld\" stands alone. I doubt if Synge had read Meredith, and even had\nhe, the life of the roads and their cottages that Synge knew so well was\nhis master, and no writer at all. In a way, of course, the Irish-English\nof Dr. Hyde's translations of \"The Love Songs of Connacht\" was an\ninfluence, and you will find many expressions common to them and Synge.\nIt is not important, however, whether these expressions have a common\nsource, or whether Synge took them from \"The Love Songs\" rather than\nfrom his own note-book. Whatever their source it was Synge who made out\nof them a great style, his peasant style. It is another and a severer\nstyle that he uses in his \"Deirdre of the Sorrows,\" the courtly subject\ndemanding dignity and restraint. This latter style has borrowed some of\nthe bare simplicity of the personal style of Synge, that style, I mean,\nin which he records his own experience in the Aran Islands or in Wicklow\nand Kerry.\n\nRomancing, which is the very atmosphere of \"The Playboy of the Western\nWorld,\" would be out of place in any telling of the greatest of old\nIrish legends; so it is that Synge has found for \"Deirdre of the\nSorrows,\" or rather for its great moments, an austere epic speech that\nseems native to the story. The passionate words are nobly adequate to\nthe passionate resignation they have to tell, a resignation that has\ncome of the unwilling belief of the lovers that so great a love as\ntheirs cannot last longer \"without fleck or flaw\" than the seven years\nit has lasted. Says Deirdre, when she has come to know it is fate that\nthey will return to Ireland, and death:--\n\n     The dawn and evening are a little while, the winter and the summer\n     pass quickly, and what way would you and I, Naisi, have joy\n     forever.... It's this hour we're between the daytime and a night\n     where there is sleep forever, and isn't it better thing to be\n     following on to a near death than to be bending the head down, and\n     dragging with the feet, and seeing one day a blight showing upon\n     love where it is sweet and tender?\n\n     _Naisi_ (_his voice broken with distraction_). If a near death is\n     coming what will be my trouble losing the earth and the stars over\n     it, and you, Deirdre, are their flame and bright crown? Come away\n     into the safety of the woods.\n\n     _Deirdre_ (_shaking her head slowly_). There are as many ways to\n     wither love as there are stars in a night of Samhain; but there is\n     no way to keep life, or love with it, a short space only.... It's\n     for that there's nothing lonesome like a love is watching out the\n     time most lovers do be sleeping.... It's for that we're setting out\n     for Emain Macha when the tide turns on the sand.\n\n     _Naisi_ (_giving in_). You're right, maybe. It should be a poor\n     thing to see great lovers and they sleepy and old.\n\n     _Deirdre_ (_with a more tender intensity_). We're seven years\n     without roughness or growing weary; seven years so sweet and\n     shining, the gods would be hard set to give us seven days the like\n     of them. It's for that we're going to Emain, where there'll be a\n     rest forever, or a place for forgetting, in great crowds and they\n     making a stir.\n\n     _Naisi_ (_very softly_). We'll go, surely, in place of keeping a\n     watch on a love had no match and it wasting away. (_They cling to\n     each other, then Naisi looks up._)\n\nAnd this is from the unfinished second act, that Synge thought would\nscarcely be worth preserving. I have quoted it rather than the great\nkeen over the body of Naisi that brings the play to a close, because\nthat must of necessity follow the old poem, and this is as Synge\nimagined it. Each is \"a thing will be a joy and triumph to the ends of\nlife and time.\"\n\nI have thrown what I have to say about the exaltation of Synge to the\nforefront of what I have to say of him, that all may be read in the\nmemory of this emphasis and of the exaltation of what I quote, no matter\nhow fantastic or grotesque or disillusionizing or even ghoulish it may\nbe. Whatever other quality may be dominant at any moment in Synge there\nis always, along with it, exaltation.\n\nIt is the extravagance and grotesquerie, of both language and situation,\nthat is the most immediately arresting of the qualities of Synge. And\nthis extravagance and grotesquerie have marked his writing from the\nstart. The old husband playing dead, that he may catch his young wife\nwith her lover, of his first play, \"In the Shadow of the Glen,\" is a\nvery old motive, and familiar in the meliorized form that made it known\nto the theatre in \"Conn the Shaughraun\" (1875). Before that, Crofton\nCroker had given it currency, in \"The Corpse Watchers,\" among those\noutside of the circles in which it was a familiar folk-story. It might,\nindeed, be said of \"In the Shadow of the Glen\" that it begins in the\nmanner of Boucicault and ends in the manner of Ibsen, for Nora Burke is\nin a way a peasant Hedda Gabler. Such a criticism would, of course, be\nvery superficial. The story is a folk-story of many countries and Synge\nwas told the version he worked from by the old shanachie of Inishmaan\nwhom he calls Pat Dirane in \"The Aran Islands.\" At moments the play\napproaches farce, as when the supposed corpse rises from the bed where\nhe is stretched and drinks whiskey with a tramp who has happened in\nwhile Nora is gone to meet her young man. From such a situation it turns\nto keen pathos, as Nora sits with tramp and lover and the old husband\nshe thinks dead, and listens to the wind and rain sweeping through the\nhigh glens about the hut and thinks of \"the young growing behind her,\"\nand the old passing. Where else will you find cheek by jowl such\nsardonic humor as this and such poignancy of lament for the passing of\nyouth? Nora speaks as she pours out whiskey for her young man:--\n\n     Why would I marry you, Mike Dara? You'll be getting old and I'll be\n     getting old, and in a little while, I'm telling you, you'll be\n     sitting up in your bed--the way himself was sitting--with a shake\n     in your face, and your teeth falling, and the white hair sticking\n     out round you like an old bush where sheep do be leaping a gap.\n\n     (_Dan Burke sits up noiselessly from under the sheet, with his hand\n     to his face. His white hair is sticking out round his head. Nora\n     goes on slowly without hearing him._)\n\n     It's a pitiful thing to be getting old, but it's a queer thing\n     surely. It's a queer thing to see an old man sitting up there in\n     his bed with no teeth in him, and a rough word in his mouth, and\n     his chin the way it would take the bark from the edge of an oak\n     board you'd have building a door.... God forgive me, Michael Dara,\n     we'll all be getting old, but it's a queer thing surely.\n\n     _Michael_. It's too lonesome you are from living a long time with\n     an old man, Nora, and you're talking again like a herd that would\n     be coming down from the thick mist (_he puts his arm round her_),\n     but it's a fine life you'll have now with a young man--a fine life,\n     surely.\n\n     (_Dan sneezes violently. Michael tries to get to the door, but\n     before he can do so Dan jumps out of the bed in queer white\n     clothes, with the stick in his hand, and goes over and puts his\n     back against it._)\n\n     _Michael_. Son of God deliver us!\n\nEqual extravagance and equal grotesquerie, and irony biting beyond any\nin any other of his plays, you will find in \"The Well of the Saints.\"\nThis, too, is built up out of Synge's experience of life in Aran and\nWicklow. Old Mourteen, a \"dark man,\" who taught him Gaelic on Aranmor,\nsuggested Martin Doul, the chief character of the play, and it was\nMourteen told him, too, the story of the well whose water would give\nsight to blind eyes. A story told Synge on Inishere supplied the saint,\nand a tramp in Wicklow the thoughts of Martin Doul and Mary Doul as to\nthe glory their hair would be to them in age. As you read his travel\nsketches, in fact, you are always coming on passages that very evidently\nare the suggestions for situations in this play or that, and sometimes\nmore than suggestions--stories and situations and very phrases that you\nremember as on the lips of the peasants in his plays. In these travel\nsketches, too, you find the background of the plays. There is but the\ngerm of \"The Playboy of the Western World\" in the story told Synge in\nInishmaan of the hiding there from the police of the man that killed his\nfather, but there is old Mourteen's comparison of an unmarried man to\n\"an old jackass straying in the rocks,\" which later we find transferred\nto Michael James Flaherty almost as Synge heard it--\"an old braying\njackass straying upon the rocks.\"\n\nIt may be, too, that the famous Lynchehaun case confirmed Synge in\ntaking the Aran story of the man who killed his father as the basis of\n\"The Playboy,\" but it is little he got for his plays from his reading of\n\"the fearful crimes of Ireland,\" and little that he got for them from\nany of his reading. There are situations in \"The Tinker's Wedding\"--the\ntying-up of the priest in the bag, for instance--that suggest as source\n\"The Lout and his Mother,\" included by Dr. Hyde in his \"Religious Songs\nof Connacht,\" but Synge records, in \"At a Wicklow Fair,\" that a herd\ntold him the story of the tinker couple that would be wed, as he and the\nherd met the man in the case in Aughrim.\n\nNo one who knows Ireland at all would hold that Synge's plays are\ntypical of the Irish peasant generally, but any one who knows Irish\nliterature at all, and the life of the roads in Ireland, will admit that\nwildness and extravagance are to be found in that literature from the\nbeginning and in that life even at this day of supposed civilization.\nYou will find one kind of extravagance in the distortions of Cuchulain\nin bardic literature, another kind of extravagance in \"Little Red Mary\nand the Goat with the Chime of Bells\" that your gardener tells you in a\nprosaic American suburban town; you will find the primitiveness of\nprehistoric life in the burning of poor old Mrs. Cleary by her neighbors\nin Tipperary (1895), to drive a demon out of her, and the savage that is\nbut under the skin of all men in the description of the Spinsters' Ball\nat Ballinasloe in \"A Drama in Muslin.\" Said an old shanachie to Synge on\nInishere, when Synge had told him of a stock exchange trick, \"Isn't it\na great wonder to think that those men are as big rogues as ourselves?\"\nIt is idle to pretend that it is not true that, in some moods, all men\nthe world over have sympathy for the rogue. Why do we read of Reynard\nthe Fox with delight, and Robin Hood, and Uncle Remus, and not only in\nthe days of our own infantile roguery, but as grown men and women? This\nman or that may say it is because of the cleverness of Reynard, the\ndaring of Robin Hood or his wild-woods setting, and the resourcefulness\nof Bre'r Rabbit; but the honest man will admit it is because of an\ninnate and deeply rooted human sympathy with roguery as well as our\nnatural human sympathy with the under dog and the man hunted by a\nmerciless or an alien law. Very often, if the roguery is very great, or\nwe are brought face to face with its effects and realize it is a real\nthing in real life, we will be shocked out of our sympathy with it, and\nrealize, as did Pegeen Mike, the difference between a \"gallous story and\na dirty deed.\" But sometimes, if we are a people living a primitive\nlife, we will no more awaken to the reality of the wrong of roguery than\nwe would as children have been able to sympathize with the farmer whose\npumpkin patch we raided on the eve of Hallowe'en. A sneaking sympathy\nwith roguery, however, is a very different thing from a delight in\nextravagance. That, too, is a universal passion, but not so native to\nthe Teuton as to Celt or Finn or Oriental. Its absence is what most\ndifferentiates Old Norse literature from Old Irish, with which it so\nearly came into contact. It is in travelers' tales and in the tales of\nseamen and in the writing that was based on these, in rare moments of\nreligious or romantic ecstasy, or in borrowings from Celt or Oriental\nthat you will find the most of what extravagance there is in English\nliterature. In America you find extravagance in our humor, and this\nhumor, perhaps, owes as much of its extravagance to an Irish ancestry as\nto an environment of new wonders that could not be well expressed save\nin hyperbole.\n\nIt is not only the extravagance of the change wrought in Christy by\nunexpected hero-worship and an awakening of self-confidence through love\nfor the first time known and returned that we wonder at, and the\nextravagance of that hero-worship, but the extravagance of the\nimagination of his creator, and the beautiful extravagance of his\nspeech. The freshness and audacity of that imagination, and the\nbeautiful extravagance of that speech, a speech modulated to a rhythm\nthat Synge was the first to catch, are in themselves enough to give\ndistinction to almost any subject. There was granted Synge more than\nthis, however,--a keenness of vision into the pathetic humanity of ugly\nthings and a power to realize this with a beauty that was granted to no\none before, though to Swift it was granted to see the ugliness as a\nbitter thing. Borrow had, indeed, a glimpse now and then of the pathetic\nbeauty there is in ugliness, as in the story of Isopel Berners and the\nFlaming Tinman, and Whitman, too; but no man before Synge had the power\nat once to see the ugly subject as beautiful from a new angle of vision,\nhumanize it, irradiate it with a new glow of imagination, reveal it\nthrough a style that for the first time ennobles English prose drama as\nblank verse has long ennobled English verse drama.\n\nTake \"The Tinker's Wedding,\" for instance. The theme is the desire of a\ntinker woman, youngish if not young, to wed the man who has long been\nher mate; his mother's unstudied frustration of that scheme by stealing,\nto swap for drink, the can they were to give to the priest along with a\nhalf-sovereign for marrying them; and their joy, in the end, that they\nhave escaped matrimony and the wasting of good money. And yet this theme\nis underlaid with an emotion so vital, the emotion of a wild free life,\nand invested with a pathos so poignant of the quick passing of all good\nthings, that no understanding heart can but be profoundly moved by that\npathos and racily rejoiced at that wildness.\n\nIt is thus, for instance, soliloquizes Mary Byrne, the rapscalliony old\ntinker woman of outrageous behavior of \"The Tinker's Wedding.\" She is\nstealing the aforesaid can, in the absence of her son and his Sarah \"to\nget two of Tim Flaherty's hens\": \"Maybe the two of them have a good\nright to be walking out the little short while they'd be young; but if\nthey have itself, they'll not keep Mary Byrne from her full pint when\nthe night's fine, and there's a dry moon in the sky.\" One thinks, as one\nreads, of Villon's old woman and her lament for yesteryear, but there\nare not many writers anywhere in the world, of old time or of to-day,\nwho have such power of blending pathos and ugliness into beauty, and no\nother one that I know who can infuse humor into the blend, and make one\nat the one time laugh ironically and be thrilled as with great poetry.\n\nThere are those, of course, to whom this earthiness and wildness are\nrepulsive, to whom old Martin Doul's love pleading to Molly Byrne is\nunendurable. A dirty \"shabby stump of a man,\" a beggar, blind and\nmiddle-aged, is asking a fine white girl, young, and as teasing as an\nox-eyed and ox-minded colleen may be, to go away with him. Not an\nexalting situation, exactly, as you read of it or see it on the stage,\nbut once you see it on the stage, where its animality you would expect\nwould be heightened, you realize--and it is strange to you that you do\nso realize--first of all its pathos, and again its pathos, and always,\nthe scene through, its pathos. Had Molly gone with old Martin it would\nhave revolted you, for it would have been unnatural, but since she did\nnot, and since she was not the sort to be easily insulted, you only\nwonder at the power of passion and realize its pathos, and the irony of\nit.\n\nThere is, however, a situation ironical of love in \"In the Shadow of the\nGlen\" that is more appalling to some than any irony of \"The Well of the\nSaints.\" I mean the scene at the end, where Nora, turned out by her\nhusband and forsaken by her lover, goes out into the rain with the\ntramp, leaving husband and lover drinking together in utmost amity. The\npathos of this and the irony of it are of a part with the pathos of the\nclose of \"Hedda Gabler.\" Hedda and Nora, selfish and willful both, if\nyou like, are yet fine women both, and human, as Zenobia and Eustacia\nare human, and pathetic in their fates, with a pathos that even\nHawthorne and Mr. Hardy have seldom the power to make us feel. But the\nfate of Nora was ironic as the fate of none of the others, for all\nthree of them escaped the ennui and misery of life, while Nora but\nbegins a new life, freer for the moment than her old life, but\npromising, in the end, only the old dull round.\n\nThe irony of it! \"The irony of it\" is always in Synge's writing even in\nits most exalted moments. A seven years' love \"without fleck or flaw\" is\n\"surely a wonder,\" but it is just as surely ironical that it, like all\ngood things, shall so soon come to an end. That, of course, is but the\nway of nature, and so we much question if, after all, the irony of Synge\nis more insistent than the irony of nature. If it is it is because he\ntakes more care to uncover it, but basically his irony is but the irony\nof nature. He is in reality less ironical than Mr. Hardy, the great\nironist of English literature of our day, and he is never bitter, for\nbitterness comes seldom except to the writer who is interested in\nmorals, and morals interest Synge only in so far as they are natural. It\nis life--not any conventional way of life, or any ideal of life--that\ninterests Synge, so he escapes ensnarement in any of the questions of\nthe day. So frankly does he accept life that there is in him no note of\nprotest whatsoever, which is again fortunate, for protest, too, will\nlead a man to morals and leave on his work the taint of a passing system\nof morality as it did even on Ibsen.\n\nIf there is symbolism to be found in Synge, it is there only by\naccident, never as the result of definite intent. He may have had, in\nthe back of his mind, as he wrote \"The Playboy of the Western World,\"\nthe thought of chance making a man, of a man finding himself through\nothers believing in him who has no belief in himself but that there is\nin the play any parable of young Ireland losing its allegiance to a\nprevious ideal of Ireland, I do not for a moment believe. There is, of\ncourse, in \"The Well of the Saints\" the old and oft-uttered truth that\nmen prefer blindness in many things to correct vision of them, that\ntruth that drives Mr. Shaw to blind anger. Synge has no resentment\nagainst that truth, only interest in it as a fact that is true of people\nas he sees them. The play is an unforgettable symbol of that truth, but\nto make it such was not why Synge wrote it. He wrote it with a purpose\nakin to that which inspired Burns to write his \"Jolly Beggars.\" He wrote\nit to make something beautiful out of the life of the beggars of the\nWicklow mountains, and I have no doubt he had a wild joy in the idea of\nit, in the irony of its truth, in the grotesquerie of the situations he\ngarnered from his memory to illustrate its beauty and truth.\n\nMany wonders are possible even to-day in the wild life of the roads and\nof the sea-haunted islands that Synge knew, but he was wise to put \"The\nWell of the Saints\" back a hundred years or more. Aran islanders told\nhim of rye that turned to oats in their fields and of phantom ships that\npassed them at sea, but a miracle of healing such as that of \"The Well\nof the Saints\" they were familiar with only in folk-song such as \"Mary's\nWell,\" and such a miracle, too, would hardly be attempted by a priest of\nto-day.\n\nSynge had the great advantage of writing all his plays, after the\nearliest, for the stage. He knew as he wrote that he could test that\nwriting's stage effect in rehearsal and change it if need be. So he did\nchange \"The Playboy of the Western World,\" revealing the incident of the\nsupposed patricide as a bit of narrative addressed by Christy to the\nadmiring girls of the Mayo village, instead of, as he had intended, a\nscene on the stage in \"a windy corner of rich Munster land.\" Had he\nwritten \"Riders to the Sea\" later, Synge would surely never have crowded\ninto it incidents that took far longer in the happening than in the\nportrayal of that happening on the stage. It is this technical\nshortcoming that for me takes away somewhat from the exceeding beauty of\nthis tragedy of Aran. The story of the finding of the clothes that tell\nof the death at sea of the last but one of the five sons of Maurya, and\nof the death on the very shore itself of the last son, is in its very\nnature a dirge, and demands a slower movement than is possible with its\nincidents arranged as he was content to leave them in the play as we\nhave it. \"Riders to the Sea\" is less representative of Synge, moreover,\nthan any other of his plays, for it is written on one note, the note of\nthe dirge, of the dirge of the tides that sound their menace of the sea\nthrough Inishmaan. It is less representative of Synge because it has in\nit no humor, no quick changes of mood, no revelation of tumult of soul.\nIt is less representative of Synge in that it is less original than any\nother of his plays, reminiscent in fact in all but its style, now of\nIbsen, now of M. Maeterlinck, now even of Mr. Edward Martyn. And his\nstyle itself is not what his style was in \"In the Shadow of the Glen,\"\nnor what it became again in \"The Well of the Saints.\"\n\nOne wonders where that speech came from, that speech that is, as he\nwould have it, \"fully flavored as a nut or apple.\" Mr. Yeats and Lady\nGregory tell us that he did not have it until he had been made free,\nthrough residence there, of the life of the Aran Islands. If one has\nread, however, the English of the prose translations of Dr. Hyde's \"Love\nSongs of Connacht,\" one may see in their style the genesis of the style\nof \"Riders to the Sea,\" and if one has read the \"Dialogue between Two\nOld Women\" of \"The Religious Songs of Connacht,\" and \"The Lout and his\nMother,\" one may come to believe that these turned Synge toward the even\nmore fully flavored and more rhythmic speech of the other plays.\nPerhaps, too, there were memories of the rhythm and of the flavor of the\nspeech of him who made these words for Jasper Petulengro: \"Life is\nsweet, brother, ... there's night and day, brother, both sweet things;\nsun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind\non the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die!\"\n\nThe speech of Connacht folk-song rendered into the English of Connacht\nby Dr. Hyde, however, and the speech of Borrow were no more than the\nstart, if they were as much as the start, that put him on the right\nroad. If ever a man made his style himself, it was Synge. He made it out\nof his memory and out of his imagination, using \"one or two words only\nthat I have not heard,\" he said, \"among the country people of Ireland,\nor spoken in my own nursery before I could read the newspaper,\" but\nevolving from that memory by his imagination a speech that is in\nharmony with the imagination of the people an imagination that is, he\ntells us, \"fiery and magnificent and tender,\" though no such actual\nspeech would be possible of reproduction from any one of them.\n\nSynge is very definite in his statement of what he believes drama should\nbe, and what he would make his own drama of Irish life, expressing his\nbelief in the preface to \"The Tinker's Wedding\":--\n\n     The drama is made serious ... not by the degree in which it is\n     taken up with problems that are serious in themselves, but by the\n     degree in which it gives the nourishment, not very easy to define,\n     on which our imaginations live....\n\n     We should not go to the theatre as we go to a chemist's or a\n     dramshop, but as we go to a dinner where the food we need is taken\n     with pleasure and excitement....\n\n     The drama, like the symphony, does not teach or prove anything....\n\n     Of the things which nourish the imagination, humor is one of the\n     most needful and it is dangerous to limit or destroy it. Baudelaire\n     calls laughter the greatest sign of the Satanic element in man; and\n     where a country loses its humor, as some towns in Ireland are\n     doing, there will be a morbidity of mind, as Baudelaire's mind was\n     morbid. In the greater part of Ireland, however, the whole people,\n     from the tinkers to the clergy, have still a life, and view of\n     life, that are rich and genial and humorous. I do not think that\n     these country people, who have so much humor themselves, will mind\n     being laughed at without malice, as the people in every country\n     have been laughed at, in their own comedies.\n\nIn the preface to \"The Playboy of the Western World\" is this paragraph,\ncompleting his _credo_ as to drama:--\n\n     On the stage one must have reality, and one must have joy; and that\n     is why the intellectual modern drama has failed, and people have\n     grown sick of the false joy of the musical comedy, that has been\n     given them in place of the rich joy found only in what is superb\n     and wild in reality.\n\nAlthough there are only about forty characters, all told, in the six\nplays of Synge, and ten of these are in \"Deirdre of the Sorrows,\" which\nfor all its humanity is a play out of a life that is gone, there are men\nand women a-plenty to give us this \"rich joy found only in what is\nsuperb and wild in reality.\" Nora is \"superb and wild\" in her longings,\nand Maurya in her sorrow; and old Martin Doul \"superb and wild\" in his\ndream of life in the South; Sarah Casey and Pegeen Mike \"superb and\nwild\" in the most direct sense of the phrase; and these are all real, if\nnot representative of the poorer peasantry. And in the high way of\nromance who has dreamed what is more superb and wilder than the lament\nof Deirdre over Naisi! In the creation of character, as in style, and in\ntechnique of drama, Synge has done what he would. In only one of his\nplays, in \"Riders to the Sea,\" are his leading characters representative\nIrish peasants; and even Maurya and her children, not only because of\nthe isolation of their home in Aran, but because of the fate which has\nmarked her mankind for death at sea, are somewhat apart from the\nfisher-people of the west coast. In all his four other plays of modern\nlife, Synge has chosen characters who are, in his own words, \"variations\nfrom the ordinary types of manhood,\"--chosen them because of his\ndeep-seated love of the unconventional. In \"In the Shadow of the Glen,\"\nMichael Dara, the herd, is a common type, and Dan Burke, the old sheep\nfarmer, not an uncommon type, but the tramp and Nora, the one by his\nwandering and the other by her brooding, are \"variations,\" though very\nhuman both. Of the cottager class, too, are Timmy the Smith, Molly\nByrne, and the \"villagers\" of \"The Well of the Saints,\" as are, too, the\ngirls and men of \"The Playboy of the Western World\" other than the\nMahons and Michael James. Shawn Keogh, indeed, is a cut above cottagers,\nbeing almost a strong farmer, and Michael James himself was, no doubt,\nof a similar cottager respectability before he took to shebeen-keeping.\nAlmost all the other characters of these modern plays are, with the\nexception of the priest of \"The Tinker's Wedding\" and the saint of \"The\nWell of the Saints,\" squatters, beggars, and tinkers. Among them, few as\nthey are all told, are very differing personalities--Christy the Playboy\nand his father, \"a dirty man, God forgive him, and he getting old and\ncrusty\"; Martin Doul, a \"shabby stump of a man,\" \"of queer talk,\"\nmiddle-aged and blind and a beggar; Michael Byrne, the hardy, thieving,\nunimaginative tinker; and the romancing young tramp who gallants Nora\nwhen her own husband turns her out on the road;--\"variations\" all,\nperhaps, but human, and compelling, all of them, our interest, and\ngreater or less sympathy. And the women! Nora, whom we leave as\nroad-woman, I have likened to Hedda Gabler, and Sarah Casey in externals\nto Isopel Berners, but I do not know to whom to compare the others save\nMary Byrne, as slightly suggestive of Villon's old woman. Mary Doul,\nblind Martin's blind wife, has a general likeness to some old witch out\nof a fairy tale, but she is far from being a witch; and Widow Quinn the\nincomparable might be compared, were she not too high-hearted, to the\nhag of \"The Lout and Mother\" in being\n\n        \"indecent-spoken, carneying, lying,\n  Plausible, full of poems and prophecies and sharp edged.\"\n\nOf the women of the cottager class, Nora, for all her wildness and\nbitterness, is the most lovable, and Molly Byrne the least lovable; the\ngirls of \"Riders to the Sea\" are not fully enough individualized to make\nus feel we know them; but Pegeen Mike, Synge has put before us in\nappearance and temperament, character and personality. \"A wild-looking\nbut fine girl,\" he describes her, \"with a divil's own temper,\" \"the\nfright of seven town-lands\"--as she says--\"for my biting tongue,\" but\nsusceptible of softening toward a boy of good looks and coaxing ways\nsuch as Christy. He gets around her with \"his poet's talking\" and his\npopularity, his \"mighty spirit\" and \"gamey heart\" until she gives him\n\"words would put you thinking on the holy Brigid speaking to the infant\nsaints.\"\n\nThere might be incongruity, if one were writing of any other than Synge,\nin speaking of Deirdre in such a company. Incongruity, however, is of\nthe very texture of Synge's art, which has reconciled qualities, as I\nhave said, never before reconciled in English literature. It is on\nDeirdre that Synge has lavished all the ideality that was in him, not\nbecause he had a dream of woman he wished to fulfill, but because to him\nDeirdre was all that was queenly. And yet even Deirdre is a \"variation,\"\nas nobility and beauty must ever be. So lofty is she that words even in\npraise of her are almost impertinent. Just how lofty her words that I\nquoted at the outset show, as does also, by way of contrast, the mention\nof her here among these half-tragic, half-grotesque women of the\ncottages and of the roads. There is scarcely a poet, of all that have\nwritten of Ireland from the time of Ferguson to our time, that has not\nwritten his dream of Deirdre as he finds her in the old legends of\nIreland, but to my mind no one of them has dreamed her so triumphantly\nas has Synge.\n\nIt is not, however, of such \"variations\" as Deirdre that the critics\nfall foul, but of the \"variations\" he puts on Irish roads and in Irish\ncottages when he presents the life of to-day. Why he replied to this\ncriticism when to most criticism he was, if not indifferent, at least\nimpervious, it is not easy to say. It is more than likely, however, that\nit was rather to explain his ideas than to justify his characters that\nhe did answer. This criticism of the reality of his peasants began with\nhis \"Shadow of the Glen\" and is still to be heard in many places to-day.\nIt rose to its highest pitch of denunciation at the time of the\nproduction of \"The Playboy of the Western World\" in Dublin, but it was\nbefore that that he answered it fully, in the last paragraph of \"The\nVagrants of Wicklow,\" a travel sketch he made out of his wanderings in\nhis native country. Here it is, as effective in its answer to subsequent\ncriticism as to that which it was definitely intended to answer:--\n\n     In all the circumstances of this tramp life there is a certain\n     wildness that gives it romance and a peculiar value for those who\n     look at life in Ireland with an eye that is aware of the arts\n     also. In all the healthy movements of art, variations from the\n     ordinary types of manhood are made interesting for the ordinary\n     man, and in this way only the higher arts are universal. Beside\n     this art, however, founded on the variations which are a condition\n     and effect of all vigorous life, there is another art--sometimes\n     confounded with it--founded on the freak of nature, in itself a\n     mere sign of atavism or disease. This latter art, which is occupied\n     with the antics of the freak, is of interest only to the variation\n     from ordinary minds, and, for this reason, is never universal. To\n     be quite plain, the tramp in real life, Hamlet and Faust, in the\n     arts, are variations; but the maniac in real life, and Des\n     Esseintes and all his ugly crew in the arts, are freaks only.\n\nIt is well to consider all his characters in the light of this\nstatement, I think, and to re-read, keeping in mind a possible further\napplication of it, those phrases in the plays that so outrage many at\ntheir hearing in the theatre, I would not for a moment seem to want to\nsoften the hardness of the life he pictures or to explain away his\ndelightfully sardonic humor as in reality a reconciling sort of humor,\nbut I do wish to say that the more I read him the less cruel and\nsardonic that humor seems. The impersonality of the man as dramatist\ngrows on you as you read, you realize more and more his abstention from\nplaying chorus to his characters, and you come to know that the seeming\ncruelty and sardonic joy are largely only the direct outcome of his\ncourage in allowing Nature to speak for herself. If you turn again to\nthe plays after learning of their background from his travel sketches,\nyou see many things in a new light. The irony, the grotesquerie, the\ntonic earthiness never grow less, but one learns to discount somewhat\nthe effect of the hardness of speech on the recipients of that speech,\nas through experience one learns--after one's second attendance at a\nwake--to discount something of the too voluble sorrow of keening.\n\nThat the candor of Synge, in allowing his people of hard nature or of\ncareless nature to say the ruthless things native to their minds and\ntemper, hurts many, there is proof every time one sees a play of his on\nthe stage. You will hear women about you gasp with mingled surprise and\ndisgust, their sensibilities wholly outraged, but unwilling laughter in\ntheir minds when the Widow Quinn says to Christy, after his praise of\nPegeen, \"There's poetry talk for a girl you'd see itching and\nscratching, and she with a stale stink of poteen on her from selling in\nthe shop.\" Such gasps are nothing, however, to those they utter when\nthey hear Mary Doul tell Molly Byrne \"when the skin shrinks on your\nchin, Molly Byrne, there won't be the like of you for a shrunk hag in\nthe four quarters of Ireland.\"\n\nVery different is the kind of laughter aroused by the sly malice, native\nto the rogue story from the days in which its characters masqueraded as\nanimals, that is revealed in the remark of Mary Byrne to the priest,\n\"It's destroyed you must be hearing the sins of the rural people in a\nfine spring\"; and different again the childish delight in the\nextravagance at Christy's threat to send Shawn Keogh \"coaching out\nthrough Limbo with my father's ghost\"; and still different the\nbreathless, delighted wonderment in the sense of moral values exhibited\nby Michael James, when, fearing that Christy's threatened murder of\nShawn, if carried out, would give his secret trade away, he jumps up\nwith a shriek, exclaiming, \"Murder is it? Is it mad you's are? Would you\ngo making murder in this place, and it piled with poteen for our drink\nto-night?\" Different too, is the laughter at the Rabelaisian touches and\nat the farcical situations in which the plays abound.\n\nIf ever there were characters that lived a life apart from their\nauthor's, those characters are Synge's. It is in the verses and in the\ntravel sketches that we get the man himself, the man back of the\ndramatist that gives to his characters a life independent of his own, a\nlife that he knows partly in reality and partly in imagination, but that\nhe himself has lived chiefly as an observer and imaginer. There is no\nhumor in these verses and travel sketches, not even when he is\ndescribing a humorous scene such as that of the upsetting by pigs\nrunning wild of the constabulary busy about evictions on Inishmaan. We\nget the man himself, I say, in these verses and travel sketches, a man\nexulting in primitiveness, in wildness, in beauty of woman and child, in\nbeauty of landscape; but exulting, more than in all else, in his own\nmoods aroused by these things that he loved. Even here, however, he is\nat times almost impossibly impersonal, so that you feel in a certain\ndescription that there is no man between you and the thing described,\nbut that, to adapt a phrase of Thoreau, it is the hills and the sea and\nthe atmosphere writing. This impersonality persists even in \"The Aran\nIslands,\" so large a part of which is very personal in that it is a\nstatement of his daily life on Inishmaan. It is not, however, from the\nimpersonal writing that I would quote,--though I would emphasize this\nimpersonality because it is part of the very nature of the man,--but\nfrom the personal parts, because they reveal more of the positive part\nof him. After a day of storm on Inishmaan, the middle island of the\nthree that make up the Aran group, Synge writes: \"About the sunset the\nclouds broke and the storm turned to a hurricane. Bars of purple cloud\nstretched across the sound where immense waves were rolling from the\nwest, wreathed with snowy fantasies of spray. Then there was the bay\nfull of green delirium and the Twelve Pins touched with mauve and\nscarlet in the east.\" That is the Connacht coast, and this the next\nparagraph is Synge: \"The suggestion from this world of inarticulate\npower was immense, and now at midnight, when the wind is abating, I am\nstill trembling and flushed with exultation.\" And here is Synge again,\nin another temper, which came to him on the seas about Inishmaan: \"The\nblack curagh working slowly through this world of gray, and the soft\nhissing of the rain, gave me one of the moods in which we realize with\nimmense distress the short moment we have left us to experience all the\nwonder and beauty of the world.\"\n\n\"The Aran Islands\" is most memorable of his travel writings, because he\nspent more time on these rocks at the world's end and came closest here\nto the soul of Irish life. There are passages, however, in his\ndescription of the Kerry coast, and even in his newspaper sketches of\nthe coast of Connemara, that tell not only of the places but of their\nvisitor. \"I got on a long road running through a bog,\" he writes in \"In\nWest Kerry,\" \"with a smooth mountain on one side and the sea on the\nother, and Brandon in front of me, partly covered with clouds. As far\nas I could see there were little groups of people on their way to the\nchapel at Ballyferriter, the men in homespun and the women wearing blue\ncloaks, or, more often, black shawls twisted over their heads. This\nprocession along the olive bogs, between the mountains and the sea, on\nthis gray day of autumn, seemed to wring me with the pang of emotion one\nmeets everywhere in Ireland, an emotion that is partly local and\npatriotic, and partly a share of the desolation that is mixed everywhere\nwith the supreme beauty of the world.\"\n\nThe comment on Ireland, her ways and her place among the peoples, that\nmany a dramatist would have permitted himself to express through some\ncharacter chosen to play chorus to the action, Synge now and then\npermits himself in the travel sketches. In \"From Galway to Gorumna,\"\nwhich he wrote for the \"Manchester Guardian's\" investigation of the\ncongested districts, is one of such rare avowals, an avowal to treasure\nalong with those of his all too short prefaces: \"It is part of the\nmisfortune of Ireland that nearly all the characteristics which give\ncolor and attractiveness to Irish life [he has been speaking of 'men\ndressed in homespuns of the gray natural wool, and the women in deep\nmadder-dyed petticoats and bodices, with brown shawls over their heads']\nare bound up with a social condition that is near to penury, while in\ncountries like Brittany the best external features of the local\nlife--the rich embroidered dresses, for instance, or the carved\nfurniture--are connected with a decent and comfortable social\ncondition.\"\n\nIt is this penury, perhaps, and its gray background that by way of\ncontrast emphasize so strongly the moments of splendor that Irish\nlandscape knows. One such moment Synge saw as he looked southward across\nthe bay from the Dingle peninsula toward Killarney: \"The blueness of the\nsea and the hills from Carrantuohill to the Skelligs, the singular\nloneliness of the hillside I was on, with a few choughs and gulls in\nsight only, had a splendor that was almost a grief in the mind.\"\n\nThis splendor Synge found also in his own Wicklow, a lonelier country\nthan Aran, if loneliness comes from absence of human life. And if there\nis not the loneliness of the sea in the inland glens that Synge knew so\nwell, there is in them the equal loneliness of the mountains. It is this\ncounty of Wicklow that is the background of \"In the Shadow of the Glen\"\nand of \"The Well of the Saints\" and of \"The Tinker's Wedding.\" And\nperhaps had not the Abbey Theatre grown to be a theatre for folk-drama\nand for poetic drama of court romance alone, Synge would have made\nWicklow the background of dramas of a high life of yesterday. Certain it\nis that in these passages he is thinking of it:--\n\n     Every one is used in Ireland to the tragedy that is bound up with\n     the lives of farmers and fishing-people; but in this garden one\n     seemed to feel the tragedy of the landlord class also, and of the\n     innumerable old families that are quickly dwindling away. These\n     owners of the land are not much pitied at the present day, or much\n     deserving of pity; and yet one cannot quite forget that they are\n     the descendants of what was at one time, in the eighteenth century,\n     a high-spirited and highly cultivated aristocracy. The broken\n     greenhouses and mouse-eaten libraries, that were designed and\n     collected by men who voted with Grattan, are perhaps as mournful in\n     the end as the four mud walls that are so often left in Wicklow as\n     the only remnants of a farmhouse. The desolation of this life is\n     often of a peculiarly local kind, and if a playwright chose to go\n     through the Irish country houses he would find material, it is\n     likely, for many gloomy plays that would turn on the dying away of\n     these old families, and on the lives of the one or two delicate\n     girls that are left so often to represent a dozen hearty men who\n     were alive a generation or two ago.\n\nI have dwelt on these travel sketches of Synge not alone for their own\nsake, but because they are, as I have said, the background of the plays,\nand because they contain what are in a sense the diary notes out of\nwhich the plays grew. In a sense, too, they are a commentary on the\nplays, and as I have also said a revelation of the playwright. All must\nbe read for a thorough understanding of the plays, though these alone\nshould be a delight to all, even if they know no more of Ireland than\nthat share of human nature which is axiomatically the same in all men of\nall races. If you do not read the travel sketches, you may fail to see\nhow deeply sympathetic Synge is with the Irish peasant, and in no\npatronizing way. In \"The Aran Islands\" he takes the greatest care to\ndisguise the identity of those he knew intimately lest they be pained by\nanything he wrote of them. No one could write with higher courtesy of\nthose whose guest he had been than Synge. You, reading, are made one of\ntheir home circle, but no family secrets are betrayed. You are made\naware of their weaknesses, but there is never any disloyalty; and always\nin his records of them their virtues of courage and endurance, of\nadaptiveness and simplicity, of family stanchness and communal\nhelpfulness, outweigh the drunkenness and roguery that one expects from\nthe primitive. Synge is, indeed, not only loyal, but full of respect and\nliking for the Aran Islanders, and of admiration for their rich\nhumanity.\n\nIt was out of his island life and out of his life of the roads, and out\nof his mood, once he knew his doom, that he made the twenty-two poems of\nhis that are retained of a great deal that he had written, most of it in\nhis younger years. That Synge faced his fate with bravery the triumphant\ntone of \"Deirdre of the Sorrows\" that I have instanced is proof, but\nthere could not but be moments when the thought of death was too instant\nto be denied. It was in such mood he wrote, either toward the end, or in\nearlier moments of anticipation of it, \"Queens,\" \"On an Anniversary,\"\n\"To the Oaks of Glencree,\" \"A Question,\" and \"I've Thirty Months.\" There\nis in these verses a certain morbidity, an almost ghoulishness, that is\nvery seldom present elsewhere in his writing. And yet I may be wrong in\nattributing it to his certainty of approaching death, for there is a\nmore intense preoccupation with death in the plays of M. Maeterlinck's\nyouth and a greater ghoulishness in the verse of Mr. Hardy's youth. It\nis of Mr. Hardy's verses that one thinks oftenest as one reads these\nverses of Synge, and not only because of certain likenesses in\nsubject-matter, but because of the imperfect mastery of both over the\nverse forms and a certain epigrammatic gnomic quality common to both.\nThe verses of Synge are not relatively so important in comparison with\nthe rest of his writing as Mr. Hardy's verses are in comparison with the\nrest of his writing, for they are not needed to explain a philosophy of\nlife as are Mr. Hardy's verses. Fortunately, Synge attempted no\nphilosophy, had the rare wisdom to rest content with observation.\n\nIn regard to poetry, as to all his art, Synge had, however, definite\nviews, though his verse is almost too little in bulk to exemplify them.\nIt was the poetry of exaltation, as it was the drama of exaltation, as\nit was the exaltation in living, of change and speed and danger and\nlove, that meant most to him. He held further that \"in these days poetry\nis usually a flower of evil or good; but it is the timber of poetry that\nwears most surely, and there is no timber that has not strong roots\namong the clay and worms.\" The verse of Synge, as all his art, was so\nrooted, surely. \"Even if we grant,\" he continues, \"that exalted poetry\ncan be kept successful by itself, the strong things of life are needed\nin poetry also, to show that what is exalted or tender is not made by\nfeeble blood. It may almost be said that before verse can be human again\nit must learn to be brutal.\"\n\nIt is sayings of this sort that bring to mind his kinship with Whitman,\nto whom he is also bound by the freemasonry of the roads. Both men felt\nthe call of the road; both loved the changing landscape and the little\nadventures of the caravansaries; both loved most of all the men and\nwomen they met. Once only Synge seems to have forgotten humanity when he\ntook to the road, that time which he has recorded in \"Prelude\":--\n\n  \"Still south I went and west and south again,\n  Through Wicklow from the morning till the night,\n  And far from cities, and the sights of men,\n  Lived with the sunshine, and the moon's delight.\n\n  \"I knew the stars, the flowers, and the birds,\n  The gray and wintry sides of many glens,\n  And did but half remember human words,\n  In converse with the mountains, moors, and fens.\"\n\nIt is to this, to the wandering wayside life of Synge that one's thought\nof him always returns, and rightly, for it was the road that most\ninspired him. It is the memory of the road that most kindles him; and so\nit is always to the man of the road that he gives his most lyric\npassages; or, perhaps, I should say it is the speech that the thought of\nthe man of the roads or of the woman of wild heart raises in his mind\nthat is his most beautiful speech, with the very wildness of the\nwandering heart in it, and with the long swing that comes, with second\nwind, when you have been a day abroad on the road.\n\nWhat if the words have now the clauber of the roads upon them, and even\nthe muck, and now the reek of the shebeen or of the tinker's fire in a\nroadside ditch; they have, too, the bog smell, and the smell of the\nwhin, the smell of ploughed land and of the sea, and they fall into\ncadences that are cadences of the wind and of the tides, of full rivers\nand clucking streams that sudden rains have filled, as well as the\ncadences of the voices of boy and girl and they love-making, and of the\nvoices of the wild folk of the roads coaxing or loudly quarreling, and\nthe voices of women and men, young and old, lamenting the hard way of\nlife and of the sorrow that waits for all in the end. Why quarrel with\nSynge, in short, because his style is of the very essence of life, and\nof nature, which is the background of life?\n\nTo attain a style that is his very self, that is of the very color of\nhis life, and of the very color of the extravagant phases of the life of\nhis country, to attain a style that embodies all this, and that for the\nfirst time sets English dramatic prose to a rhythm as noble as the\nrhythm of blank verse, is surely in itself title to greatness. But Synge\nhas other titles, too. In the few characters that he has created, forty\nin all, characters all natively Irish, he has attained universality,\nbecause these Irish men and women, Nora and Martin Doul, Sarah Casey and\nChristy Mahon, Maurya and Deirdre, are so human that they are prototypes\nof men and women the world over. And of dialogue, where style and\ncharacterization blend, he has sure control. Each character of the six\ngreat characters that I have just mentioned speaks and acts just as such\na character would, and not only these, but every other character that\noccupies the stage for more than a moment. Michael Dara and Timmy the\nSmith, the Priest or Philly Cullen, Bartley and Owen, each one has an\nindividuality clearly defined.\n\nThere is less that is great in the structure of his plays than in any\nother component of them, but that structure always clearly reveals the\naction which arises from the emotion and theme underlying each,--the\nmenacing sea in \"Riders to the Sea\"; the loneliness of the mountain\nglens that drives men fey in \"The Shadow of the Glen\"; the blindness,\nthe blessed self-delusion of mankind, in \"The Well of the Saints\"; the\nwildness of the life of the roads that law may not tame, in \"The\nTinker's Wedding\"; the boy's finding of himself through his having to\nlive up to a community's mistaken ideal of him, in \"The Playboy of the\nWestern World\"; and the benison of death that prevents a great love from\ndying, in \"Deirdre of the Sorrows.\"\n\nAlways the joy of making something beautiful out of his experience and\ndream of life is what inspires Synge to write, and though the intention\nto read life truly is a passion with him, there is never a suggestion of\ndidacticism, or even of moralizing, though \"The Well of the Saints\" is\nunquestionably, whether he wills it so or not, a symbol of man's\ndiscontent with things as they are, his preference in some things of the\nlie to the truth. I think that Synge did not will to make \"The Well of\nthe Saints\" a symbol, and that the play was to him but a reading of\nlife, as life is, in his characteristic, exalted, ironic, extravagant\nway of writing, and that if he was aware of the symbolism, he was not\nkeenly aware of it or much interested in it. He gives us life untroubled\nby the passing agitation of the day, and for that we should be thankful,\nand thankful, too, that he has given in his plays \"the nourishment, not\nvery easy to define, on which our imaginations live.\" His irony, as\ndesolating to some as the irony of Swift, gives pause to all, as insight\nalways will, but to me his extravagance is a joy unalloyed, and his\nexaltation, so rare a thing in modern literature, should bring to all\nmen delight and refreshment of spirit. No reading, or seeing and\nhearing, of his plays leaves me without a feeling of richness or\nwithout wonder and large content. He gives back my youth to me, both in\nthe theatre and in my library, and, in the glow that is mine in such\nrecapture, I call him the greatest dramatist in English that our stage\nhas known in a century. That I know him to be on sober second thought,\nsecond thought that has been concerned with his art, as I followed it\ndeveloping during the slow years from \"Riders to the Sea\" to \"Deirdre of\nthe Sorrows.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE YOUNGER DRAMATISTS--MR. PADRAIC COLUM--MR. WILLIAM BOYLE--MR. T.C.\nMURRAY--MR. S. LENNOX ROBINSON--MR. RUTHERFORD MAYNE--\"NORREYS\nCONNELL\"--MR. ST. JOHN G. ERVINE--MR. JOSEPH CAMPBELL\n\n\nOne wonders whether it is not of himself Mr. Padraic Colum is writing as\n\"The dawn-man ... in the sunset.\" That phrase arrests one on the first\npage of his little book of verse \"Wild Earth\" (1909), in the first poem,\n\"The Plougher.\" It refers, of course, to an elemental man of to-day, to\nthe peasant of the great central plain of Ireland, who is \"brute-tamer,\nplough-maker, earth-breaker,\" just as truly as it does to the breaker of\nhorses who drove furrows with a tree-knee through primordial mould; and\nit carries us in imagination back to the man of the Stone Age by way of\nmany other ploughmen, by way of the last man we saw between\nplough-handles who appealed to our imagination, a man limned against an\nApril sky from which the sun had passed to leave all the west that\ngold-green that the greatest of Westmoreland dalesmen loved; by way of\nthat Dumfries peasant whose\n\n                         \"conquering share\n  Upturned the fallow fields of truth anew\";\n\nby way of Wayland Smith, whose anvils dot the shores of Britain; by way\nof Tubal Cain, \"an artificer in brass and iron,\" of the seed of Cain, \"a\ntiller of the ground.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOne wonders is it not of himself that the poet writes, though what he\nwrites takes us far from him, carrying us in thought halfway round the\nworld and back through civilizations that have passed. But whether it is\nof himself that Mr. Colum writes or not, he is certainly, in a sense,\n\"The dawn-man ... in the sunset.\" The \"Glory of the Gael\" that is\nto-day, if it is \"glory,\" is glory of sunset, of \"purples and splendors\"\nthat pass; there are those who hold that the race that \"went forth to\nbattle,\" but \"always fell,\" is already passed beyond the sunset, into\nthe twilight, that twilight that is the time of day so surely symbolical\nof the writing of the many Irish poets that have followed after Mr.\nYeats. Mr. Colum, however, whether his race be in twilight or sunset, is\nof the dawn. He is of the dawn not only because he is the youth, at\noldest the young man, in his writing, who sees the world freshly and\nfresh, none the less fresh because he knows it old; but he is of the\ndawn because it is chiefly those things that are fundamentals, that come\nout of the beginnings of things, that interest him profoundly, that stir\nhim deeply. Subtleties and complexities, decadent things, are not for\nhim, but simplicities, primordial things, the love of wandering, and\nwhat is only less old, the love of land; and love of woman. These three\nthings, and youth, and little else, concern him. Mr. Colum writes,\nindeed, in the dedication to \"Thomas Muskerry\" (1910) that he has set\ndown \"three characters that stood as first types in my human comedy, the\npeasant, the artist, the official, Murtagh Cosgar, Conn Hourican,\nThomas Muskerry.\" It is not, however, the official that Mr. Colum\nemphasizes in \"Thomas Muskerry,\" but the man who longs for a quiet\nlittle place where he may be free from the nagging of his daughter and\nher children; and in Myles Gorman, in this same play, is sounded that\nother call that is recurrent in his work, the call of the road. We see\nmore of wanderer than of artist, too, in Conn Hourican, though Mr. Colum\ncalls the play he made for him \"The Fiddler's House\"; and here, too, the\nlove of land is a motive--love of land and the wander-love battle in\n\"The Land\" (1905), with love of woman the deciding factor in the\nlatter's victory.\n\nMr. Colum would not be an Irishman if nationality and religion were not\nalso motives in his plays and poems, but it is only in his 'prentice\nwork that either appears as a leading motive. From a good deal of\nwriting, most of which appeared originally in \"The United Irishmen,\" he\nhas republished only the three plays before mentioned, \"The Land\"\n(1905), \"The Fiddler's House\" (1907), \"Thomas Muskerry\" (1910), his\nmiracle play, \"The Miracle of the Corn,\" and two stories in \"Studies\"\n(1907), and what he wishes to preserve of his verse in \"Wild\nEarth\" (1909).\n\nIt was through \"The Daughters of Erin\" that Mr. Colum came in touch with\nthe dramatic movement. Their plays and tableaux in the Antient Concert\nRooms in 1900 attracted his attention, and he wrote to the secretary,\ninclosing with the note copies of two plays that he had written--the\ndramatic achievements of his late 'teens. These plays were about the\n\"Children of Lir,\" that one of \"The Three Sorrows of Story-Telling\"\nthat is less poignant than the story of Deirdre only because it is less\nhuman, and about Brian Boru, the high king that beat back the Danes at\nClontarf. Faery and mediaeval history were not destined, however, to be\nMr. Colum's field, and Mr. Fay, then stage manager of the Association\nproductions, probably helped him on the way to his true field, the life\nof the peasant of the Midlands, by declaring them rubbish. Two years\nlater Mr. Colum had learned enough about life and about the stage to\nwrite a play against enlistment in the English army that held the\nattention of audiences and was regarded as good propagandist \"stuff.\"\n\"The Saxon Shillin',\" produced May 15, 1903, Mr. Colum has not\nrepublished, nor \"The Kingdom of the Young\" (1902), which like its\npredecessor was published in \"The United Irishmen.\" With this last play,\nas its title indicates, Mr. Colum found his way to that subject of\nyouth, which, whatever other one of his dominant motives his plays may\ninvolve, is always present. The hardness of youth is the theme of \"The\nKingdom of the Young,\" the hardness that came into the heart of a\ndaughter, when driven into revolt by the older generation. She turns on\nher father in the end, determined that she will not be cheated of the\njoy of life as was he.\n\nIn \"The Foleys,\" another little play of the same year, 1902, a play that\nfor all its crudity and incompleteness is full of insight into Catholic\nIreland, youth is again the theme, or the intolerance and\nself-righteousness of youth. \"Eoghan's Wife\" (1902) is only a monologue,\nonly the old story of the woman who finds her home lonely and\ndepressing because the wrong man is the man of the house. She looks out\nover \"brown bogs with black water,\" wondering what is the way of escape\nfrom it all.\n\n\"Broken Soil,\" put on at the Abbey Theatre on December 4, 1903, is the\nfirst play of Mr. Colum with which, in after years, he was in any way\ncontent, but he was not too content with it, rewriting it in 1907 as\n\"The Fiddler's House,\" and, I think, in the main improving it.\n\nMr. Colum, a youth with an appetite for reading as insatiable as his\nimpulse to write, read not only his Ibsen but his M. Maeterlinck. Back\nof \"Broken Soil\" is Ibsen, back of \"The Miracle of the Corn\" is M.\nMaeterlinck. \"The Miracle of the Corn\" was put in rehearsal by the Irish\nNational Theatre Society in 1904, but so far as I know it was never\nplayed by that organization, its first staging I have record of being by\n\"The Theatre of Ireland\" at the Abbey Theatre on May 22, 1908. Here\nagain is youth a leading theme, the power youth has, if it be wistful\nand tender and pleading, to soften the heart of age. It may seem to some\nthat the girl Aislinn is only a symbol, only the dream of his youth\nreturned to the farmer Fardorrougha, who has hardened his heart even in\nfamine time, but whether apparition, or child of the flesh and symbol,\ntoo, Aislinn is the bringer-back to Fardorrougha of the soft heart of\nyouth.\n\nAs the Irishman in America is preferably a city dweller, it may be a\nlittle difficult for his fellow Americans of other ancestry to\nunderstand why the Irishmen at home were so concerned with Mr. Colum's\nnext play, whose theme, as whose title, is \"The Land.\" The cry for a\nhome and a bit of land, a cottage around a hearth and around the\ncottage a few acres of your own, is a cry that has been heard in all\nages and among all people. It is a cry that we all have cried at times,\ngypsy-hearted though we be; it is a cry that even the city-loving\neighteenth century raised in all the \"Mine be a cot\" poems, whether of\nPomfret or Pope or any other of the many who followed the same fashion,\nand it is a cry that is especially loud in present-day America. But none\nof us can feel the call of the land, none of us can desire it with more\nintensity than the Irishman of to-day, city-dweller though we find his\nkin in America; there is no one class of people anywhere in the world\nwho want the land as the Irish peasants of to-day want it. Their fathers\nand grandfathers saw the fields that they had farmed turned into\npastures for cattle, as the Scotch crofters saw their holdings turned\ninto deer-parks; the two generations of Irishmen now respectively in old\nage and middle age have known what it is to be taxed out of the places\ntheir improvements as tenants made more valuable; and to-day those of\nthe old folk that are still alive and those of the middle years that are\nstill in Ireland are getting back to the land, along with the younger\ngeneration that desires it almost as ardently, but were not born upon\nit, profiting by legislation that compels landlords to sell to the\nGovernment, which in turn sells to the small proprietors.\n\nThe Irish peasant loves his bit of land far more than his language, and\neven more, I think, in the bottom of his heart, than he loves his\nchurch, although allegiance to his church is a duty that he puts before\nany love. A boreen in bogland is not a lonely place to the Irish\npeasant if he have neighbors of long standing. It is the big city that\nto him at home seems the lonely place, despite the glamour of its\nlights, and its shops, and its ceaseless excitements.\n\nThe story of \"The Land\" is, as I have said, the story of the struggle\nbetween love of land and the _Wanderlust_, with the love of woman as the\ndecisive factor in the latter's victory. Matt Cosgar is the son of a\npeasant farmer, the last of many that the hardness of Murtagh has driven\nto America, and he, too, goes in the end, after his father's will is\nbroken, because the girl of his choice is restless and will not be\ncontent as a farmer's wife. Matt and Ellen, the fit and the strong, go\nto America, Cornelius and Sally, the hair-brained and the drudge,\nremain. Symbolic this is, of course, of the situation in Ireland to-day,\nor at least yesterday, but the characters are strongly individualized\nand show no tendency to harden into types. In \"The Land\" the\nrestlessness of youth, its call to wander, is the motive that clashes\nwith love of the home and of the home place. In \"The Fiddler's House\"\nthere is youth desiring peace, and youth afraid of love, in Annie and\nMaire Hourican; and the call of the road to old Conn, the fiddler.\nSacrifice is rare in youth, and if it were not that Maire is afraid of\nher love for Brian McConnell, and gives up her home and takes to the\nroad with her father partly because she fears her love for her lover,\nfears her powerlessness with him, it would hardly be in the course of\nnature that she would sacrifice so much for her sister. It was a sure\ninstinct that guided Mr. Colum so to make believable a sacrifice at\nfirst view seemingly so great. Even in this play, which Mr. Colum\nintends as a study of the artistic temperament, the land is a motive\nsecond only to the call of the road. Maire cared somewhat for the land,\nless than her sister cared, more than her father cared, though he too\nloved it in so far as the artist's gypsy nature will permit. It is the\nroad and his music, however, that Conn cares for most, and in his\nexpression of such love he attains to an eloquence that is Mr. Colum at\nhis best: \"I'm leaving the land behind me, too; but what's the land,\nafter all, against the music that comes from the far strange places,\nwhen the night is on the ground, and the bird in the grass is quiet?\" As\none reads, aloud, as one must, one thinks now of the Old Testament and\nnow of Synge.\n\nAlthough Mr. Colum determined to put aside thoughts of dramas of old\nIreland in 1900, he evidently could not keep the old legends out of his\nmind. They intrude now and then into his verses for all his modernity,\nand one of them, \"The Destruction of the House of Da Derga,\" forced him\nto turn it into a play. \"The Destruction of the Hostel\" has not been\npublished, but it seems to have pleased those who saw and heard it as\nplayed by the boys of St. Enda's School on February 5, 1910.\n\nIn the last play, too, of Mr. Colum, the ending is a parting, here the\nparting that death brings. Telling the fortunes of poor old Thomas\nMuskerry, who in the end dies a pauper in the workhouse where once he\nwas master, the play opens our eyes to that life of the small town,\ndeadliest of lives the world over, a life knowing neither the freedom of\nthe farm nor the freedom of the city, as such life is lived in Ireland.\nIn \"Thomas Muskerry,\" in \"The Land\" and \"The Fiddler's House,\" the\ncharacterization is sure and true. One may take it that this is Ireland,\nIreland on the average, as one cannot take it that that we have in the\nplays of Synge or Lady Gregory is Ireland on the average. Crofton\nCrilly, the son-in-law of the master, soft and big and blond, is an\nunsympathetic but memorable portrait. Unsympathetic and memorable, too,\nare the portraits of his son Albert and his daughter Anna, the one\ntricky and the other grasping, and the workhouse porter and the old\npiper haunt my memory as strange men I have met haunt my memory, year in\nand year out.\n\nAll three of these plays are, as I have said, sprung of domestic\nproblems, sure proof that Mr. Colum is the peasant's son. The family, as\nhe has pointed out in an article in \"The United Irishmen,\" is not only\nwhat the family is, ordinarily, in northwestern Europe, but that plus\nthat which the Irish family has inherited of the clan spirit. It was\nonly yesterday in Ireland that the girl and boy were married to whom\ntheir fathers would, by a process of barter in which their own wishes\nwere not for a moment considered. They submitted, or came to America. It\nwas a patriarchal system of society.\n\nIt is not, then, difficult to see how it came about that Mr. Colum, who\nbegan to write so young, came to write so much about youth and the\nrebellion of youth, and to write about those other themes of his, themes\nall of them made more intense by the youth that is concerned with\nthem--the land that obsesses the life of the man of the house all\nIreland over, and through him obsesses the lives of his family; and love\nof woman.\n\nMr. Colum does not intrude his own personality into his plays, but it is\nfelt, as it should be felt, in every one of lyrics. Reading them one has\na sense of a youth like the youth of some characters in his plays; a\nyouth more manly than Cornelius's, less restless than Ellen's; a youth\nserious and troubled with thought; a youth in revolt against much in the\nold order, but tolerant of the passing generation that fears it\n\"knocking at the door.\" It is a youth impassioned rather than\npassionate, more pronouncedly a youth of mind than a youth of heart.\nWhen I say youth of mind, I mean not immaturity of mind, but the outlook\nof the young mind; not radicalism, but a fixed determination to think\nthings out afresh and not to accept them because of any convention.\n\nEloquence one always looks for in the writing of an Irishman, and humor\nand power over dialogue, but Mr. Colum is too serious with youth to care\nmuch for humor, and, like Mr. Martyn, though not to the same extent, he\nhas trouble with his dialogue. The feeling for the situation, the\nunderstanding of what is in the characters' minds, is in Mr. Colum, but\nthe dialogue does not always accommodate itself to situation and\nthought. What Mr. Colum makes his characters say has in it the thought\nand the sentiment of what they would say, but the words as often lack\nlife as have it. It is this difficulty with dialogue that has prevented\nMr. Colum, in his plays, true and finely planned as they are, from\nreaching great achievement. As dramatist he is still more full of\npromise than of achievement, and to be a dramatist of promise after ten\nyears of playwriting is to be at a standstill. In lyric poetry it is\notherwise with Mr. Colum. There he has attained. You will find his real\nvalue in \"Wild Earth\" slight though the book may seem. Here is reading\nof life, here is imagination, here is lyric cry. Read these little poems\nonce and they will be your familiars forever.\n\n\nMR. WILLIAM BOYLE\n\nOne wonders if justice has been done Mr. William Boyle. If it has not it\nis because he is a playwright of one play, \"The Building Fund\" (1905).\nHe has written three other plays that count, \"The Eloquent Dempsey\"\n(1906), \"The Mineral Workers\" (1906), and \"Family Failings\" (1912), but\n\"The Building Fund\" is of a higher power than any of these. \"Family\nFailings,\" produced in the spring of 1912, I have not read, but\naccording to all accounts it does not mark any advance upon \"The Mineral\nWorkers\" or \"The Eloquent Dempsey.\" \"The Mineral Workers,\" essentially a\npropagandist play, and \"The Eloquent Dempsey,\" essentially a satire, are\nhardly, even in intention, of the first order of seriousness in art.\nThere are characters in these two plays faithful to human nature, and\nfaithful to the ways of eastern Galway, where the scenes of all of the\nplays of Mr. Boyle are laid. But there are so many other characters in\nthem that are either caricatures or \"stock\" that, funny as the plays\nseem upon the stage, they do not impress the deliberate judgment as\nreal. The many characters of \"The Mineral Workers\" and its several\nmotives are too much for Mr. Boyle; he loses his grip and the play\nfalls to pieces. \"The Eloquent Dempsey\" suffers from the caricaturing of\nits characters, and its action degenerates into unbelievable farce\nalmost on the curtain-rise. \"The Building Fund,\" however, is serious and\ntrue, and at the same time just as full of wit and just as biting in\nsatire and just as effective on the stage as \"The Eloquent Dempsey.\" Its\ncharacterization is recognized as distinctive and authentic even on\nreading. Revealed through the almost perfect work of the players trusted\nwith its presentation by the Abbey Theatre on their American tour of\n1911-12, it seemed even more than distinctive and authentic, it seemed\ninspired by profound insight.\n\n\"The Building Fund\" tells the story of the outgeneraling of grasping son\nand conniving daughter's daughter by a hard old woman of the strong\nfarmer class in the west of Ireland. Mrs. Grogan is approached as the\ncurtain rises by Michael O'Callaghan, an elderly farmer, and Dan\nMacSweeney, a young farmer, in the role of collectors for the fund for\nthe new Catholic church. They are sent away by her and by her son Shan\nwithout any contribution, but their visit suggests to her a way by which\nshe can disinherit her son and her granddaughter, wishful for her death,\nshe thinks, in their eagerness for her fortune. Shan is open in his\nconcern as to her disposal of her money; and although the girl hides her\npurpose under pretended solicitude for her grandmother's health and is a\ngreat help to the old woman, Mrs. Grogan believes her also to be\nplotting for the fortune and is equally resentful toward both. So when\nthe collectors call again, Mrs. Grogan makes a will, in which we learn,\non her death shortly after, she has left all her fortune away from her\nfamily to the church. For all their plotting, the audience feels that\nthe old woman is more malevolent than either son or granddaughter, and,\nafter all, the son had worked hard on the home place and the\ngranddaughter, slyboots as she was, undoubtedly was really kind. Both\nare of her blood, and it is human to feel that parents should leave\ntheir money to their children rather than to charity. There is some\namelioration of the condition of Shan and Sheila in the thought that\nthey may stay on, with Father Andrew's permission, as managers of the\nold farm, henceforth the church farm. But sympathize with them though\nyou may, you feel it is only right that selfishness should over-reach\nitself.\n\nThe play is not any more complimentary to Catholic Galway than \"The\nDrone\" of Mr. Mayne is complimentary to Protestant Down, but it is\nseldom that comedy is complimentary to human nature, and \"The Building\nFund\" is comedy. That is, it is comedy as Ibsen sees drama, or character\nfarce as Coleridge defines it. It is, in the Greek sense, perhaps even\ntragedy; certainly, it is tragedy from the standpoint of Shan and\nSheila, for circumstances certainly get the better of them. From Mrs.\nGrogan's standpoint it is comedy, for she, through her will, even though\nshe is now dead, has got the better of circumstances as represented by\nthe plotting of her son and granddaughter. If we look at \"The Building\nFund\" from the standpoint of Shan and Sheila, but without sympathy for\nthem, it is only character farce, for although circumstances get the\nbetter of them, we do not then care for them, and a play in which\ncharacters are overwhelmed by fate, but in which our sympathy is not\nwith them, is, if we follow Coleridge, really farce. Whatever \"The\nBuilding Fund\" is, its characterization is admirable. Some might say its\nmen and women approximate to types, that Mrs. Grogan is the avaricious\nold woman, Shan the sanctimonious miser, Sheila the sly minx, Michael\nthe benevolent old man, and Dan the gay blade. Types or not, you will\nfind all of them in Ireland, and all of them wherever human nature is\nhuman nature. If they are types, however, each has a personality, but\nwhether all of them would stand out with such individuality had one not\nseen them so fully realized on the stage, I cannot say. The tottering,\nbitter old woman of Miss Allgood and the miserly, fearful son of Mr.\nSinclair are more memorable than the other impersonations only in that\nthey are fatter parts than Sheila, Michael O'Callaghan, and Dan\nMacSweeney, played respectively by Miss McGee, Mr. O'Rourke, and Mr.\nO'Donovan.\n\nMother and son are, I am sure, just as complete in the writing of Mr.\nBoyle as in the acting of Miss Allgood and Mr. Sinclair. Both are,\nindeed, as finely imagined and as faithfully realized as any characters\nin modern English comedy. And you may have to go further afield than\nmodern English comedy to find such a minute study of resentful and\nmalevolent age as this portrait of Mrs. Grogan. We all know that\nperversity that will not allow its possessor to be satisfied with any\neffort to please. Here is an illustration of it as Mr. Boyle has seen\nit:--\n\n     _Sheila_. Will I boil an egg for your breakfast, granny?\n\n     _Mrs. Grogan_ (_sarcastically_). Oh, to be sure! More extravagance.\n     You know very well I couldn't eat it, and you'll have it for\n     yourself. Waste, waste; nothing but idleness and waste all round.\n     God help me! (_Coughs._)\n\n     _Sheila pours out a cup of tea and hands it to Mrs. Grogan._\n\n     _Sheila_. Drink that drop of tea, granny--it's fresh made.\n\n     _Mrs. Grogan_. What did you do with the bottom of the pot? Threw it\n     to the ducks, I suppose?\n\n     _Sheila_ (_pointing to the table_). I have it here for myself,\n     granny.\n\n     _Mrs. Grogan_ (_sipping tea_). When I was a girl I never got a sup\n     o' tea from year's end to year's end.\n\n     _Sheila_. It was very dear, then; wasn't it?\n\n     _Mrs. Grogan_. It's dear enough still with everybody using it all\n     day long. Did you feed the hens?\n\n     _Sheila_. Long ago, and let the ducks out, too.\n\n     _Mrs. Grogan_. I suppose it's in the oats they'll be by this time.\n     What about the calves? _Grogan goes out_.\n\n     _Sheila_. I gave them their milk and put them in the bawn.\n\n     _Mrs. Grogan_. With the linen on the hedge? Why, they'll chew it\n     into rags, and, maybe, choke themselves.\n\n     _Sheila_. No, granny, dear; I spread the linen in the upper garden,\n     where the sun comes the earliest.\n\n     _Mrs. Grogan_. I see it's stole ye want it. There's half a dozen\n     tinkers squatted in the quarry.\n\n     _Sheila_ (_wearily._) They went a week ago.\n\n     _Mrs. Grogan_. Ah, dear! There's what it is to be old! I never hear\n     anything that's going on now till it's all over. Is that egg\n     boiled?\n\n     _Sheila_. Granny, dear, I thought you couldn't take one.\n\n     _Mrs. Grogan_. It's the little bit I eat that's grudged me now, I\n     see.\n\nThough there is little of it in this passage that I quote, the\npicturesque phrase that no Irish writer is without is Mr. Boyle's, as a\nmatter of course, but there is no particular individuality in his\nhandling of it. Style he has not, nor any background of romance, or\nbeauty of that sort that illumines the grayness of the comedies of\nIbsen, or of any other sort of beauty than that approach to beauty there\nis in skilled craftsmanship.\n\nAdmirably arranged, too, are the situations of \"The Eloquent Dempsey,\" a\nsatire on the man who straddles all questions, as at one time, at any\nrate, did so many Irish politicians. Dempsey might have continued his\ncareer of straddling indefinitely had he not a mania for speech-making\nthat he could not control. In the end, however, he was undone by a\nwell-intentioned conspiracy, arranged by his wife, to get him out of\npolitics altogether and out of his liquor-selling and into farming far\nfrom town. I cannot identify Dempsey with any one prominent Irish\nstatesman, but the lesser fry on both Nationalist and Unionist sides are\nas easy to identify as the men that suggested the characters of \"A Tale\nof a Town.\" In \"The Eloquent Dempsey\" all the art of Mr. Boyle has been\nlavished on the central figure, which, when all is said, remains a\ncaricature, and caricature uncompensated for by any great or noble\ncharacteristic of the play, whose primal quality is but cleverness.\nEffective as its satire is, and provocative of laughter as it always is\non the stage, it is altogether cheaper in its quality than \"The Building\nFund.\"\n\n\"The Mineral Workers,\" with its chief portrait that of a returned\nIrish-American mining engineer, takes us to certain phases of society\nnot met among the publicans and politicians and peasants of Mr. Boyle's\nearlier plays. Other than these are not only the hero, Stephen J.\nO'Reilly, but the aristocrat, Sir Thomas Musgrove, and his sister, Mrs.\nWalton, who is of the family connection of Sir Arthur Wing Pinero's\nGeorgianna Tidman. Dan Fogarty, the holdback, unprogressive farmer, is\nthe sharpest-cut and truest to life of all the characters, so clear-cut\nand true, in fact, that one thinks of him as almost a fellow of Shan\nGrogan in \"The Building Fund.\" Uncle Bartle is sentimentalized, and\nKitty Mulroy has no such personality as Sheila O'Dwyer. Contrast \"The\nMineral Workers\" with a novel of the returned American, \"Dan the Dollar\"\nof Mr. Bullock, and the calibre of Mr. Boyle's play is quickly revealed.\n\nWhat Mr. Boyle had been had he come into touch with the movement ten\nyears earlier, it is of course beside the point to speculate. He was not\na young man when he first became acquainted with the art of the Abbey\nTheatre in London and was impelled to write plays for it. He was,\nthough, able to adapt the experience he had had as a story-writer to the\nstage in \"The Building Fund.\" That being so, why is it that his later\nplays, successful though they have been as vehicles for the purveying of\namusement on the stage, have not taken rank by their art or by their\nreading of life with \"The Building Fund \"? It may be that it was the one\ntheme susceptible of dramatic presentation that he had brooded over long\nenough to transmute into terms of drama, and that the later plays, full\nof successful stage tricks though they are, did not come out of his\nknowledge of Irish life. Knowledge of Ireland he ought to have, for he\nis said to have lived for comparatively long periods in various places\nin country as an excise officer. As such Mr. Boyle was himself one of\nthe principal types, that of the official, that exist in Ireland, and in\na position to learn much of many other types, surprisingly few of which\nhe has realized with any depth of insight in his plays.\n\nIt would seem with his great success seven years back and his newer\nplays less effective, that we cannot look to Mr. Boyle with great hope\nfor the future, as we can to Mr. Robinson or Mr. Murray. When we so say,\nhowever, let us remember that Lady Gregory did not attempt plays until\nshe was close on fifty.\n\n\nMR. T.C. MURRAY\n\nThe North is generally held to be another country than the rest of\nIreland. Ulster is alien alike in race and religion and economic\nconditions from Connacht and Leinster and Munster. It is Scotch Ireland,\nProtestant Ireland, industrial Ireland. It is, moreover,--many of its\ncitizens say therefore,--prosperous Ireland. Certainly men would not\ndivide all Irishmen into \"Irishmen\" and \"Scotch Irishmen\" were there not\nmany grounds for such a distinction. All other of the immigrants into\nIreland have, as a people, disappeared. The Norman has left his mark on\nthe land in his castles and his names, but as a distinctive element of\nthe population he no longer exists, any more than does Welshman or\nEnglishman or Palatinate. Apart from distinctions of class the men of\nIreland are \"Irishmen\" and \"Scotch Irishmen,\" and until yesterday,\ntherefore, Nationalists and Unionists.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAnd yet, definite as are these distinctions, life in the various parts\nof Ireland seems much alike, class for class, as it is represented by\nthe many contemporaneous playwrights, whether the scenes of their plays\nare Down or Kerry, Galway or Wicklow. A tinker is a tinker wherever you\nfind him, a strong farmer a strong farmer, a landlord a landlord. The\nsame emotions dominate rival brothers in \"The Turn of the Road\" and in\n\"Birthright,\" though the Orangeman turned actor wrote the one and the\nCork schoolmaster the other. Mr. T.C. Murray is one of those to whom Mr.\nYeats has given the name \"Cork Realists.\" His first play, \"The Wheel o'\nFortune,\" was produced by the Cork Dramatic Society at the Dun, Cork,\nDecember 2, 1909. It has not been published, so far as I know, and all\nthat I learn from the references to it in newspapers is that it is a\none-act ironic comedy about matchmaking. Mr. Murray brought his next\nplay, \"Birthright,\" to the Abbey Theatre, where it was performed on\nOctober 27, 1910. If \"Maurice Harte\" (1912) stands the test of time and\ntravel as has \"Birthright,\" Mr. Murray has come to the Abbey Theatre to\ntake a place of prominence among its playwrights. Some of the appeal of\n\"Birthright\" is in its story, the story of Cain and Abel, if you like, a\nstory that is as lasting in its appeal as is \"The Eternal Triangle,\" but\nthere is as much appeal in the characterization, which you feel as you\nread almost as intimately as you come to know it on the stage. There are\nmany plays that are altogether colorless in the reading unless you have\nunusual power of visualization and can see them as you sit in your study\nas if they were embodied before you on the stage. Such plays,\nvisualized or unvisualized in the study, are often real enough on the\nstage. \"Birthright,\" as I have said, is not one of these. It visualizes\nitself for you, with no effort on your part, as you read it, though of\ncourse, as every real play will, it moves you more in the playing. It\nwas admirably cast on its first production at the Abbey Theatre, and it\nwas just as admirably cast on the American tour of 1911-12, Miss\nO'Doherty's Maura and Mr. Morgan's Bat Morrissey being wonderful\npictures of a doting mother and a stern father troubled by their\npreferences, the one for the elder, the other for the younger son. The\nrival sons were done to the life by Mr. O'Donovan and Mr. Kerrigan, and\nthe neighbor of Mr. O'Rourke was, too, a complete realization of the\nIrish peasant of the valley of the Lee. It is a stern and patient\nrealism this of Mr. Murray in telling of how Hughie, the elder son, the\napple of his mother's eye, the idol of the parish for his hurly playing,\nand his verse-making, and his free and pleasant ways, is disinherited\nand condemned to seek his fortune in America by his father because his\nyounger son was the better man on the farm. There was back of Bat's\ndecision, too, his feeling that his eldest-born was more of his mother,\nwhose blood was part gentle, than of himself, the grubber of the earth.\nShane, like his father, was the peasant plowman, Hughie something of the\nsporting gentleman. The end of it all is murder, the younger son killing\nthe elder with the hurly when he is accused by his brother of plotting\nto grab the farm. Many who saw \"Birthright\" in America were moved by it\nmore than by any other play in the repertoire of the company, and I\nhave heard more than one whose supreme interest is the theatre say that\nit was the best play new to America presented in America during the\nwinter of 1911-12. I do not so hold, for \"The Well of the Saints\" and\n\"In the Shadow of the Glen\" were new to America in the winter of\n1911-12, and \"The Playboy of the Western World\" was new to every city in\nAmerica save to Chicago, where Mr. Hart Conway presented it at his\ndramatic school in the spring of 1909. I can, however, understand why\n\"Birthright\" so appealed. It is because of the theme, because of the\nbeautiful character of Maura Morrissey, because of the absolute\nfaithfulness to life, as all the world knows it, of the play. I have\ntraveled the road to Macroom that these farmers traveled, and so I know\nthe externals of the life they lead: I have known intimately and I know\nintimately just such people as these, Irish peasants, some of whom\nspoiled their children, thinking the boy they loved must not be\n\"crossed,\" and some of whom preferred one child to another even to the\nextent of reversing the custom of primogeniture that is as fixed a rule\namong them as if their property was entailed, and so I can vouch for the\nabsolute fidelity of Mr. Murray's art. It is a realism little relieved\nby humor; unrelieved either by any background of romance, but gaming a\ndignity from its intensity of conception and its simplicity of unfolding\nthat makes you feel, as you read, or as you watch and listen, that you\nare in the presence of nobility. Its style, maybe, is homespun, but it\nis none the worse for that, and it never approaches at all to the cheap\nor mean.\n\nThe appeal of this realism is as poignant in \"Maurice Harte\" (1912) as\nin \"Birthright,\" though the story of the later play is not so universal\nas is that of the play that brought Mr. Murray his share of fame.\n\"Maurice Harte\" tells of the disaster that comes to a young divinity\nstudent of Maynooth whose parents drive him back to college to seek\nordination even after he tells them that he has no vocation for the\npriesthood. The curtain rises on Maurice, a youth of twenty-two, trying\nto tell his mother, whose youngest he is, and the child of her middle\nage that it would be sacrilege for him to take orders with no vocation.\nHis courage fails him, as it had on previous occasions on which he tried\nto confess his agony because of his false position, and he finally begs\nthe Parish Priest to break the desolating news to the family. They are\nonly farmers in a small way, the Hartes: and the father and mother, the\nson at home, Owen, and the three older brothers in Boston, have all made\nsacrifices to give Maurice his education. When the priest tells of the\nboy's decision not to return to Maynooth, mother and father and brother\nall insist that he must stick to his earlier intention, vocation or no\nvocation.\n\nThey are in monetary difficulties because of him, and if the story went\nout that he was not back at Maynooth his mother declares it \"wouldn't be\neast in Macroom when we'd have the bailiffs walking in that door.\" She\ntells him, too, his being a spoiled priest will cost his brother his\nbride and her fortune that would help them to pay off their debts. The\nboy cannot withstand their pleading, and the first act ends with his\npromise that he will go back to Maynooth, a promise wrung from him even\nthough he knows at the time of its making that his return may bring him\nto madness in the end.\n\nAct II, nine months later, shows us again the kitchen of the farmhouse\nof West Cork, with happiness in the hearts of all there, save some\nslight apprehension on the father's part over his new clothes and the\nterrors of a journey with Father Mangan to Maynooth. In this relaxing of\nthe tension of the play humor is not out of place, and its attainment\nhere by Mr. Murray shows that he could write comedy did he choose. We\nhear that the marriage settlement between Bride Burke and Owen has been\nmade, and that Maurice is to marry them; and that he has bested all his\nclassmates in his final examinations. Upon the pride and happiness in a\nson sure of a good match, and the glory of another son about to be\n\"priested\" and to say mass in the local church, breaks in word that he\ncannot be ordained because of illness. And close upon this bad news\ncomes Maurice himself, broken down mentally from the strain of driving\nhimself to do what he knows to be wrong, from the strain of committing,\nas he believes, sacrilege. Father and mother and brother realize that it\nis they who have driven him mad, but such is human nature that mother\nand brother, at least, have thoughts of themselves even at this moment,\nas well as thoughts for Maurice with \"his mind that's gone.\" His brother\nfears that Bride will not come into a house so disgraced, and his\nmother, her years-long dream of her youngest a priest gone on the wind,\nis struck dumb with horror at the thought of what her life will be from\nthis out.\n\nThe full significance of the tragedy of Maurice's fate can be realized\nonly by those who know intimately the ambitions hugged close to heart by\nthe Irish Catholic mother. It is more to her to have her boy a priest\neven than it was yesterday to the Scotch Presbyterian mother to have her\nboy a minister of the Kirk. It is the greatest glory that can come to\nsuch a peasant mother to give one of her sons to the priesthood.\n\nThere is, I think, no propaganda in the play, and no intentional satire,\nalthough in a way \"Maurice Harte\" affords a parallel to so definitely a\npropagandist satire as Mr. Robinson's \"Harvest.\" It is not education\nthat is the curse, however, in \"Maurice Harte,\" but the belief that only\npriesthood in the end can justify the sacrifices without which a college\neducation is almost impossible for an Irish peasant. Certain it is that\nit is only for the pride of having their boy a priest that the typical\nIrish Catholic peasant parents would make such sacrifices as the Hartes\nhave made, sacrifices involving them in debt to the extent of a thousand\ndollars, to secure their son an education.\n\nIn a sense \"Maurice Harte\" is far other than the provincial study I have\nhere outlined. Its theme is allied, unquestionably, to that theme so\nmuch larger in its relations than that of the spoiled priest, the theme\nof the rebellious son, the son who will live his own life no matter what\nmay be his parents' will. It is only allied to it, however, not to be\nidentified with it, because Maurice is too fearful of disappointing his\nparents, and too shrinking and ineffectual, to go against his parents'\nwill. In Ireland, as I have said elsewhere, such parental will, by a\nsurvival of authority from the days of the clan system, was law until\nyesterday, and there will therefore be those, I have no doubt, who will\nfind in the play a conflict of the old order and the new, but I do not\nbelieve such conflict was the author's intent. Indeed, the play is\nwholly of the old order. No love of man and woman figures as motive in\nit as none had figured in \"Birthright.\" There is parental love, of\ncourse, in both plays, though in the case of both parents in \"Maurice\nHarte\" and in the father in \"Birthright\" parental pride is a stronger\nmotive than parental love. Very true to Irish life is this absence of\npassion as a deciding factor in the fates of man and woman, this\ninsistence upon the importance of the family, this subordination of the\nrights of the individual. Mr. Murray wished to write in \"Maurice Harte\"\na play of the very heart of Irish Catholic life, and such a play he has\nwritten, a play that marks no decline, either in characterization or\nsituation, from \"Birthright,\" and to say that is to give \"Maurice Harte\"\npraise of the highest.\n\n\nMR. S. LENNOX ROBINSON\n\nMr. Lennox Robinson, like most of the Abbey Theatre dramatists, has\nchosen to write about the ground under his feet. The son of a clergyman\nwhose charges have been in the southwest of Ireland, Mr. Robinson spent\nhis boyhood and youth in the Bandon Valley. He had been trying his hand\nat writing from the time that he was ten years old, editing an amateur\nmagazine as he grew older, feeling about for the thing that he could do.\nA visit of the Abbey Theatre Company to Cork was the awakening. He saw\na new acting, he saw a new art of the stage, and he knew as he saw that\nit was in drama his work lay. It was not, however, for the Cork Dramatic\nSociety that he did his first play, but for the Abbey Theatre. \"The\nClancy Name\" was put on on October 8, 1908, when its author was but four\ndays past his twenty-second birthday. What this first version was like I\ndo not know, but Mr. Robinson has reprinted the second version, put on\nwith the full strength of the National Theatre Society at the Abbey\nTheatre on September 30, 1909. As printed, it is an ironic little play,\nrecording the great day in the life of the Widow Clancy, the day on\nwhich she pays off a five years' loan and stands without a debt of any\nkind, her farm all her own, the Clancy name respected throughout her\nworld. But on this day of her triumph, when she would add to her\nhappiness by making a match for her son, John cannot rejoice with her,\nand on her questioning him as to his moodiness he blurts out that he is\nthe man who killed James Power, a quiet man whose unexplained\ndisappearance is the mystery of the countryside. Worse yet, John insists\nthat he will give himself up to the authorities. It is terrible to know\none's son a murderer; it is intolerable to think of a Clancy being\nhanged and of the glory of the name forever departed. She persuades him\nfinally not to tell, but he fears he will, so, when the chance comes, he\nfinds the only way out, the way of peace for his mother and peace for\nhimself. A car driven by a drunken neighbor is threatening the life of a\nlittle child playing in the middle of the road. John Clancy pushes him\nout of the way and allows himself to be driven down. They bring him to\nhis mother's house still alive and raving incoherently of the murder,\nbut he dies before he tells his secret and the Clancy name is saved. It\nis not a very gripping theme, but the play brings to us an acute\ncharacter study of the typical managing woman of the small farmer class.\nWe feel her tireless energy, her drive, her high pride, assets of worth\nin the fight to live. There is a little humor, natural and unforced,\nsome picturesqueness of phrase, a revelation of knowledge of life in one\ncorner of Ireland. There is nothing, however, in the play to make it\ncomparable with the three that followed it on the stage of the Abbey\nTheatre, \"The Crossroads\" (1909); \"Harvest\" (1910); and \"Patriots\"\n(1912). \"The Lesson of Life,\" a little one-act comedy, presented at the\nDun Theatre, Cork, December 2, 1909, Mr. Robinson has disowned. Why I do\nnot know, though the fact that it was not produced at the Abbey may\nindicate that even at the time of its production he felt that it was not\nup to the level of his work. Mr. Robinson has not republished \"The\nLesson of Life,\" but the reviews state that it was an amusing little\nplay, though in no way a serious reading of life.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"The Clancy Name,\" \"The Crossroads,\" \"Harvest,\" and \"Patriots\" are all\non themes that hit home at Irish institutions, and yet it would be wrong\nto say any one of them is basically either satirical or propagandist.\nAll are primarily readings of life. \"The Crossroads\" alone, perhaps, is\nmore than a reading of life. Certainly, after its needless prologue, it\nis fine art through to the end. This scene, with its satire of Irish\ndebating societies, is now, wisely, dropped when the play is produced.\nWe can learn enough of Ellen in the play itself to understand why she\ndoes as she does without this picture of her in Dublin. Her story is\nthat of a woman who hates the much talk of patriotism in Dublin and the\nlack of doing anything tangible for Ireland. In Dublin she has worked\nher way up from servant to assistant in a bookshop, but she goes back\nhappily to the country to give her sister a chance in town such as she\nhas had, thinking that perhaps she herself can lead her people into\nbetter ways of farming and of ordering their lives generally through the\nknowledge she has got in town. It is through such as Ellen that the\nIrish Industries Organization Society in actual life accomplishes an\nimportant part of its work.\n\nIn the first act of \"The Crossroads\" we find Ellen at home, in her old\npeasant dress, having made the hens lay so well in winter as to arouse\nwonder in a neighbor as to whether, \"Is it right for hens to be laying\nthat way so early in the year?\" A match is being made for her by her\nmother with a man that has a good farm. Ellen desires the match very\nmuch, for this is just the farm on which to try the new methods that\nshall bring prosperity to the people of the valley and so stem the\nemigration to America. She does not love Tom Dempsey, this strong\nfarmer, and she does half-love Brian Connor, whom she had known in\nDublin, but now that he has come down to ask her to marry him she\nchooses the farmer, brutal though she knows him, because as his wife she\ncan do the work for Ireland that she has imagined for herself. The\nloveless marriage, so universal an institution all over Ireland, made it\nnothing out of the way for Ellen to act as she did, even though at the\ntime of the action of the play a higher ideal of marriage than that of\nthe old matchmaking had come in. It is this institution that Mr.\nRobinson, from one point of view, might be thought to be attacking in\nthe play; it is this institution, certainly, that is the theme of the\nplay. Is it a tribute to Irishmen and Irishwomen to acknowledge that\nthis loveless marriage has worked on the whole as well as the marriage\nof sentiment, or as the marriage of sexual infatuation, or as the\nmarriage of comrade hearts that we believe we have in America? As a\nmatter of fact there were not as many loveless marriages as might seem\nat first thought. The match made up between the father of the girl and\nthe father of the boy was the usual sort of marriage among the\nstay-at-home Irish girls and boys up to 1880, but how many girls and\nboys for the past one hundred and fifty years have come to America to\nescape it? Look up your family traditions, you who have Irish ancestors,\nand find is it not true that these ancestors, whether Reeds of Down or\nNolans of Meath, fled to America because they would wed the mate of\ntheir choice. Even to-day boys and girls come here from the same motive,\nthough of course it would be preposterous to deny that to many it is\nrather Eldorado than the land of freedom.\n\nAct II reveals poor Ellen seven years later. She has lost her two boys\nby fever; she has failed in her work on her own farm, though she has\nbrought untold blessings of progressiveness to the other farms around\nBallygurteen; she has lost the appreciation of her husband. She whom we\nloved for a personality as winning as that of an Emma or a Tess is now\na drudge, almost a slattern, gray-haired, hopeless, almost hated by a\nbrutal husband. The loveless marriage has proved a curse. Upon the woman\nof his dreams so dethroned comes Brian Connor, now a successful\nnovelist, and, finding how things are, falls, for all his intended\nrestraint, into a fight with Tom, whom but for Ellen he would have\nchoked to death. Brian urges Ellen to go away with him, but, after a\nmoment's faltering, she refuses to go. This is the last scene. Tom, who\nhas heard Brian's proposal and his wife's rejection of it, comes slowly\ndown the room.\n\n     _Tom_. Was it me you saved or was it the young man? When you\n     pulled him off me, did you save me, or was it him you saved\n     from being hung? Tell me that, Ellen McCarthy.\n\n     [_Silence._\n\n     Ah! 't is aisy seen.\n\n     [_Puts his hat on, and goes to the door, and takes the key out\n     of the lock_.\n\n     _Ellen_ (_looking round_). What are you doing? (_Frightened._)\n     What are you doing?\n\n     _Tom_. I'll tell you what I'm doing. I'm locking the door the\n     way you won't go after that young man; an' I'm going to step\n     down to the village now for a sup of drink. An' then--I'm\n     coming back; an', by God, I'll make you pay for this night's\n     work, Ellen McCarthy, till you'd wish you were dead--for the\n     black curse you brought on this farm, an' for the liking you\n     have to the young man.\n\n     [_Goes out. Ellen remains sitting at the table, staring in\n     front of her with sad, hopeless eyes_.\n\nThe turning of the key in the lock ends the play, leaving brutality\nunimaginable as the fate of Ellen.\n\nIt is a severe reading of the Irish peasant, this of Tom Dempsey.\nMurder may come of his blackness of heart. He is a far worse man, of\ncourse, than poor John Clancy, who killed a man in an unpremeditated\nfight, sure murderer though Clancy be. Yet despite such heroes or at\nleast such characters in his plays, no one would say that in either \"The\nClancy Name\" or \"The Crossroads\" Mr. Robinson held a brief against the\nIrish peasant. He most certainly does not. He likes the Irish peasant.\nHis plays are \"stories of mine own people\" faithfully told. He does not\nspare the Cork farmer, but he does not distort him. Why however, his\n\"Harvest\" was allowed to be played unmolested in New York, after the\n\"The Playboy of the Western World\" met with organized opposition, can be\nexplained only by recognition of the fact that the Irishmen of the\npatriotic societies are slaves of precedent. \"The Playboy of the Western\nWorld\" had always met with opposition, so it should meet with opposition\nin New York. \"Harvest\" escaped in New York because its uncomplimentary\npersonages were unheralded. Not that there is anything in \"Harvest,\" any\nmore than in \"The Playboy of the Western World,\" that any\nself-respecting Irishman need object to. \"Harvest\" shows the disastrous\neffects the wrong sort of primary education, as taught by the country\nschoolmaster of the old type, the type that was prevalent before the\npresent type, brought about. The present-day schoolmaster is in sympathy\nwith system of education that will keep the children on the land or in\nan industry near the home place; the older type would give them an\neducation that would send them to the cities to be priests and lawyers\nand secretaries and typists and chemists and what-nots. Old William\nLordan, the schoolmaster, had, evidently, in the opinion of the\nplaywright, the sins of many on his shoulders, and yet one, knowing that\nit is the system and not the man that is at fault, cannot help feeling\nthat Mr. Robinson is rather severe on what is in life a really lovable\nthough mistaken sort of man.\n\n\"Harvest\" shows that of the six children of Tim Hurley, but the three\nthat come into the play are loyal to their father: Maurice, who works\nthe home farm; Jack, the apothecary's clerk from Dublin, who tries to\nhelp with the farmwork, but is too much of a weakling to be anything of\na help; and Mary, who from typist has turned mistress, now to this man,\nnow to that. Mary, come home to get away from her wrong life, is called\nback to London by the excitement of its life, which has become a\nnecessity to her. Jack, the chemist, in the end deserts the home; and is\noff at the end of the play, with his upper-class wife, for America or\nthe colonies. Only Maurice is more than half-entitled to our respect.\nThe son who is the priest is in America to collect for the Church at the\ntime of his family's need, and so is not helpful to his family; the\nsolicitor son is climbing socially, and, needing a motor-car to help him\nto position, prefers to spend his money on himself rather than on the\nhome place that was robbed to pay for his education; and the secretary\nson is so ashamed of \"the ditch out of which he was digged\" that he has\nchanged both his name and his religion.\n\nAll five of the children who went out from the home educated, as the\nschoolmaster wished them to go, have been educated at the expense of\nthose that remained on the farm, Maurice the hard-working farmer and old\nTimothy the father. But the father, too, is far from what he should be,\nas one must suspect, not believing that education alone can account for\nso many gone wrong. Timothy burns down some unimportant farm buildings\nfor the insurance upon them. This practice is so common in all parts of\nthe world civilized sufficiently to have insurance that I wonder\ninsurance companies take risks on backwoods farms anywhere. An old man\nwith whom I have talked often in the mountains of northeastern\nPennsylvania answered me one day, when I asked him how it was his barn\ncaught fire, \"The insurance got too hot.\" He was a German, a man in his\nprime a good worker and not a bad representative of the mountaineer of\nhis state. One must not, then, fasten on old Timothy as a character\ndistinctively Irish, at least in this phase of his character. He surely\nis universal, a representative of one type of disingenuous countryman.\n\nThe characterization in \"Harvest\" falls short of that of \"The\nCrossroads,\" but perhaps it had to be if Mr. Robinson was to make his\npoint. As one realizes that perhaps these people are but pawns with\nwhich to win the game that Mr. Robinson has set out, one remembers that\ntheir creator spent some weeks with Mr. Shaw and Mr. Barker in London,\nand one understands, too, many other of the failings of \"Harvest.\" It is\nbut another of many illustrations of the blight that Mr. Shaw has\nbrought upon the modern English stage.\n\nIt is a two-edged satire that Mr. Robinson employs in his \"Patriots\"\n(1912), a satire that cuts into the sham agitation of some political\nleagues, an agitation that is talk only, and at the same time cuts with\nalmost equal sharpness into the physical force party. It is true that it\nis not the motives but the wisdom of these latter men that Mr. Robinson\nsatirizes in the failure of James Nugent, the returned political\nprisoner, to stir his townsmen with the kind of talk that set them to\narming in 1893. That their propaganda is no longer possible, if it was\never possible, is a corollary to the play, even if it could overcome the\ninertia that has come to Irishmen with their greater prosperity since\nthe Land Purchase Act went into force.\n\nThe revolt of the patriot who hates talk and is willing to sacrifice\npersonal happiness for country is recorded here as it was in \"The\nCrossroads,\" and the uselessness of the sacrifice made only too plain.\nTo one not an Irishman it would perhaps seem that the real drama there\nis in the play is smothered by the political satire and that the\npolitics satirized are of too local an interest for it to have so\nuniversal an appeal as \"The Crossroads\" or \"Harvest.\" There is an\nuniversal story in \"Patriots\" that is but slightly developed--the story\nof the prisoner's wife, Ann; her love for her daughter, who is a cripple\nbecause of her mother's being dragged here and there by James Nugent in\nhis campaigning just before her birth; Ann Nugent's turning against her\nhusband, on his liberation from an eighteen years' imprisonment for\npolitical murder, because of the wrong done her so long ago and because\nof the danger to Rose's health that campaigning with her father would\nentail. The turning of Ann Nugent from her husband is the really\nsignificant part of the play,--and in thoughts of that we pay scant heed\nto the political satire and even to the pathos of the desertion of a\nleader by almost all he expected to follow him, and the reduction of his\nlife, as he puts it bitterly, \"to an anecdote--a thing to be told\nstories about.\" And in the end that is the fate he will meet. Time and a\nwife that he wronged have broken him. As he staggers off at the end of\nthe play, a stricken man and older than his forty-five years, this is\nhis cry:--\n\n     I've killed a man, I've crippled a child, I've got myself shut up\n     for eighteen years--God knows what good came of it\n     all--but--Peter--I meant--I tried ... I know I meant right--and in\n     prison my cell used to be filled with the sad faces of men like me\n     who had given everything for Ireland--they wouldn't have come to\n     me, would they? if I hadn't been of their company. They are here\n     now--I see them all around me--there is Wolfe Tone, and there is\n     ... oh, quiet watching faces, I have tried--tried as you tried--and\n     been broken....\n\nWith this ability of his to pick out a theme that is basic in Irish\nlife, and with the years bringing him an experience of life that will\ndominate any propagandist purpose, Mr. Robinson should grow in\nseriousness of intention and accomplishment. He hates sham, he has sane\nand cleansing satire of pretension, he writes good dialogue, his\nexperience as stage manager of the Abbey Theatre is teaching him the\nstage; he is only twenty-five. Do not these things augur a future?\n\n\nMR. RUTHERFORD MAYNE\n\nIt so happened that the last time I was reading the plays of Mr.\nRutherford Mayne, I was also reading the plays of Sir Arthur Wing\nPinero. All the world has heard of the one; only the little band\nscattered here and there through the English-speaking countries to whom\nletters are a real part of life has heard of the other. I laughed over\n\"Dandy Dick\"; I thought of Miss Rehan playing Georgianna Tidman with all\nthat gush of spirits that was hers; I thought of Miss Nethersole in her\nwonderful youth playing Paula Tanqueray; and as I thought of these two,\neach in her way inimitable in her part, thoughts of past moments with\nthe characters of Mr. Mayne's plays, plays I have never seen on the\nstage, came back to me. Had I seen them on the stage would my thoughts\nof them have been thoughts of the theatre, as were all my thoughts of\nSir Arthur's plays? It may be, but I think not, I think the great\nstrength of Mr. Mayne is that he takes you to life; I think the great\nweakness of the wide-heard author is that he takes you immediately, in\nalmost all of his plays, to the theatre, and only secondarily, if at\nall, after the memory of his artificiality has died away, to life\nitself.\n\nWilliam John Granahan and John Smith the Tory,--will you forget them, or\nRobbie John whom the fiddle called away, or Ebenezer McKie and Francey\nMoore, Protestant and Catholic, who together lay in wait for the hated\nlandlord and shot him as he passed through the glen; or John Murray,\ngood man, and his bauchle of a brother? You will not forget them, for\nthey are from life; you have known them, all save Francey, if you have\nknown Scotchmen who are Lowlanders and Presbyterians, or such North of\nIreland men as are unalterably opposed to Home Rule. They are very like\nthe Orangemen of the novels of Mr. Shan Bullock, very like the peasants\nthe English-speaking world outside of Scotland first met in the verse of\nBurns; harsher than the Baillie Nicol Jarvies and Dugald Dalgettys of\nthe kindly Sir Walter, but akin to them and to his Davie Deans and\nDumbiedikeses.\n\nWe are in a more familiar world in the plays of Mr. Mayne than in those\nof most of the other writers in the movement--that is, I mean most\nAmerican readers are--simply because of Burns and Scott. Had Ireland had\na peer of either in his generation as satirist or romancer the\nIrish-Irish would to-day be as familiar to us as are the Scotch-Irish,\nwho are, of course, transplanted Scotch. The women of this world are\nnot, however, of types so well known to us as are the men, because the\nchivalry of Sir Walter prevented him from giving us his peasant\nScotswomen in as full detail as he gave us his men; but it is not\ndifficult for us to appreciate Mrs. Granahan and her daughter; Mrs.\nMcKie, a \"woman with a dead soul\"; Mary Murray with her daftness over\nthe boys; and even Sarah McMinn, so true in her managing and meanness,\nqualities necessary to the prosperity of her folk. Puritan America can\nunderstand these women and men because they are Puritan, too, with the\nignoble that is in the Puritan as well as with the noble that is just as\nsurely there.\n\nIt is in the first three plays of Mr. Mayne that we meet these people I\nhave named, County Down folk all of them, and all Protestant but Francey\nMoore. They are the leading characters in \"The Turn of the Road\" (1906),\n\"The Drone\" (1908), and \"The Troth\" (1908). The motive of Mr. Mayne's\nfirst play is the old call to wander, the unrest of the vagrant heart,\nhere the heart of the musician. It is the story of Robbie John Granahan,\nwho, after burning his fiddle at the desire of a strong farmer whose\ndaughter he wished to marry, is driven out into the world to try his\nfortune with another through her determination that her lover should\nfollow his star. There is more beauty in \"The Turn of the Road\" than in\neither of the other plays of the North of Ireland, more beauty of theme,\nmore beauty of thought, more beauty of expression. Its themes are not\nnew, _Wanderlust_ and the Puritans' hatred of art; its thoughts are not\nnew, but they are beautiful, and the words themselves are freshly used.\nIts phrases that hold in memory are given to Robbie John and to his\nfather and to his grandfather, most of them to the grandfather. This is\nthe grandfather's lament for the boy gone on the roads with his fiddle\nand his father's curse:--\n\n     It's the wee things you think nothing of, but that make your home a\n     joy to come back till, after a hard day's work. And you've sent out\n     into the could and wet the one that was making your home something\n     more than the common. D'ye think them proud city folk will listen\n     to his poor ould ballads with the heart of the boy singing through\n     them? It's only us--it's only us. I say, as knows the long wild\n     nights, and the wet and the rain and the mist of nights on the\n     boglands--it's only us, I say, could listen him in the right way.\n     And ye knowed, right well ye knowed, that every string of his\n     fiddle was keyed to the crying of your own heart.\n\nThere is no beauty at all in \"The Drone.\" There is little beauty\npossible to such a subject realistically treated as that of the exposure\nof the utter sham that is the pretended inventor of a bellows, a man who\nhas for years fattened on a brother's tolerance and family pride. There\nmight have been beauty of construction, but dramatic construction is not\nMr. Mayne's strongest quality. Let that not be held too much against\nhim, for many an English dramatist, like almost every English novelist,\nis weak in the architectonic qualities of his work. Yet such is the\nhardness of the people that exposed Daniel Murray that you rejoice in\nhis duping of them at the end through his sale to them of his pretended\ninvention, especially as that frees his brother John, and John's\ndaughter, artful coax that she is, from Sarah McMinn, who is determined\nto marry the one and manage the two. The ideals of the people of the\nplay and the grim humor of Mr. Mayne are well illustrated by this\ndeclaration of John Murray, the best of them all, anent the suit for\nbreach of promise with which Sarah threatens him: \"I would as soon do\nwithout the marrying if I could. I don't want the woman at all, but I'll\nmarry her before she gets a ha'penny off me.\"\n\nThe people here are the people of \"The Squireen\" of Mr. Bullock,--hard,\ngrasping, resentful, passionate, brutal even, but doers of the world's\nwork. All that differentiates them from the Fermanagh Protestants is the\ndifferent conditions of County Down and a slightly lower social\nposition.\n\nIn \"The Troth\" the theme is the shooting of a landlord by two peasants\nwhom his agents are to evict on the morrow. To the cottage of the\nProtestant McKie comes his Catholic neighbor, Francey Moore, whose wife\nis dying. Here there is no turf for the fire, and no hope in the heart\nof father or mother, for the child of the house has died, and, they\nthink, because of the landlord's hardness to them. The two men swear a\ntroth that they shall lie in wait for Colonel Fotheringham, and that if\nbut one escapes, as is likely, the one arrested shall hold his tongue as\nto his companion. You do not see the murder on the stage, but you hear\nthe shot and see McKie return to his home, and you know it was he killed\nthe landlord. The tension of the last scene is almost unendurable. His\nwife's providential lie for McKie, her agony in her knowledge of his\nguilt when she sees his face on his return, the man's terror, are\nhandled with masterly firmness and sureness. To see this scene on the\nstage in the hands of actors worthy of it must be to know real tragedy.\nIn this play, too, brief as is the glimpse we have into these four lives\nof small farmer and his wife, his farmhand and his neighbor, a neighbor\nof alien race and hated faith, you get to know them as if they were\nfriends of long standing. Character creation and character presentation\nin pithy, tense dialogue are the great gifts of Mr. Mayne. Francey\nMoore, the \"dark man,\" with his sensibility, his eloquence, and his\nflaming rage, is not of the characteristic men of Mr. Mayne. They are\nmen of slow ways all un-Celtic and with smouldering hearts like those\nof the Northmen we read about in the tales of \"Origines Islandicae.\"\n\nIn \"Red Turf\" (1911) Mr. Mayne turns away from County Down to the Galway\nbogs, admirably symbolizing the hot land feud between neighbors in his\ntitle. There are but five characters in the play, Martin Burke, farmer,\nand his spitfire of a wife; and his neighbors the Flanagans, father and\nson, who have won away from the Burkes, by the surveyor's decision,\ntheir bank of stone turf that had come to Mary Burke from her father;\nand an old fellow little better than a beggar. Mary taunts her husband\nuntil he shoots the elder Flanagan as he is working away on the \"great\nstone bank.\" It was not his own gun Burke had, but, ironically, it was\none just brought to his house by the poor old man whom they had often\nbefriended, John Heffernan, brought that it might not be found in his\nhouse by the gauger, and he unable to pay the license. It is not made\nclear that there was malevolence in the leaving of the gun at the Burkes\nby the old fellow, malevolent as are some of his remarks. Akin to him,\nnot in his malevolence but in that each is in a way a bit of a prophet,\nis the grandfather in \"The Turn of the Road,\" but more nearly akin to\nold Granahan is Uncle Bartle of \"The Mineral Workers\" of Mr. Boyle.\nSynge records old men of prophecy and tales in his travel sketches, but\nhe put none such who were gentle in his plays, or I would say that\nGrandfather Granahan, like the old gaffer in Mr. Masefield's \"Nan,\" was\na part of the influence of Synge that is felt by both Mr. Masefield and\nMr. Mayne. Their styles, respectively, in \"Nan\" and \"Red Turf,\" have in\nthem more than echoes of the style of Synge. The \"wambling\" old men of\nMr. Hardy come also to mind as one thinks of these old men of Mr.\nMasefield and Mr. Mayne and Mr. Boyle. All in a sense play \"chorus\" to\nthe action of the play, but there is no one of them that is in the story\nor play in which he appears on such grounds only. There are, of course,\nold men everywhere, in all life they are an integral part, and\neverywhere they are commentators on life once they feel that their day\nis done, spectators of a pageant from the forefront of which they have\ndropped to watch the following troupe pass by.\n\nThere is little mating in these plays of Mr. Mayne, and love of woman\nworthy of the name of love only in \"The Turn of the Road\"; there is\nparental love, too, but perhaps more of parental tyranny. Such parental\nlove as there is, however, actually expressed, makes one of the\nmemorable passages of Mr. Mayne. Mary Burke, after taunting her husband\nto madness, tries to turn him from murder when she sees him, gun in\nhand, by crying: \"For the love of God, would you leave it down. Leave it\ndown and go in and look at the child sleeping. It would take the badness\nfrom your mind the same as it did with me.\"\n\nThough Mr. Mayne is a writer for the Ulster Literary Theatre of Belfast,\nhis allegiance to the Abbey group is clearly indicated in \"Red Turf,\"\nwhich is the result of a study of Synge. I do not mean to say that Mr.\nMayne is not familiar with the speech of Connacht, but that it is Synge\nwho has taught him how to listen to it. There is little of the\ninfluence of Synge in his three plays of the Black North, but when he\nturns to Galway in \"Red Turf,\" it is but natural that, writing of other\nthan his own people, he should write in a speech that has in it an echo\nof that of him who has transmuted this speech into prose of the most\nbeautiful rhythm that English dramatic prose has known. The Bible is the\nbook of books in Ulster, and there is no page of Mr. Mayne's Ulster\nplays but shows him acquainted with its great rhythms. Mr. Boyle,\nskillful artificer of situation, and truthful depicter of character that\nhe is, and Mr. Colum, too, for all his closeness to the earth, are now\nand then betrayed, Mr. Boyle more often than now and then, into the\nEnglish of the newspaper or of the public speaker; but the English of\nMr. Mayne is all but always an unworn English, an English used freshly,\nor if with reminiscences in it, reminiscences of the seventeenth-century\nEnglish that has survived in the Bible or in the memory of the folk from\nthe time of King James.\n\nMr. Mayne has, then, style, and his dialogue is living speech; he has\nknowledge of the people of North Ireland, earnestness and sincerity; and\nhaving these qualities, he has more that is precious to art than have\nmost of the dramatists his countrymen. There is no consistent reading of\nlife in his plays, no great power over the unrolling of plot, but\nperhaps these will come with the years. An actor himself, he knows the\nstage; and this knowledge has given him power over situation. Once he\nlearns to lead situation into situation, once he ripens into fuller\nknowledge of life, Mr. Mayne will be a dramatist to reckon with, indeed.\n\n\n\"NORREYS CONNELL\"\n\nThere have been many other dramatists than these I have mentioned who\nhave had one or more plays produced at the Abbey Theatre. Some of these,\nlike Mr. Bernard Shaw, are Irishmen abroad that have gained the ear of\nthe world and do a play for Dublin out of a sense of duty It was thus\nthat \"John Bull's Other Island\" came into being, but that play, being\nconsidered \"beyond the scope\" of the National Theatre Society, was not\nproduced at the Abbey, but at the Court Theatre, London, November 1,\n1904. When \"The Showing-up of Blanco Posnet\" was \"censored\" in London,\nhowever, the Abbey opened its doors to it, the \"crude melodrama\"\nreceiving its premier in late August, 1909. Little as \"John Bull's Other\nIsland\" was in the Abbey tradition, with moral purpose and unhumanity of\nits very essence, it was at least a newspaper leader on an Irish\nsubject, but \"The Showing-up of Blanco Posnet,\" a sort of\nsentimentalized travesty of Bret Harte preaching the usual Shavian\nevangel, has no more relation to Irish life than it has to literature.\nIt marred the repertoire the Abbey Company brought to America, as would\na camp-meeting hymn the music of the pipes.\n\nOut of the Abbey tradition, too, are the plays of \"Norreys Connell\" (Mr.\nConal O'Riordan), whose \"Piper\" had its day of lesser notoriety of\nPlayboy-like quality on its presentation on February 13, 1908. It is a\nvery obvious allegory, outlining under guise of an incident of '98 the\nweaknesses of contemporaneous Ireland, its love of talk; its lack of\nhold-together; its refusal to see things as they are; its incapacity in\npractical matters; the reckless temper of this faction of its people,\nthe subjection to clerical influence of that, the suicidal patriotism of\na third; in short, the Celts' willful rebellion against the despotism of\nfact. It was not pleasant listening to, or seeing, \"The Piper,\" to many\ngroups of Irishmen, for it cut alike at the Parliamentary Nationalists,\nthe Sein Feiner, and the shoneen. Even though one admires the courage of\nthe Piper and Black Mike, one realizes the futility of both, and of\nLarry the Talker, Tim the Trimmer, and Pat Dennehy, all typical of too\nmany men in Ireland to be endurable to the usual theatre audience. There\nis a white heat of feeling, however, under the play that to some degree\nmakes one forget its rather indifferent writing, its failure to attain\ntrue dramatic speech, its obviousness as of a morality play.\n\nAnother little drama of Mr. O'Riordan, \"Time,\" is almost a morality\nplay. It was produced shortly after its author became director of the\nAbbey Theatre, succeeding Mr. Synge in the spring of 1909. Mr. O'Riordan\ndoes not include \"Time\" among the plays of his volume of 1912,\n\"Shakespeare's End, and Other Irish Plays,\" but one cannot but feel\nthere was room for it there, if there was room for the play that gives\ntitle to the volume. \"Shakespeare's End,\" however, was doubtless\nincluded because it gives its author's ideas as to the mission of\nIreland in the world. \"An Imaginary Conversation,\" the second play of\nthe volume, was performed at the Abbey Theatre May 13, 1909, following\nshortly after \"Time\"; a discussion of art and patriotism and love among\nTom Moore, and his sister Kate and Robert Emmet, with a little, a very\nlittle, of the intensity that made \"The Piper\" something more than\nsecond-rate.\n\n\nMR. ST. JOHN G. ERVINE\n\nMr. St. John G. Ervine I know through two plays, \"Mixed Marriage,\"\nproduced at the Abbey Theatre on March 30, 1911, and \"The Magnanimous\nLover,\" produced in the same playhouse on October 17, 1912. Like his\nfellow from County Down, the master dramatist of the Ulster Literary\nTheatre, Mr. Mayne, Mr. Ervine excels in characterization. You remember\nhis people, even after one reading of the plays, so clearly are they\ndistinguished, so definite are their personalities. With the five men\nand women of \"The Magnanimous Lover,\" you pass but a few minutes, as it\nis only a one-act play, but you remember them as well as you do the six\nof \"Mixed Marriage,\" though you follow their fortunes through four acts.\nAll these characters are typical of the artisan class of the North of\nIreland, the five Protestants of \"The Magnanimous Lover\" and the four\nProtestants and two Catholics of \"Mixed Marriage.\" It is the troubles\nthat arise from the difference in religion of the Protestant Raineys,\nmother, father, and the two young men; the Catholic betrothed, Nora, of\nthe elder son Hugh; and their common friend the Catholic labor agitator,\nO'Hara, that are the motive forces of the latter play. Faintest etched\nis Tom, the younger son, and most like a stock character. Nora and\nO'Hara are well done, but one remembers both as stage parts rather than\nas characterizations. Hugh is still better done, but the two absolute\ncreations are the father and mother. Tom Rainey, the Orangeman, forgets\nhis bitterness against \"Cathliks\" for a moment to help win the strike in\nwhich his fellow workmen of Belfast, \"Cathlik an' Prodesans,\" both are\nfighting side by side. He is all the more bitter, however, when he\nlearns that his eldest son is going to marry out of his faith, and his\nspeeches, hitherto devoted to smoothing out the troubles between the men\nof different faith, turn to bitter denunciations of the strike as \"a\nPopish Plot.\" In the end Tom Rainey is responsible for riots his wild\nwords have stirred up, the calling-out of the soldiery, and the death of\nNora, who is shot down by a volley as she runs out of the Rainey house\ninto the rioting street. On the stage, of course, Mrs. Rainey is the\nmore sympathetic character, her tolerance, her tact, her humor, her\ninfinite kindliness winning an audience as it is given to few characters\nto win it. She is less like a type, too, than her husband, but for all,\nI cannot but think he is better drawn.\n\nMr. Ervine has not a style like Mr. Mayne, nor such a rhythm to his\nprose, but he has more humor, and it is natural humor, a humor that\narises out of the situation and is not simply dragged in for the\npurposes of comic relief. Mr. Ervine evidently knows the life he depicts\nin and out. He ought to know it, for he was born to it, being the son of\na workingman in the shipyards of Belfast. And knowing it well he finds\nit far from hopeless. It is a pleasure to come upon a play of the North\nwritten in a spirit other than that of revolt against its Puritanism.\nThere are \"kindly Irish of the Irish\" in the Black North as well as in\nthe three other provinces, but most of the authors of the North are\ncontent to picture its hardness, its hypocrisy, its bigotry, its love of\nwife and child remorselessly concealed as a weakness of the flesh.\n\nIt is to this darker picturing of the North, however, that Mr. Ervine\nturns in \"The Magnanimous Lover,\" which indicts the self-righteousness\nof the Ulster Protestant with a severity such as is possible only to a\nman bitter against a weakness of his own people. It is an old theme Mr.\nErvine has to handle, the refusal of the wronged woman to wed her\nbetrayer, when, after years of disloyalty, he is willing, by marrying\nher, to make her again an \"honest woman.\" To speak only of recent plays\nof similar plot, there is \"The Last of the De Mullens\" of St. John\nHankin, and \"A Woman of No Importance\" of Wilde. Mr. Ervine, it is true,\nhandles the theme freshly, but the real power of the play is in his\ncreation of the heroine, Maggie Cather. The danger with such a character\nis that it will be only a mouthpiece for woman's demand for a common\nmoral standard for men and women; but Maggie is not a mouthpiece but a\nreal woman, triumphantly alive, with hot anger in her heart at the\ninjustice of the world, and at the \"unco guidness\" of her old-time\nlover, Henry Hinde. Ten years before the time of the action of the play\nHenry Hinde had fled, just as her child was to be born, to Liverpool,\nand there he has prospered, and so risen in the world that it is\npossible for him to wed a minister's daughter. Fear of God's wrath has\nnow driven him home to make such amends as he can, but there is in him\nno pity for the woman or love for his child. Maggie has faced it out\nalone all these years in the seaside village of Down as Hester faced it\nout in the seaside village of Massachusetts, while Henry forgot it all\nuntil he was \"saved\" and \"convicted of sin.\" If no more cowardly than\nDimmesdale, Henry is more heartless, utterly callous, indeed,--as he\nconfesses, in \"the devil's grip.\" And yet Mr. Ervine is so true to the\nlife that he is depicting, a life at once passionate and prosaic, that\nhe makes anger for the past and fear of a nagged future with Henry as\neffective agents in her rejection of him as are self-respect and right\nfeeling. It is a \"big\" part that Mr. Ervine has created for the leading\nactress, and though the story is unequivocally \"unpleasant\" and may\nprevent \"The Magnanimous Lover\" from being a favorite play, there can be\nno two minds as to its success as drama. It is very real drama, of\nelemental human emotion all unveiled. With such a play as this, and with\n\"Mixed Marriage\" to his credit, I look forward eagerly to the promised\nproduction and publication of \"The Eviction.\"\n\n\nMR. JOSEPH CAMPBELL\n\nAnother dramatist from the North and of promise is Mr. Joseph Campbell.\nHis \"Judgment\" is of the northwest, however, the whole breadth of Ulster\nbetween its Donegal mountains and the Belfast of \"Mixed Marriage\"; and\nit is of the country, not of the city; and of an Ireland wholly\nCatholic, not of an Ireland of Protestant and Catholic at war over\nreligion. There are moments of real drama in \"Judgment,\" but no such\ninevitable rise to climax as in \"Mixed Marriage.\" Its undoubted power\nis in the feeling underlying it, in its characterization, and in its\nstyle. Mr. Campbell was already known when his play was put on at the\nAbbey Theatre, April 15, 1912, as the author of \"The Mountainy Singer\"\n(1909), a volume of freshly felt and singing verse; and of \"Mearing\nStones\" (1911), little prose records of things seen and of moods felt in\na corner of Donegal. Many a striking phrase of \"Judgment,\" indeed, is\nalready written down in the paragraphs of \"Mearing Stones\" as actual\ntalk heard in the roads, and several of the situations of the plays are\nworkings-up of situations of which its author found himself a spectator\non the streets of Andara or on the highway between Slieve a-Tooey and\nthe sea.\n\nI first came upon his verses, if I remember rightly, in \"The United\nIrishmen,\" but I was first impressed by him as an illustrator, his name\nbeing always signed in those days after the Irish fashion, Seosamh\nMacCathmhaoil. A Dublin friend sent me at Christmas in 1907 a \"Calendar\nof the Saints,\" for which Mr. Campbell did the illustrations,\nillustrations akin to those of Miss Althea Gyles, which so surely take\none back to Ireland's heroic age, instinct as they are with the\nprimitive aloofness of antiquity.\n\nIt is not antiquity, however, that Mr. Campbell has chosen for his play.\nIndeed, he rejects antiquity, deliberately \"using peasants as ...\nprotagonists instead of kings--who, like Pharaoh, are 'but a cry in\nEgypt,' outworn figures in these days with no beauty and no\nsignificance.\" \"Judgment\" is made out of the story of the countryside\nconcerning \"a tinker's woman,\" Peg Straw, and we may well believe Mr.\nCampbell has changed it but little, as he says, for the purposes of his\nplay. It had been a better play, perhaps, had he changed more the facts\nof the story. As it stands, the first act of the play is adequate\ndramatically, and beautiful with that sort of wild and outworld beauty\nSynge brought into English literature in Ireland; and the second act\nbeautiful with that beauty, and inadequate dramatically.\n\nPeg Straw is an old, worn woman of the roads whom the people hold little\nbetter than a witch, even attributing to her the power fabled of the\nwitches in folk-tales of turning themselves into hares. Her nickname\n\"Straw\" indicates the nature of the mild dementia that sets the children\nand the idlers at her heels. She goes about picking up \"straws\" until\n\"she'd have a bunch in her hand ... every little stalk bit off as neat\nas neat, and it like a scrubber or dandy brush you'd put to a horse.\"\n\nPeg speaks no word at all in the play, coming into sight in it only to\ndie, but always she is in the background. Talk of her comes up early in\nthe first act, and we learn that Nabla, the woman whose cabin is the\nplay's first scene, has turned Peg away from the door only that morning;\nand from the moment we first hear of her most of the talk is of her, and\nthe action because of her. Toward this first act's end you hear her\ncries as the tinkers beat her, and at its end she crawls into the cabin\nto die, and in dying to shock the woman of the house so that her child\ncomes before its time. All the second act Peg lies in sight in the room\njust off the stage with candles stuck around her, bringing the horror\nand dignity of death into the wild scenes of her wake. These are wild\nnot because of drinking for no one is drunk and only one \"had drink\ntaken,\" but because of the wildness of nature of these men of\nwesternmost Europe, and because of the wildness of the roads that a\n\"traveling man\" brings with him out of the night. There is no action in\nthis second and last act save that sprung of this stranger's entrance\nand quarrelsomeness, and his interruptions of an old, old man's story of\nwhat he knows of Peg's life. The stranger listens while Parry Cam tells\nof the cause of her madness, but when he repeats what for years has been\nthe gossip of the countryside about her supposed killing of her babe,\nthe \"traveling man\" interrupts and declares he is the son whom it was\nrumored she had drowned. In the end he is turned out of the house, not\naltogether unkindly, but as much for decency's sake as for his own. That\nthe son, for any motive at all, should be turned out of the house where\nhis mother lies dead, even though he had not stood by her living, is\nhard enough in the estimation of any people, but in the estimation of\nthe Irish peasant it is intolerably tragic. If we realize this, the\nending of the play will be on a note deeper and more significant than if\nwe fail to realize it, but not even the utmost sympathy with the\nintention of the author and a full realization of the significance to\nDonegal peasants of the action can bring this act to an intensity\ncomparable to that of the end of Act I, where two mysteries confront one\nanother--\"the passing of a life from this world, the coming of a life\ninto it.\"\n\nAll the characters in \"Judgment\" are \"created.\" The personality of each\ncolors his words and puts him before you distinct from every other.\nOwen Ban the weaver, who takes in Peg when his wife Nabla, heavy with\nher first child, and nervous because of her condition and fearful of the\nbirth, would keep out the outcast; old Parry Cam; John Gilla Carr; Colum\nJohnston and Father John; Nabla herself; and Kate Kinsella the\nmidwife--each is himself or herself, each remains as distinct in your\nmind the unforgettable scenes of the play. Somehow or other, too, the\ncountry is suggested; you are aware that you are on a wild hillside\nabove a glen,--you are aware of this not because the author tells us at\nthe outset that the scene of the play is in the mountains of western\nDonegal, south of Lochros Beg Bay, but through the dialogue of the play\nitself. Both scenes of the play are indoors, and on dark nights of\nmidwinter, but so instinct with many phases of the life of the people is\nit that its background of landscape rises before you only less\ndistinctly than the visualization of its characters. Atmosphere the play\nhas, and quality, both sprung of the sincerity of its feeling and\nimagination. So true are these, and so keen the author's reading of\nhuman nature, and so sure his character drawing, that for all his\nweakness of construction we may speak of his play alongside of the best\nIrish plays. The future promises finer things: meanwhile we are thankful\nfor what is, for \"Judgment,\"--especially for its far-offness, its\ndesolateness as of the world's end and the wind crying.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nWILLIAM SHARP (\"FIONA MACLEOD\")\n\n\nThere were relations other than that of a common purpose between William\nSharp and the Irish writers of the Celtic Renaissance. He was a friend\nof Mr. Yeats, a correspondent of Mr. Russell, and the chief commentator\nin the English reviews on the work of the Irish group of its writers. At\none time, after 1897, the relationship promised to be very close,\nindeed. William Sharp, experimenting in psychics with Mr. Yeats, found\noccasion to interest him in \"Fiona Macleod,\" and as a result of that\ninterest Mr. Yeats came to think the new writer might write Celtic plays\nfor performances he intended to arrange for Irish literary\norganizations. Thus it is that Mrs. Sharp has to include in her memoir\nof her husband a long letter to \"Fiona Macleod\" from Mr. Yeats, in which\nhe suggests: \"The plays might be almost in some cases modern mystery\nplays. Your 'Last Supper,' for instance, would make such a play.\" Mr.\nSharp, apparently, did not follow up this suggestion, but shortly after\nthe first performances of \"The Irish Literary Theatre\" in 1899 he wrote\nthe two plays that, together with \"Vistas,\" comprise all the dramatic\nwriting that he has to his name. That \"The Immortal Hour\" and \"The House\nof Usna\" were intended for \"The Irish Literary Theatre,\" I think there\nis little doubt, and it was only, I take it, when circumstances\ndictated that only plays by Irish writers should be put on by that\ntheatre that Mr. Sharp looked elsewhere for their presentation. Only\n\"The House of Usna\" was, however, placed,--in the spring performances in\nLondon of The Stage Society, on April 29, 1900. Two months later \"The\nHouse of Usna\" was published in the July number of \"The National\nReview.\" It pleased more, if we are to judge by the reviews, in the\npages of the magazine than on the stage, but I hardly know why. \"The\nHouse of Usna\" is profoundly moving read in the study, surely, and if\nacted in such simplicity and enthusiasm as is that of the Abbey Theatre\nPlayers, I should think it would appeal as do the verse plays of Mr.\nYeats. No play I have read carries me further into antiquity than this,\nnone preserves more of what imagination tells us must have been the\nwilder beauty of what still are places of wild beauty, of the savagery\nof that old life of the hero tales of Ireland. Mr. Yeats's plays do not\nso recapture the past, they take us rather to places out of time, where\nall things are possible, because the world we know is put aside and all\nbut forgot. Even on the stage, however, the new beauty of \"The House of\nUsna\" was recognized, a beauty as distinctive as that of the two plays\nof M. Maeterlinck that were produced with it, \"Interior\" and \"The Death\nof Tintagiles,\" but it was adjudged not to be drama in the accepted\nsense of the word. \"The House of Usna\" is written in a prose that has\nmany of the effects of verse, but that is less luxuriant than the prose\nof \"Vistas.\" \"The Immortal Hour,\" published shortly afterwards in the\n\"Fortnightly Review\" (1900), is written in blank verse that shows its\nauthor has been carefully attentive to the rhythms of the blank verse of\nMr. Yeats, but it is neither so poetic nor so dramatic as \"The House of\nUsna.\" Both plays are written out of the old legends that are the common\nproperty of Irish and Scottish Gael, and in both Sharp has treated his\nmaterial with his wonted freedom of adaptation, a freedom that is\ngenerally justified by his results, his instinctive surety of\nreconstruction of myths being such as to make one wonder, with Mr.\nRussell, if Sharp is not, in some fashion, a reincarnation of a\nshanachie that sang as contemporary in the wars of Gael and Gall.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nA common preoccupation with the plays of M. Maeterlinck is another bond\nbetween the founder of the Abbey Theatre and Sharp, a preoccupation\npassing rather quickly from Mr. Yeats, but long retaining its hold on\nthe changing selves of Sharp. For all his early interest in \"spiritual\nthings,\" an interest very definitely expressed in \"Romantic Ballads\"\n(1888), Sharp would not have come to \"Vistas\" (1894) without the\nguidance of M. Maeterlinck, and he admits as much in his preface to\nthese \"psychic episodes.\" \"Vistas\" he often referred to as heralding a\n\"great dramatic epoch,\" and he evidently regarded them as, in a way,\ndrama, but it is hardly likely that he dreamed of their enactment on the\nstage. Many of them are essentially dramatic, but their method of\npresentation is almost always lyric or narrative rather than dramatic,\neven in the Maeterlinckian sense of the word.\n\nIt is possible, however, that Sharp might have written other of his\nprojected plays, \"The Enchanted Valleys,\" \"The King of Ys,\" \"Drosdan and\nYssul,\" and their many fellows he had projected by title, and others,\ntoo, had not developments in Dublin, as I have said, carried Mr. Yeats\naway from him during 1899 and 1900, and had Sharp himself not during\nthis drifting written that article \"Celtic\" which so aroused many in\nIreland on its appearance in \"The Contemporary Review.\" In this essay,\nbasically a literary protest, \"Fiona Macleod\" declared \"herself\" against\nSeparatist politics and affirmed \"her\" belief, as \"she\" had in \"The\nHouse of Usna,\" that the future greatness of Ireland was to come, not\nthrough independence, but through the rebirth of her ancient\nspirituality in other nations to whom she had given her children.\n\n     The Celtic element in our national life [wrote \"Fiona Macleod\"] has\n     a vital and great part to play. We have a most noble ideal if we\n     will but accept it. And that is, not to perpetuate feuds, not to\n     try to win back what is gone away upon the wind, not to repay\n     ignorance with scorn, or dullness with contempt, or past wrongs\n     with present hatred, but so to live, so to pray, so to hope, so to\n     work, so to achieve, that we, what is left of the Celtic races, of\n     the Celtic genius, may permeate the greater race of which we are a\n     vital part, so that, with this Celtic emotion, Celtic love of\n     beauty, and Celtic spirituality, a nation greater than any the\n     world has seen may issue, a nation refined and strengthened by the\n     wise relinquishings and steadfast ideals of Celt and Saxon, united\n     in a common fatherland, and in singleness of pride and faith.\n\nThere was, however, if less intimacy with the Irish writers in these\nlater years, no less admiration of their art, an admiration that led not\nonly to praise of them in critical articles, but to a greater praise of\nimitation of their art. So possessed, indeed, was Sharp by the verse of\nthe younger Irish poets as he read them to write of them, that when he\nturned to verse as \"Fiona Macleod,\" he fell into their rhythms and\nreproduced the colors of their styles. Writing in prose as a critic of\nMr. Yeats, Sharp came to write in verse as Mr. Yeats wrote, as in \"The\nDirge of the Four Cities\": writing of \"A.E.\" in prose as critic, Sharp\ncame to write in verse as \"A.E.\" wrote, as in \"Flame on the Wind\":\nwriting of \"Moira O'Neill,\" in prose as critic, Sharp came to write in\nverse as \"Moira O'Neill\" wrote, as in \"I--Brasil\": writing in prose as\ncritic, of \"Ethna Carberry,\" Sharp came to write in verse as \"Ethna\nCarberry\" wrote, as in \"The Exile.\" So it was, also, that, coming to\nwrite of Celtic literature after study of Renan and Arnold, Sharp\nattained to something of their large utterance.\n\nSharp sees the Celtic Renaissance, however, always in relation to\nEnglish literature, and always, it should be added, with French\nliterature and Greek literature in the background. In this wide outlook,\nin his freedom from political prejudice, in his sympathy with Celtic\nliterature and his knowledge of it, is his greatest strength as a critic\nof the Celtic Renaissance. His greatest weakness is his willingness in\nthis writing, as elsewhere in his writing, to abide by first\nimpressions, to abide also by the first-come phrase or epithet, banes of\nthe ready writer. But read his essay \"Celtic\" after you have read the\ngreat essays of Renan and Arnold, and read it alongside of what Mr.\nYeats has to say of that literature, and you will find it, as I said,\nof the stature of these. You will at the same time find in this writing\nthe answer to the contention that there were really two personalities in\nWilliam Sharp. Even Mrs. Sharp, who writes so restrainedly about this\nquestion of dual personality, believes the analytical faculty belonged\nto William Sharp, the imaginative to \"Fiona Macleod.\" But in this\ncriticism of the Celtic Renaissance which is signed \"Fiona Macleod,\"\nthere is as much analysis as is to be found anywhere in his work as\nWilliam Sharp. So obviously was he identifying \"F.M.\" with \"W.S.\" in\nthis critical writing that Mrs. Janvier, of those in the secret, wrote\nto him to take warning lest he betray himself. She pointed out to him\nthat such a display of learning as he was making in the later \"Fiona\nMacleod\" work would surely lead to discovery. But he did not heed. The\ntruth probably was that he wrote about Celtic things as \"Fiona Macleod\"\nbecause he perhaps felt about them, as \"Fiona Macleod,\" as one who is\nbilingual thinks about work he is doing, say in German, in German, and\nabout work he is doing in English, in English; but just as surely I\nbelieve, because what \"Fiona Macleod\" wrote commanded more respect than\nwhat William Sharp wrote, readier entrance into the magazines, and\nbetter pay. If there are those to whom such an explanation seems\nbelittling to William Sharp, I can only say that they cannot have\nrealized that he was a driven man earning his living by his pen. I am\nnot, I confess, a sentimentalist in such matters, and while I do not\nwholly like his procedure in maintaining the fiction of \"Fiona Macleod,\"\nit does not seem to me a very heinous sin.\n\nHe who would write of the work of William Sharp, indeed, must be\nresolute to remember that it is to be considered as an essay in the art\nof letters. There are so many temptations toward writing of it as a\nscientific problem,--for who is not interested in \"dual\npersonality\"?--or as a \"psychic revelation,\" if one is bitten--and who\nis not?--by curiosity about hidden \"things\"; or as an irritating hoax,\nif one has been befooled--and who, for one moment or another has not\nbeen?--into believing that this writing under the pseudonym of \"Fiona\nMacleod\" was the confession of a woman. The romance of it remains, no\nmatter from what point of view you consider it, and, despite your\npreoccupation with this or that phase of it, the beauty of literary art\nof parts of it. Parts of it, I say, for to me no writer of our time was\nmore uneven in his work. My point of view, indicated perhaps brutally,\nand with a firstly and secondly is:--\n\nFirstly, that until he was nearly forty, William Sharp was no more than\na skillful literary practitioner, a higher sort of hack, who had done\nsome better writing of a tenuous kind of beauty but imitative in\nsubstance and art, in \"Sospiri di Roma\" and \"Vistas,\" and that after\nforty, when he was developing one undeveloped side of himself as \"Fiona\nMacleod,\" he developed another undeveloped side of himself in \"Silence\nFarm.\" That he attained in a sort of writing, and greatly, that he had\nnot attained in before, in \"Silence Farm,\" has not been acknowledged, so\neasy has it been to those interested in his work to lose sight of all\nelse in their pursuit of the \"Fiona Macleod\" side of his nature. It is\ntrue of \"Silence Farm,\" as of almost all his other work done under the\nname of William Sharp, that it is imitative; but it is equally true that\na large part of the \"Fiona Macleod\" work is imitative, too. \"Silence\nFarm\" is done under the influence of the later work of Mr. Hardy, but\nthe material of \"Silence Farm\" is its author's own, and the color of the\nwriting is as distinctly of the Lowlands as the color of \"Tess\" is of\nWessex. That \"Silence Farm\" is better work in its kind, though that kind\nis less original than some of his writing as \"Fiona Macleod,\" I have\nbeen forced against my prejudices to believe. If I did not so believe I\nwould not have spoken of it side by side with \"Tess.\"\n\nSecondly, that as \"Fiona Macleod,\" William Sharp did much good writing\nin almost everything published under the pseudonym, achieving wholeness\nof good tissue in certain sketches and tales and verses on rather\nvarying kinds of subjects, but that his work as \"Fiona Macleod\" that is\nreally distinguished is in stories of prehistoric Scotland and Ireland,\nand of Scotland and Ireland in the earliest historic time. In these\ntales of the Gaels of old time he for the first time breaks ground for\nothers. Before he wrote \"Silk o' the Kine,\" and \"The Harping of\nCravetheen,\" \"The Annir Choile,\" and \"Enya of the Dark Eyes,\" there were\nno short tales of like temper and content and style in literature.\n\nTo me little is significant in the early verse of \"Fiona Macleod,\" as\nlittle was significant in all the verse of William Sharp until the time\nof \"Sospiri di Roma.\" And for all the beauty of these pictures in words\nof the Campagna it is but a transient beauty. It was not until he was\nmastered by the new beauty that Mr. Yeats brought into English poetry\nthat the verse of William Sharp won to itself abiding beauty and glamour\nand inevitable phrase. \"The House of Usna\" (1900) brought to me \"Dim\nface of beauty haunting all the world,\" and the 1901 edition of \"From\nthe Hills of Dream,\" \"The Enchanted Valleys,\"; but it was not until\nafter his death that I came upon his best verse of all, the verse of his\nlast five years, which was gathered together posthumously in the 1907\nedition of \"From the Hills of Dream,\" and included as \"The House of\nBeauty\" in \"The Poems and Dramas\" of 1911. Who does not know these sets\nof verses and \"The Dirge of the Four Cities,\" does not know the ultimate\naccomplishment of William Sharp in poetry.\n\nThat the \"'Fiona Macleod' mystery\" ended with the death of William Sharp\nis, then, my belief, as it is that it began before he conceived of\nexploiting a feminine sub-self he had long been aware of in himself. The\nbeginnings of that sort of writing that made \"Fiona Macleod\" a\nreputation are to be found very early in his writing, in \"The Son of\nAllan\" of 1881, in the \"Record\" of 1884, in the preface to the \"Romantic\nBallads\" of 1888, in the \"Vistas\" of 1894. That these earlier\nexpressions of \"spiritual\" states and guesses at mysteries are not,\nexcept for certain parts of \"Vistas,\" so well written as the best\nwriting of similar kind by \"Fiona Macleod,\" is true, and perhaps, at\nfirst glance, a matter of wonder. It is, however, I think, not difficult\nto find an explanation of the better quality of the later work, and that\nexplanation is afforded, firstly and most largely, by the Celtic\nRenaissance. A man of thirty-five, to all who know him a very vital\nforce, a very original personality, who has all his life wanted to make\nbeautiful things in words out of his dream of life, has disappointed\nhimself and his friends. He is suddenly afforded the opportunity, by the\ninterest in Gaelic subjects that the Celtic Renaissance has awakened, to\ngain a hearing for work of a kind he has long wanted to do. He had not\ndone such work previously, because he had to live by his pen and could\nwork consistently only at the sort of thing that would sell. He was well\nknown as a journeyman of letters, so well known for bookmaking, and the\nways of getting commissions from London editors and publishers, that his\nknowledge of Highland life would be questioned. All in London knew him\nas a Londoner. It would be useless for him to say that the Celtic\nRenaissance had brought back his childhood to him, a childhood as\ndefinitely dominated by a Highland nurse as Stevenson's was by the\nLowland Alison Cunningham. It would be useless to tell of his summers in\nArgyllshire and among the inner isles, his intimacy with fishermen who\nwere as elemental as his own dreams of old time. It would have been cast\nup to him that the editor of \"The Canterbury Poets\" could not be an\noriginal writer, and the very nine days' wonder of \"Vistas\" would have\nbeen pointed to to prove that he might now do well enough, as an\nimitator, perhaps of Mr. Yeats, as he was in \"Vistas;\" successful as an\nimitator of M. Maeterlinck, but that an original Highland writer could\nnot come out of Hampstead. There is no doubt in my mind that it was the\npart of wisdom for Sharp to put out the new work under a pseudonym,\nworldly wise if you will, but wise, too, with a higher wisdom. If he\ncould keep the side of him he had never yet exhausted through hackwork\napart from his other work, it would grow as it could not if it were a\npart of his daily stint.\n\nWhy Sharp chose a woman's name for his pseudonym has troubled many, but\nthis choice was, I think, as was the assumption of a pseudonym, the part\nof wisdom. I do not believe, as he at times liked to believe, that he\nattained a woman's standpoint. He had been complimented on all sides for\nhis composition of the wife's letters in \"A Fellowe and his Wife\"\n(1892), in which Mrs. von Teuffel wrote the husband's. Sharp enjoyed\ntheir writing as a _tour de force_ and he probably believed they were\nvery womanly. I should say that they showed insight into womanly ways of\nlooking at things rather than a dramatic identification of himself with\nwoman such as is George Meredith's. Sharp had already been experimenting\nwith pseudonyms, that of \"H.P. Siwaarmill,\" an anagram on his own name,\nbeing that he recurred to most often. He had written the whole of \"The\nPagan Review\" in 1892 under eight different pseudonyms, and though, in\nthe estimation of those to whom \"Fiona Macleod\" is all but a sacred\nname, it be sacrilegious to say it, William Sharp loved all sorts of\nfantastic tricks, hoaxes, mystifications, though in almost all his\nwriting save in \"Wives in Exile\" he was seriousness itself. But the\nchiefest reason of all, in my estimation, for his assumption of a\nwoman's name as his pseudonym was that it afforded greater protection\nagainst discovery. There are those who believe that he chose it because\nhe wanted a chance to express that womanly element of human nature there\nis in all men, and there are others who believe that he was the\npossessor of a real dual personality in which the \"Fiona Macleod's self\"\nwas a woman's consciousness; but he very infrequently, after \"The\nMountain Lovers\" (1895), kept in mind in the writings he published as\n\"Fiona Macleod's\" that their author was supposed to be a woman, and it\nis wonderful, indeed, that he was able to preserve the secret until the\nend. In the earlier \"Fiona Macleod\" writing there is no revelation of\nthe wide acquaintance with literature that was Sharp's, but despite his\nharassment by the constant identification of himself with \"Fiona\nMacleod,\" he gradually allowed to creep into that writing more and more\nof what was known to be the knowledge of William Sharp, a knowledge\nunlikely to be also that of a Highland lady who lived apart from the\nworld. His friends pointed out to him the danger he was running in\nwriting from what was obviously a man's standpoint, as in his tales of\nthe wars of Gael and Gall, and of revealing several sorts of interest\nthat were known to be his, but their warnings were in vain. He was\napparently unable to limit himself to the restrictions of the part of\nhimself he had essayed to restrict himself to.\n\nFor my own part I was now sure the writing must be Sharp's and now sure\nit could not be his. I did not know of his intimate concern with\nquestions of feminism until I read Mrs. Sharp's \"Memoir,\" so that\noutspoken chant, the \"Prayer of Women\" in \"Pharais,\" \"Fiona Macleod's\"\nfirst book, colored my outlook on all the writing that followed. I had\nno doubt at all but that \"Pharais\" was written by a woman, but \"The\nDan-nan-Ron\" and \"Silk o' the Kine\" in \"The Sin-Eater\" (1895) seemed to\nme hardly a woman's. \"The Washer of the Ford\" (1896) was written from\nthe man's point of view, too, but \"Green Fire\" (1896) seemed feminine\nagain. So I wobbled in my opinion until \"The Divine Adventure\" (1900)\nand the critical writings of the volume that story gives title to, and\nthe critical writing in \"The Winged Destiny\" (1905), made me believe\nagain that \"Fiona Macleod\" was surely Sharp. I did not come upon the\narticles that now make up \"Where the Forest Murmurs\" (1907) until after\nthe death of Sharp and the disclosure of the secret. Had his death not\ndivulged the secret of the identity of \"Fiona Macleod,\" it seems to me\nthat collection must have disclosed it. Had Sharp lived after this there\nwould not have been possible for him much further work from the\nseclusion his pseudonym gave him, and I doubt, once the secret was out,\nit would have been possible for him to write of things Celtic with the\nold gusto.\n\nAfter all has been said it must be confessed, I think, that Sharp did\nnot know the Highlander, either of the mainland or of the islands, very\nintimately. He wrote much better of his dream of life on the west coast\nin prehistoric times--out of his imagination of what that life must have\nbeen, an imagination founded on the reading of the old legends and\nmodern collections of folk-lore, such as the \"Carmina Gadelica\" of Mr.\nCarmichael--than he did out of his knowledge of Highland life of to-day.\nThe Achannas are in many of his tales of modern times, and wherever\nthey are there is unreality, if not melodrama. Unreality, too, there is,\nin many phases, in the modern tales, and \"highfalutinness\" everywhere in\nthem. And both unreality and \"highfalutinness\" offend in these modern\ntales as they would not in the tales of far times, though in these, as a\nmatter of fact, they are not so much in evidence.\n\nIt would almost seem that the approach to reality drove Highland\natmosphere from the stories. In \"The Sin-Eater,\" one of the best of his\nwritings that might be classed as a short story, the sin-eater and his\nconfidant are Highlanders, but the description of the scene of his\nmisfortune, the steading of the Blairs, might well have been that\nnearest to \"Silence Farm.\" It is faithfully described, the scenes about\nthe little home, whose owner lies dead, having the very smack of\nrealism. In the latter part of the story the scene shifts to the coast\nand the tang of the story turns Gaelic and unreal. Was it thus, I\nwonder, always to the imagination of William Sharp, Lowland life real,\nHighland life mystical?\n\nSharp was handicapped, of course, in coming to the subject material he\ncould best handle late in life, \"Pharais\" (1894) and \"The Mountain\nLovers\" (1895), the first books published as by \"F.M.,\" being just as\ndefinitely 'prenticework in their kind as was \"Children of To-morrow\"\n(1890) in its kind. Of the long stories other than \"Children of\nTo-morrow\" published in his own name, \"A Fellowe and his Wife\" (1892)\nand \"Wives in Exile\" (1896) have no very serious intention, though both\nare well done after their kind, records of imaginings, respectively of\nexperiences of art life in Rome, and of yachting experiences in the\nIrish Sea. It was not until \"Silence Farm\" (1899), as I have said, that,\nas William Sharp, he found himself.\n\n\"The Gypsy Christ\" (1896), which might well have been developed into a\nfull-fledged romance, is less original than any of his longer writings.\nIt is, like \"The Weird of Michael Scott\" and \"A Northern Night,\" closely\nallied to essays of his other role, that of \"F.M.,\" to catch and express\n\"the tempestuous loveliness of terror,\" such as the catastrophe of \"The\nMountain Lovers,\" \"The Barbaric Tales,\" and those short stories in which\nGloom Achanna is hero-villain. It is in such work that Sharp shows his\naffinities to Poe, affinities which are not elsewhere as obvious as his\naffinities to De Quincey. Narrative was not native to De Quincey any\nmore than it was to Sharp, though Sharp was led toward it by his\ninterest in character, an interest that was not in any large measure\ngiven to De Quincey, who, when he turned to narrative other than that\nwhich relates what had happened to him or what he had dreamed had\nhappened to him, makes the reader feel he did so as a concession to the\npublic. Another interest that was Sharp's, an interest amounting to a\npassion,--out-of-doors,--De Quincey had not at all, for all his devotion\nto Wordsworth and to Wordsworth's interests. Like De Quincey, on the\nother hand, Sharp delights in \"fine writing,\" in both senses of the\nphrase, in the \"highfalutin\" that is objectionable, and in the ornately\nbeautiful that is one fitting expression of romantic thought. Both men\npreferred the mouth-filling word to the simple one, the Latinical\nadjective to the Saxon; both had rather see visions and dream dreams\nthan write about the \"common light of common hours\"; both goad their\nimaginations until they run riot and so confuse their possessors, who\nshould control them, that they are unable to distinguish between what is\nfact and what is fancy. You could carry the analogy further, to events\nof their lives--the runnings-away in boyhood; the devoted friendships to\npoets in youth; the incredible amount of hard work achieved in manhood\ndespite of often recurring illnesses.\n\nOf the long stories published as by \"F.M.,\" Sharp repudiated \"Flora\nMacDonald\" because it was too much in the way of \"ordinary romance,\" and\n\"Green Fire\" for the same reason and because it was largely about\nBrittany, a country with which, by some strange chance, he did not make\nhimself familiar, though he had visited and learned to know well at\nleast parts of all the other Celtic countries. It is to my mind,\nhowever, if not so definitely of a wholeness of texture as \"Pharais\" or\n\"The Mountain Lovers,\" or so singular, less monotonous than either. All\nthree of these stories disappoint my memory of them when I again read\nthem. This is, I believe, because all three of them--and for that matter\nmany of the short stories as well--are incompletely realized, or\nbecause--in the case of two of them, \"The Mountain Lovers\" and \"Green\nFire\"--they are unevenly written. Their high intention and atmosphere\nremain with you after you have put the books aside, and in the course of\ntime you forget their hurried writing, their inconsistencies, and their\nqualities of the \"Shilling Shocker,\" the result of their author's\nfailure to attain \"the tempestuous loveliness of terror\" that are in so\nmany of them, long or short. As aids to this effacement of the\ncheapening elements are the very materials of the tales, their\ncharacters, now elemental, now other-worldly, and their background of\nmountains that uplift the spirit, and of menacing sea.\n\nThat Sharp wrote less exactly of the present-day people of the Highlands\nthan of the background of their lives was largely because he had few\nopportunities to learn to know them intimately. There was a basis for\nsuch intimacy laid in his childhood, in the fact that his nurse was a\nHighland woman; there was something built on this basis by his boyhood's\nvacations in many parts of Argyllshire and voyages elsewhere along the\nwest coast. Youth spent in Arran and Skye would have counted for much\nmore, for the boy, once he is no longer child and before he has reached\nhis youth and is awakening man, is not much more interested in people in\nreal life for what they are than he is in minute description of their\ncharacters in books. He likes men for the sportsmanlike and adventurous\nthings they can do, and he likes to read records of things sportsmanlike\nand adventurous, but men as men, unless they are eccentric to\ngrotesqueness, do not arrest his attention. Even the dreamy boys, the\nartistic boys, are not likely to learn much of others, so preoccupied\nare they with themselves.\n\nIt was thus, I think, that Sharp's childhood was not what he would in\nlater years have had it, not what in \"The Laughter of Peterkin\" he\nalleges the childhood of \"Fiona Macleod\" to have been. For all the\ninfluence of \"Barabal,\" his nurse, it seems from his writing that her\nstories remain with him more as suggestions to imagination than as\ndefinite memories, and that the fisherman referred to in \"Sheumas\" left\nwith him little more than \"Barabal.\" How fresh and wonderful to him was\nactual contact with Highland life is almost pathetically revealed in a\nletter he wrote to Mrs. Sharp from Kilcreggan in the summer of 1894. In\nthis letter he is all but exultant in the recording of the securing of\n\"Celtic\" material from a \"Celtic Islesman from Iona.\" Of the actual life\nof the Islesmen and Glensmen he could have known but little, for long\nliving among them is necessary to their understanding,--they are, as he\nwrote in this same letter, \"passionately reticent.\" It was not the way\nof Sharp to fall back, in this deficiency of experience, on old legends\nand folk-tales collected in his own day, but to trust to his imagination\nas that was quickened by what knowledge he had of life in the inner\nisles and in Argyllshire, and by the very atmosphere of known places\nthere that seemed to demand, as Stevenson put it, to have stories\ninvented to fit them.\n\nIt is said, too,--Mrs. Sharp gives her authority to the story,--that\nfriendship with the woman to whom he dedicated \"Pharais,\" \"E.W.R.,\"\nstimulated him to the work. \"Because of her beauty, her strong sense of\nlife, and of her joy of life,\" writes Mrs. Sharp in her memoir of her\nhusband, \"because of her keen intuitions and mental alertness, her\npersonality stood for him as a symbol of the heroic women of Greek and\nCeltic days, a symbol that, as he expressed it, unlocked new doors in\nhis mind and put him in touch with the ancestral memories of his race.\"\nAnd Mrs. Sharp quotes him further as declaring \"without her there would\nhave been no 'Fiona Macleod.'\" Perhaps; but I doubt if, after the Celtic\nRenaissance had won a hearing, anything could have prevented Sharp from\nfollowing what was, after all, a natural bent. I am not going to argue\nthe matter out, but he himself admitted that his development as \"Fiona\nMacleod\" began \"while I was still a child,\" and there is proof in almost\nevery volume he published, even before he knew Mrs. Rinder (\"E.W.R.,\"\nmust of course be the author of \"The Shadow of Arvor\"), that his\ntendency was toward what became characteristic of \"Fiona Macleod.\"\n\nIt was the love that Sharp had for all sorts of \"psychic things,\" the\nmysterious, the unaccountable, the hidden, that led him to believe that\n\"without her there would have been no 'Fiona Macleod.'\" Sharp himself,\nwhen his \"other self,\" with sense of humor alert, was more than willing\nto admit that it is easy to believe what one wishes to believe; and he\ndelighted to tell a story at the expense of Mr. Yeats illustrative of\nthe trite fact. Sharp went one day, in London, to call on Mr. Yeats.\nWhen lunch-time came, they set about cooking eggs. Mr. Yeats held them\nin a frying-pan over the little fire in the grate. As they slipped\nabout, Mr. Yeats, all the while looking back in the room away from the\nfire as he talked to Sharp, allowed the pan to tip too far and the eggs\nfell out into the fire. So absorbed was he in the topic of conversation,\nmost appropriately the disappearance of material things, that he did\nnot notice the catastrophe or the quick disappearance of the eggs among\nthe coals. When his perfervidness subsided for a moment, he turned to\nsee if they were done. \"There, what did I tell you!\" said he; \"our talk\nof these things has conjured up the powers and the eggs are gone.\" Sharp\ndid not tell him of the accident. And there were no more eggs in the\nroom to have for lunch.\n\nOne of the reasons that led William Sharp to write \"Silence Farm\" (1899)\nwas to have something under his own name that might be very different\nfrom the stories of \"Fiona Macleod.\" And \"Silence Farm\" is very\ndifferent, a story without the distinguishing qualities of \"Pharais\" or\n\"The Divine Adventure,\" and suggesting kinship to the work of his other\nself only through certain likenesses of domestic irregularity in the\nfamily of Archibald Ruthven to other domestic irregularity in the family\nof Torcall Cameron of \"The Mountain Lovers.\" Though not of so original a\nkind, perhaps, as the best of the \"Fiona Macleod\" work, \"Silence Farm\"\nhas to it a \"wholeness of good tissue\" that belongs to little work of\nthis most uneven writer. \"Silence Farm,\" I would emphasize again as I\nemphasized at the opening of this paper, is better written, both as\nregards style and architectonic quality, and it is a truer reading of\nlife, than any of the Highland stories. Though it is a story of to-day,\nand about a life much like that made familiar by the writers of the\nKailyard school, it is not to them, but to such kindred\nunsentimentalized work as Mr. Shan Bullock's, that you instinctively\ncompare it. The people, indeed, are the same dour Presbyterians, though\nthe one writes of Scotland and the other of the North of Ireland. And as\nyou compare the material of \"Silence Farm\" with that of \"The Squireen,\"\nfor instance, you note, too, that the art of both is the art of Mr.\nHardy.\n\nThere is little modern writing with which to compare the Highland\nstories of Sharp. It is not that the Highlands have not been much\nwritten about, but that they have been written about intimately by but\nfew. No part of the world so out of the world as their outlying islands,\nthe Hebrides, has been so bewritten by travelers from Martin's time to\nour own; but comparatively few have known either islands or mainland\nwell enough to dare novels of their life, and of those who have so dared\nno one up to the time of Sharp had written a great realistic story of\nthe Highlands, and but one or two great romances. Now we have Mr. Neil\nMunro, like Sharp a very uneven writer, whose \"Children of Tempest\"--to\ntake one of his best stories--now delights and now tortures you; and\nyesterday we had William Black, famous for sunsets. Black knew the\nHebrides well, very well for a Lowlandman turned Londoner, and he\nlabored hard to make his books true and beautiful. Unfortunately it was\nnot in him to do fine work, not even the best sort of the second order\nof novelists,--such work as Trollope's, for instance, which by dint of\nfaithfulness and humanity almost persuades you now and then that it is\nof higher than second order. Black was faithful to what he saw and\nbroadly sympathetic, but his writing not only lacks distinction, but,\neven at its best, as in \"The Princess of Thule,\" home thrust to one's\ninterest. Yet, such as it is, it is all but all that we have which\nattempts to put before us any broad view of Highland life. The one man\nof the generation older than the generation of Mr. Sharp who might have\ndrawn Highland life greatly, Robert Buchanan, was diverted all his life,\nas Sharp was in the twenties and thirties, from doing what he would to\nwhat would boil the pot, but he left at least one story, a story of\nSutherland, \"A Child of Nature,\" to prove to us what his reading of\nHighland life might have been. Had Stevenson been born a Highlander, he\nmight have given us both novels of the Highlands of the order of \"Weir\nof Hermiston,\" and romances really Highland in quality, as \"Kidnapped\"\nand \"Catriona\" are not.\n\nI suppose that, back of all the failure to deal realistically with\nHighland life, this rare attainment of a romance of Highland life at all\nfaithful to it, is the making of the Highlander into a stage hero by\nScott. There are those to-day who fail to find any glamour in \"Waverley\"\nor \"Rob Roy\" or \"The Legend of Montrose,\" but it is still there to me,\ninvesting the figures of Fergus MacIvor and the MacGregor and the\nChildren of the Mist as it did in childhood, when I was so fascinated\nthat I prized my Campbell plaided paper soldiers next to my Continentals\nin blue and buff. In going through an old trunkful of school-books only\nthe other day, I came upon one of these bonneted fellows, still\nwonderfully preserved, in an old atlas of the heavens, and then I knew\nall of a flash why it was that the poor boy soldiers that I saw in\nHighland accoutrement in the yard of Edinburgh Castle during the Boer\nWar so disappointed me by their appearance and bearing. They were not\nhalf so brave as the piper who used to make the rounds of my boyhood's\ntown and bring tears to my eyes with his \"Campbells are Comin'.\" I write\nthis that my quarrel with much of what Sharp has written of the\nHighlands, that portion that seems to me sentimentalized or one-sided,\nmay not be put down to lack of appreciation of the romance, the\neeriness, and otherworldliness that there unquestionably are in that\nlife.\n\nIt is their aloofness from the everyday story, their unusual use of the\nsupernatural that has given the longer stories written out of the \"Fiona\nmood,\" as Mr. Sharp once spoke of his possession, their appeal to most\nreaders, but there is here in America a class who put the highest\nvaluation on the shorter stories Mr. Sharp called \"spiritual tales.\" To\nthose who hold this view \"The Divine Adventure\" is of the nature of\nrevelation. To me it is hardly this, but very interesting, not so much\nfor its putting of the relations of Body, Will, and Spirit to one\nanother in life and at death, as for its beautiful writing, and for its\ndefinite betrayal, when its author is writing most intimately, of a\nman's attitude, though he published the story as the work of \"Fiona\nMacleod.\" These \"spiritual tales\" do not belong, all of them, to his\n\"Fiona Macleod\" period, for \"Vistas\" (1894) contains many of them,\nthough they are cast here in dialogue form, and there are others among\nthe work published under his own name. In fact, the writing under the\ntwo names never becomes liker in quality and intention than when it is\n\"spiritual.\" The sketch from Part II of \"The Dominion of Dreams\" (1899),\nentitled \"The Book of the Opal,\" for instance, is written on the very\nkey of \"Fragments of the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo\" (1896), far\napart their subject material, and \"The Hill-Wind\" by \"W.S.\" dedicated\nas it is to \"F.M.,\" might well be a rejected passage from \"The Mountain\nLovers.\" There is the color of the Highlands and Islands about many of\nthese mystical stories, about \"The Hill-Wind,\" by \"W.S.\" and \"The Wind,\nthe Shadow, and the Soul,\" the epilogue \"F.M.\" wrote to the \"Dominion of\nDreams\"; but most of these shorter mystical tales have not the tang and\nsavor of farm-home on lonely moors, or fisher's hut on the lonelier\nmachar, that is characteristic of most of the tales long and short, that\ndeal with modern days.\n\nNor are the meanings of these \"spiritual tales\" consistently indicated\nin symbols taken from Scottish life, nor is their supernaturalism native\nto it. Mrs. Spoer (Ada Goodrich-Freer), in her \"Outer Isles\" (1902),\ntells us \"The Celtic Gloom\" amuses the Hebridean. If so, what effect\nwould such discussion as that of \"The Lynn of Dreams\" and \"Maya\" have\nupon him? But if such essays are not written out of Highland life, they\nare none the less interesting, and in the case of \"Maya,\" with its\nconsideration of waking dream, beautiful as art, and valuable, too, as a\ncontribution to science.\n\nSo far does Sharp go in his belief as to the apprehension of thought\nthrough powers other than those of the senses, that in \"The Winged\nDestiny\" he can look forward to a time \"when the imagination shall lay\naside words and pigments and clay, as raiment needless during the\nfestivals of the spirit, and express itself in the thoughts which\ninhabit words--as light inhabits water or as greenness inhabits grass.\"\nNot only does he foresee such a time, but he foreshadows it, heralds it\nin some of his sketches, \"Aileen\" for one, by attempting it. Perhaps he\nhas succeeded, perhaps not. To me the attempt is a failure, not, I\nthink, because he is writing for to-morrow, for that age when the\nspiritual awakening he so often prophesied shall have come, but because\nhe is attempting what cannot be done in any age. If he were seeking only\nsuggestion, well and good. But he seeks more, and fails, I think, to\nattain more. It seems to me impossible that the suggestions he creates\ncan ever be more than suggestions. They cannot become definite concepts\nthat will mean the same thing to all men. Suggestion, the opening-up of\nvistas, is a high attribute of the art he follows; but he is not content\nwith suggestion, he would seek more definite expression of what, after\nall, is not thought but mood. So it is that he is most successful when\nconveying mood and less successful when conveying esoteric thought. As a\ncritic, of course, on a plane easier for the conveyance of thought,\nSharp is definite enough, completely successful in conveying the ideas\nthat he intends to convey.\n\nOften, I fear, when Sharp intends \"spiritual history,\" either in a tale\nwholly devoted to this purpose, as \"The Divine Adventure,\" or as\nexplanatory to the incidents of some more tangible tale, he is really\nonly playing with words, beautiful words, words sometimes so beautiful\nthat we are apt to forget that words are to be used not alone for\nbeauty's sake. Often, again, I fear, he will introduce beautiful symbols\nsimply for their beauty and not because they have a real purpose, not\nbecause they will more intimately convey, even to the initiated, the\nintent of his writing. That these practices are the result of\ncarelessness, sometimes, as well as of his subservience to beauty, the\nfascination that words merely as words or visions merely as visions\nexert upon him, is, I think, true. It is but seldom, I believe, that the\nunderlying thought is incoherent. In almost all of his earlier writing,\nhowever, even in the earlier \"Fiona\" writing, he is very careless. He\ncontradicts himself in his short stories as to facts, he gets his family\nrelationships tangled in a way that cannot be explained by any process\nof nature, and so, too, I think, he gets his symbols mixed, or deludes\nhimself into the belief that something that was hastily written \"came to\nhim\" that way and so should be preserved in that exact expression, even\nthough to him at the second reading it meant nothing definite. He jumps\nto conclusions again and again in what he writes about birds, where I\ncan follow him on a certain footing of knowledge. If he is so careless\nabout facts, if he can, even though it is a slip, confuse Mary Magdalene\nand the Virgin Mary, if he can mention birds in a description of\nHighland landscape that is characteristic of a certain time of year when\nbirds of that species would be in the Highlands only by accident at that\ntime of year, it is more than likely, slips though these may be, that\nthere will be similar slips in all he writes, no fewer, it is likely, in\nhis writings of psychic things than elsewhere.\n\nThere is possible, of course, no hard-and-fast classification of his\nwritings. Class shades into class almost imperceptibly. It is\nparticularly difficult to draw the line between the several kinds of\nstories and sketches he writes that involve supernaturalism of one kind\nand another. There is possible, however, a rough-and-ready distinction\nbetween those stories of his which are esoterically mystical and those\nwhich, while concerned with the supernatural, are concerned with it in\nthe way familiar in old romance. Of this \"usual supernatural\" are those\nin which \"second sight\" is the motive, second sight which is always to\nbe looked for as the commonest supernatural motive in the writing of all\nGaels, either Alban or Irish. Sharp introduced \"second sight\" into \"The\nSon of Allan\" (1881); it is in \"Pharais\" (1894), the first of his \"F.M.\"\nwork; it is developed at some length in \"Iona\" (1900), which is a\nmicrocosm of all his writing. In \"Iona,\" Sharp puts himself on record as\nholding stoutly belief in the reality of the power:--\n\n     The faculty itself is so apt to the spiritual law that one wonders\n     why it is so set apart in doubt. It would, I think, be far stranger\n     if there were no such faculties. That I believe, it were needless\n     to say, were it not that these words may be read by many to whom\n     this quickened inward vision is a superstition, or a fantastic\n     glorification of insight.\n\nThe Achannas, in the uncanny stories in which they are heroes and\nvillains, are all possessed by the power of the second sight, but second\nsight is not the most remarkable of their supernatural powers. Hypnotic\nsuggestion Gloom uses as an everyday agent in his affairs. It is through\nhypnotic suggestion that he puts madness upon Alasdair M'Ian, playing to\nhim the Pibroch of the Mad, Alasdair M'Ian, in telling whose story\n\"Fiona Macleod\" revealed--I suppose, by chance--something of the\nstruggle of William Sharp to succeed in letters. Much more frequently,\nhowever, he uses a supernatural power that is further removed from those\nin which modern science is interested, such as the machination of\nfairies that made Allison Achanna the \"Anointed Man\"--that, in plain\nspeech, had driven him fey; or such as the lure of the serpent goddess\nthat drove to his death the piper hero of \"By the Yellow Moon Rock,\" or\nthe exchanging of human child for fairy child that is the burden of\n\"Faraghaol.\"\n\nIt is much more likely that William Sharp would have made more of this\nchangeling motive had it not come so near to the question of dual\npersonality, which it would be dangerous to him to discuss, as would\nthat question so closely akin, the question of people who are\n\"away,\"--that is, with the fairies,--a kindly explanation of insanity,\nchronic or recurrent. As William Sharp he has touched on the question of\ndual personality several times in his verses, and very definitely in \"A\nFellowe and his Wife.\" In this last-named book he says, in a letter that\nthe Countess Ilse writes to her husband in Ruegen: \"This duality is so\nbewildering. I to be myself, whom you know, and whom I know--and then\nthat other I, whom you do not know at all and whom I only catch glimpses\nof as in a mirror, or hear whispering for a moment in the twilight.\"\nThat he could not take up the topic so definitely in his later writings\nmust have, indeed, been a cross to him, for there was hardly any other\nquestion, unless perhaps that of \"ancestral memory,\" which interested\nhim more deeply. It might be argued, I suppose, that he did discuss it\nin \"The Divine Adventure,\" in considering the relations of Spirit, Will,\nand Body. Mrs. Sharp, I take it, so holds when she says in her \"Memoir\"\nthat the William Sharp work was that of the Will and the \"Fiona Macleod\"\nwork beyond the control of the Will. And it is true that these three,\nthe Spirit, Will, and Body, though each is given a distinctive\npersonality, each a memory distinct from the memory of the others, are\nall but the component parts of one man. Mrs. Sharp does not, however,\nanywhere avow directly a belief in the possession of a real dual\npersonality by her husband, and she definitely contradicts Mr. Yeats for\nhis expression of belief that \"William Sharp could not remember what as\n'Fiona Macleod' he had said to you in conversation.\"\n\nVery different from these short stories I have been discussing are three\nof the four contained in the volume entitled \"Madge o' the Pool\" (1896),\npublished as by William Sharp. Of the one that is somewhat in the manner\nof certain of the \"F.M.\" stories, the \"Gypsy Christ,\" I have spoken.\nTwo, \"The Coward\" and \"The Lady in Hosea,\" are but \"the usual thing.\"\n\"Madge o' the Pool\" is the one really worth while. In this story, with\nsuch river pirates as we have met, sentimentalized, in \"Our Mutual\nFriend,\" as material, Sharp writes as realistically as he does in\n\"Silence Farm,\" and with a sympathy and pathos that his objective method\ncannot exclude.\n\nThere are episodes or sketches, some of them what sharp calls \"prose\nimaginings,\" throughout his many books, that one may hardly call short\nstories, or myths, or studies in folk-lore, or criticism, or any of the\nother many kinds of writing that he essayed. Perhaps \"memories\" would be\nthe proper general term for writing of this kind. In almost every one of\nthese episodes or sketches there is a germ of a story, and some, I\nsuppose, regard them as but unrealized art. But I for one am glad Mr.\nSharp did not \"work them up.\" In them are some of his best writing and\nsome of that most personal and intimate. I have spoken of \"Aileen\" and\n\"Barabal\"; \"Sheumas, a Memory,\" is another that is memorable, and\nmemorable too, are \"The Sea Madness\" and \"The Triad.\" \"The Triad\" is\nalmost his _credo_, certainly a statement of the things he holds \"most\nexcellent\"--\"primitive genius, primitive love, primitive memory.\" Here\nSharp recurs, as so often in his writing, to \"ancestral memory,\" that\npossession of men by which they are aware of what was in the world\nbefore they were, through oneness with the universal memory into which\nthey are absorbed in dream or vision or of which they become aware by\nwhat we call intuition. If such a power be restricted so that its\npossessor recalls only certain parts of antiquity, he is virtually in\nthe state of him who believes he remembers what he remembers because of\nprevious incarnations. I have no personal opinion to express on the\nsubject, but if such memories exist in us because of our participation\nin a universal memory or because of reincarnation, it is easy to explain\nwhy Sharp is best in his writing of myths, his pictures of the wild\nbeauties of love and war and dream in barbaric Erin and Alba. It is\nbecause he is the reincarnation of the shanachie of the Dark Ages. When\nhe thought of reincarnation, however, in relation to himself, he\nthought, I have no doubt, of himself as the reincarnation of a druid,\none who had been aware of mysteries; but what he really was, in life,\nwith his magnificent enthusiasm and bravado,--picturesque raiment after\nall and no more for the high-hearted and inherently ailing body of\nhim,--was this reincarnation of the shanachie, such an one as his own\nOran the Monk turned tale-teller. If you doubt that he was shanachie,\nnot druid, compare the two legends in \"Beyond the Blue Septentrions.\"\nThe ordered beauty of the legend that tells of the derivation of the\nname of Arthur from Arcturus falls familiarly on our ears. It is\nevidently made under a lamp by one who has read many old legends. It is\nno druidic revelation. The other, that which ends with the three great\nhero-leaps of Fionn from the Arctic Floes to the Pole, from the Pole up\nto Arcturus, from Arcturus to the Hill of Heaven itself, is fantastic,\nbizarre, extravagant to grotesqueness, with the very flamboyance of old\nIrish legend and modern Irish folk-tale. In other words, it is in the\nvery manner of the shanachie of the Dark Ages, whether his work was\nrecorded then as court poem or has been handed down by word of mouth\namong the folk. Nor is there anything inconsistent in this wild\nimagining with a very different power displayed in \"moralities\" like his\n\"Last Supper.\" I have heard stories as incongruous, one uproarious,\nanother of cloistral quiet and piety, from the old Irish gardener with\nwhom I spent a large part of my happier days, the days from seven to\nseventeen. Lawrence lost his life doing a \"retreat\" morning after\nmorning on the cold stone floor of a Vincentian church, not in any\nsudden repentance at fourscore and three for the sins of his youth for\nthey had been fewer than those of almost all I know, but in the usual\nway of his austere life. Yet Lawrence was just as much himself when he\nwas telling me stories of Dean Swift that were full of malice and\nbrutality and orgiac ecstasy.\n\nThe range of the shanachie is wide, and wide, too, the range of Sharp in\nthe role of shanachie of barbaric life on both sides of the Moyle. Among\nsuch writings there are few tellings of the order of the folk-tale, more\nof the order of the hero saga, many--perhaps the best of them--of an\norder all his own that has developed, it is likely, from the old\n\"Saints' Lives,\" but to which he has given a ring of authenticity that\nmakes them seem descended from an antiquity as remote as that of\nfolk-tale or hero-tale. \"The Flight of the Culdees\" brings before you\nwith vividness what must have been the life of the Celtic missionaries\nin the days when the men out of Lochlin began to seek the Summer Isles;\nand \"The Annir Choile\" and \"The Woman with the Net,\" what was the fate\nthey meted out to those among themselves who slipped back into the\npleasant old ways of paganism. These are written out of his own\nrevisualization of the past. More immediately sprung of the old legends\nare \"The Three Marvels of Hy,\" which tells of the inner life of Columba\nand his brethren on Iona, and \"Muime Chriosd,\" which utilizes folk-lore\nas old or older than the legends collected by Mr. Alexander Carmichael\nin his pursuit of the stories of St. Bride among the peasantry of the\nOuter Isles. \"The Song of the Sword\" and \"Mircath\" have in them the\nbattle-madness of the Viking, whetted to its keenest intensity as he\nmeets the hard resistance of the Hebrideans; and \"The Laughter of\nScathach\" and \"The Sad Queen,\" that more terrible fury of the Amazon who\nruled in Skye. Than this last-named story Sharp has done no starker\nwriting, but it is so evidently from a man's point of view that it\nconfirmed many in the belief that \"Fiona Macleod\" could not be a woman.\n\n\"The Washer of the Ford\" has its roots in folk-lore, but it is so\nremoulded in the mind of the writer that it is rather a re-creation of\nthe old belief than a restoration of it. There are those who would\nrather have had Sharp follow the tales as they are told by Campbell of\nIslay, Cameron of Brodick, and Carmichael of South Uist, but to me,\nunless the tale is one familiar to many readers, such a remoulding, if\ndone with power, is surely a prerogative of the artist. But when he\ntakes a well-known legendary character, as well known among the Gaels as\nAchilles among English school-boys, and changes his hair from black to\ngolden and his stature from short to tall, utterly transforming not only\nour picture of him, but the significance of his deeds, then I object, as\nI would object if he had made the fair-haired and great-statured\nAchilles into such \"a little dark man\" as the Red Branch legends record\nCuchullin to have been. Nor would I quarrel even with his changing of\nthe spirit of the old tales if he had always, as he has almost always,\nsubstituted a new beauty for the old beauty of the legend in its bardic\nor folk form. It is in the few instances in which his dream of the old\ntale does not lift to so great a power in its way as the old tale\npossessed in its way that I protest. Of such a nature are some of the\nchanges Sharp made in his retelling of the \"Three Sorrows of\nStory-Telling\" in \"The Laughter of Peterkin,\" which, it must be\nremembered, however, was hurried work, almost hackwork.\n\nSharp was particularly successful, I think, in his handling, in the\nthree tales--he calls them \"legendary moralities\"--in which he brings\nChrist to the straths of Argyll. These three are \"The Last Supper,\" \"The\nFisher of Men,\" and \"The Wayfarer.\" The last is the least successful of\nthe three, but significant in its attack on certain forms of\nPresbyterianism for their attempts to kill out, as un-Christian, the old\nways of life among the Highlanders. This charge was made fifty years ago\nby Campbell of Islay, and it had been repeated only yesterday by Mr.\nCarmichael. William Black and Mr. Munro confirm it, too, in their\nnovels, and, in fact, it is only what one expects of Puritanism, whether\nin its dominating of the Scotch Presbyterian minister or of the Irish\nCatholic priest. The latter is to-day doing as much to kill the joy of\nlife in Connacht as did even the minister of the Free Kirk yesterday on\nthe Lews. It may have been partly to hide his identity that Sharp\nassumed what some thought an anti-Presbyterian attitude in his \"Fiona\nMacleod\" writing; it may have been the sympathy of the artist toward a\nchurch that has conserved art that led him to what some thought a\npro-Catholic attitude; but scratch this gypsy artist and you find,\nsurprising as it may be, moral prejudice for Protestantism. Does he not\nadmire Torcall Cameron and Archibald Ruthven, stern Calvinists both?\n\"The Fisher of Men,\" and \"The Last Supper\" have in them the austere\nbeauty of the old morality plays, a beauty that is akin to the beauty of\nthe Puritan imagination of Bunyan, and a tenderness that we may in vain\nlook for there. They are written in all reverence and simplicity, and it\nis no wonder we find Mr. Yeats suggesting that \"Fiona Macleod\" turn them\ninto plays for the Irish Theatre.\n\nI do not care so much for \"The Birds of Emar,\" myths he has rewoven from\nthe \"Mabinogion\" into Gaelic texture, or the series that purport to be\ncollected among the Isles and are found to be very like certain\nwell-known Greek legends. These, too, seem to me reweavings, and the\n\"Treud-nan-Ron\" and \"The Woman at the Crossways\"; and \"The Man on the\nMoor,\" though its origin is far from their origins, is also a reweaving.\nIn certain of his writing of this time Sharp passes over virtually into\ncriticism or comparative mythology, as in \"Queens of Beauty\" and\n\"Orpheus and Oisin,\" and in many of the papers of \"Where the Forest\nMurmurs.\" These all have interest; but some smell much of the lamp; and\nnone of them are to be compared to the best of his \"Seanchas,\" to \"The\nHarping of Cravetheen,\" or \"Enya of the Dark Eyes,\" or \"Silk o' the\nKine,\" or \"Ula and Urla\"; or to his Plays \"The House of Usna\" and \"The\nImmortal Hour,\" in which, for all the savagery, there is nobility, the\nnobility that was in the old legends themselves, that nobility that\nwithstood even the hand of Macpherson, that nobility that has been\nreproduced most nobly of all in the \"Deirdre\" of Synge.\n\nI am not so sure that the tone of these old myths is always\ndistinctively Celtic, as it is undoubtedly in \"The Annir Choile,\" and in\nother \"Seanchas\" that reveal him at his best. There was viking blood in\nSharp, and it comes out, I think, in such tales as \"The Song of the\nSword.\" How he came to write these barbaric tales I do not know, though\nI have sometimes thought that the \"Dhoya\" (1891) of Mr. Yeats may have\nsuggested them, as the Hanrahan stories may have suggested certain of\nthe more modern tales. But whatever their genesis, the heroes and\nheroines of the \"Seanchas\" seem to him like the heroes and heroines of\nHomer and the Greek tragedians; and his friend whom he thought inspired\nhim to much of the \"F.M.\" work stood, we must remember, as symbolical to\nhim of the women of Greek as well as of Celtic legend.\n\nThere are many indications, in his last writing, not only in that\nunpublished book on \"Greek Backgrounds\" and in his articles in the\nmagazines on Sicily, all by William Sharp, but in the \"Fiona Macleod\"\nwork, that he would have come to write of Greek antiquity with an\nenthusiasm very like that with which he wrote of Gaelic antiquity.\n\"W.S.\" is speaking with the voice of \"F.M.\" when he says in a letter to\nMrs. Sharp, dated Athens, January 29, 1904: \"It is a marvelous\nhomecoming feeling I have here. And I know a strange stirring, a kind of\nspiritual rebirth.\"\n\nOne reason, perhaps, that the best work of Sharp has come out of his\nconsideration of the Celts of antiquity is that the stark stories he has\nto tell of them restrain his style, a style too flamboyant when there\nis in what he is writing a large opportunity for description of\nlandscape or exhibition of great emotion in his characters. Another\nreason is, perhaps, that his tendency to introduce the supernatural is\nmore in harmony with the subject material got out of antiquity than of\nthe subject material got out of to-day. We can accept magic in these old\ntales, even to the incantations of Bobaran the White that swayed the\nwaves of the sea so that Gaer, the son of Deirdre, was saved from the\nmen of Lochlin. That is as it should be in druidic times. It is\nimpossible, of course, that Bobaran had power over the waves, but in\nsuch a story such an episode seems more probable than the possible\nhypnotic suggestion of Gloom Achanna's pipe-playing that sent Manus\nMacOdrum to his death among the fighting seals, because to-day we do not\noften come upon such things. It is even less easy to accept the piping\nto madness of Alasdair in \"Alasdair the Proud.\" Hypnotic suggestion may\ndrive to death in the sea a man half fey because of sorrow long endured\nand the superstition that he is descended from seals, but pipe-playing\ncannot believably in modern tales drive a man insane, whatever it may do\nin the famous old \"Pied Piper of Hamelin\" or other folk-tale.\n\nSo, too, in the verse of Sharp, whether lyric or dramatic, it is the\nCelt that inspires him to his best work. Nowhere does his verse win so\nmuch of beauty and glamour as when his thought turns to the four cities\nof Murias and Finias and Falias and Glorias, or when it breaks into a\nchant on the lips of Etain, in \"The Immortal Hour.\"\n\nThough there is less unevenness of technique, both in the style and in\nthe unfolding of the story, in these \"Seanchas\" than elsewhere in his\nwriting, the technique breaks down at times here, too, more usually\nthrough sins of omission than through sins of commission. Sharp realized\nthe something wanting that so many find in much of his writing, even in\nmuch that is most beautiful, realized it so keenly that he felt called\nupon to explain. He explained not directly, it is true, as if in answer\nto criticism, but none the less definitely in thus affirming his\nattitude toward legends in the \"Sunset of Old Tales\": \"We owe a debt,\nindeed, to the few who are truly fit for the task [the collecting of\ntales from oral tradition], but there are some minds which care very\nlittle to hear about things when they can have the things themselves.\"\nThis statement explains in part why it is that the life of the people,\neven that part of their life that fronts the past, has escaped him. He\nprefers his dream, thinking that it is their dream, or the dream of\ntheir ancestors. He has, indeed, the thing itself, the Highlander's\ndream, and when it is given to him to impart that dream fully we forgive\nhim the proud words I have just quoted. The pity of it is he has not\nalways so succeeded through the way he has chosen, and then it is, of\ncourse, that we condemn him for the lack of that humility the great\ndramatic artist must have whereby he must forget himself and so\nsubordinate himself that tradition or life speaks through him.\n\nIt is not to be wondered, then, that there is little direct record of\nfolk-lore of his own collecting in his writing, even when he is writing\nof folk-topics. There are borrowings in plenty, especially in \"Where the\nForest Murmurs,\" and even when the collecting seems his own, as it does\nin \"Earth, Fire, and Water,\" \"Children of Water,\" and \"Cuilidh Mhoire,\"\nit is diamond dust, not diamonds, to which he gives so beautiful\nsetting.\n\nJust as appealing to Sharp as the old myths themselves are the\nlocalities that tradition or the stories themselves assign as background\nto them. He loves Iona not only for its gray and barren beauty, but\nbecause it was here Columba wrought his wonders. \"Iona,\" which fills the\nmajor part of the volume \"The Divine Adventure\" gives title to, is the\nfinest in quality as well as the longest of his writings that may be\ncalled, prosaically, topographical. They, in their varying ways, are\nmuch more than merely topographical, whether done in the way of \"F.M.,\"\nas \"Iona\" is, and as \"From the Hebrid Isles\" is, and several papers from\n\"Where the Forest Murmurs\"; or in the way of \"W.S.,\" as \"Literary\nGeography\" is. In this last-named book, Scott and Stevenson, among\nothers, are put against the background that inspired their work, as in\n\"Iona\" certain stories are imagined so as to fit their surroundings and\ncertain legendary history narrated that is fitting to these surroundings\nwith an appropriateness almost too exact to be believable. In \"Iona,\"\nbecause he loved the island that inspired its writing beyond any other\nof the places he loved greatly, is to be found some of his very best\nwork, and examples of all kinds of his writing, as I have said; and even\nwhen this \"topographical writing,\" as in some of his magazine articles,\nis evidently of the sort initially intended to \"float cuts,\" it is very\nwell done, done most often with distinction. At times, of course, it\nsuffers from over-emphasis, as do the descriptive portions of his long\nstories, but generally he attunes his writing to the genius of the\nplace. This is as true of his letters as of what he wrote for the\npublic, especially true of that series on Algiers from which Mrs. Sharp\nquotes in her \"Memoir.\" Papers of this sort, papers giving the genius of\nplace, Sharp was happier in, I think, than in those which are more\ndefinitely the out-of-door essay. Sharp knew much of birds and small\nmammals, of trees and plants, with a knowledge that evidently began in\nchildhood, but, as with so much else in his life, this knowledge he\nnever had time to fill out and deepen through patient observation. You\nmust not, then, turn to \"Where the Forest Murmurs\" to find writing of a\nkind with that in which Thoreau and Jefferies so finely attained, much\nless that loving intimacy with the personal side of birds and animals\nthat so humanly tempers the scientific spirit in White of Selborne. Nor\nis there in them the racy earthiness of Mr. Burroughs. Their greatest\nasset is their enthusiasm over the beauty of the world they are written\nto praise; the next greatest their power of catching in words the mood\nof a landscape; their next greatest their distinction of style, though\nthere are several in which the style is wholly without distinction. Now\nand then, too, they are valuable for their guesses at the whys and\nwherefores of things. There are to-day many explanations of what is\ncommonly called \"The Lure of the Wild.\" Is not this as revelatory as\nany?--\n\n     Is this because, in the wilderness, we recover something of what we\n     have lost?... Because we newly find ourselves as though surprised\n     into an intimate relationship of which we have been unaware or have\n     indifferently ignored? What a long way the ancestral memory has to\n     go, seeking, like a pale sleuth-hound, among obscure dusks and\n     forgotten nocturnal silences, for the lost trails of the soul! It\n     is not we only, you and I, who look into the still waters of the\n     wilderness and lonely places, and are often dimly perplext, are\n     often troubled we know not how or why: some forgotten reminiscence\n     in us is aroused, some memory, not our own, but yet our heritage is\n     perturbed, footsteps that have immemorially sunk in ancient dusk\n     move furtively along obscure corridors in our brain, the ancestral\n     hunter or fisher awakes, the primitive hillman or woodlander\n     communicates again with old forgotten intimacies and the secret\n     oracular things of lost wisdoms. This is no fanciful challenge of\n     speculation. In the order of psychology it is as logical as in the\n     order of biology is the tracing of our upright posture or the deft\n     and illimitable use of our hands, from unrealizably remote periods\n     wherein the pioneers of man reach slowly forward to inconceivable\n     arrivals.\n\nThe weakness of these essays that are like out-of-door essays, but are\nnot out-of-door essays, is their dearth of freshly observed fact. This\ndearth would not matter so much if there were not so many of them, but a\nbook full of such essays with little original observation will pall, no\nmatter how well written, no matter how interesting the personality of\nthe writer. Thus it is that some of the essays of Jefferies pall, some\nof those written in his last days, of Jefferies who had in his earlier\nwriting been so objective. In Thoreau there is a happy combination of\nfreshly observed fact with personal comment, and in Mr. Burroughs a\npersonal element greatly subdued, and presented in most of the essays\nonly through the selective art that has preserved the incidents he\nrelates out of many of a vast store of their kind.\n\nIn these \"nature studies\" of Sharp, as in so much of his writing, there\nis a great deal of generalization from phenomena superficially observed.\nHe is not so often inaccurate, but he is very often merely repetitive,\ngiving us in beautiful and oftentimes distinguished phrase what others\nhave given us before. Sharp wrote sometimes, I have no doubt, with the\nthing he describes before him but oftener, it would seem, from notes,\nand oftenest, I take it, from memory. Sometimes it is best to write thus\nfrom memory. The unessential will fade out, the essential remain; but\nwith Sharp the trouble is that the first observation has often been\nhurried. He was content with the beauty that he saw when he first\nnoticed the incident; he did not wait to observe what in the further\nactions of the life observed would make that beautiful incident more\nsignificant. It may, of course, be said that all he was after was the\nimpression that the passing incident made upon him. Perhaps so, and if\nso, more is the pity, because, while, as I have said, one out-of-door\nessay with little or even with nothing but the personality of the writer\nmay interest, or perhaps two such, or even ten, a book full will be\nmonotonous. At its best, however, his writing of \"natural romance\" is of\ngreat beauty. \"Still Waters,\" for one, is almost perfect, as perfect as\nthis sort of thing may be. It is wrought of his own experiences with\njust enough of mythological data to give it the texture of old and\nlasting things.\n\n\"The Rainy Hyades,\" on the other hand, is largely a rehash of folk-lore\nnotes, second-hand work with very little added from experience and very\nlittle finely imagined or recaptured by way of ancestral memory. At\ntimes it would seem that, poor, tired man, he had to feed his flagging\ninvention from a dictionary of quotations. So, it appears, he has done\nin his \"Winter Stars\" as well as in \"The Rainy Hyades.\" As I think over\nthe unevenness of these essays, the beauty of \"Still Waters,\" and the\nobviousness of these others, I am brought back again to wondering what\nSharp would have done had all his time been his to do as he would with.\nSuch wonderment is, of course, idle, idle as that as to what Keats would\nhave done had he lived, for a man's art is judged by what it is, with no\ntempering of the appraisement by what the man's life has been.\nFortunately there is inspiring work in plenty in Sharp, in this, as in\nother phases of his work, to make readers turn to him when interest in\nhim as a phenomenon of current literature has passed away. It is hard to\nthink of the time when writing so beautiful as that of \"Still Waters\"\nwill not be sought by lovers of beauty in words and by lovers of beauty\nin landscape, and when the opening of \"The Coming of Dusk\" will not be\nturned to, as the opening of Emerson's \"Nature\" is turned to to-day.\n\nWere I to attempt to enumerate the critical writings of Sharp, from the\n\"Rossetti\" of 1882 to \"The Winged Destiny\" of 1904, I should run up a\ncatalogue that would exceed any even of Walt Whitman's. For years Sharp\nlived by criticism, as editor of \"The Canterbury Poets\" and as reviewer\nfor many of the London journals. To me none of this critical work is\nsignificant until he came to write of the movement that carried him to\nfame,--to fame, I say, because \"Fiona Macleod\" was famous for a decade,\nand not only as a mystery, but as a revealer of a new beauty in words,\nand as a widener of horizons.\n\nI have, I think, by this time made clear what to me is the great\nstrength of William Sharp--his power to revisualize the Celtic past of\nScotland and to imagine stories of that past that are as native to it as\nthose handed down in Bardic legend or folk-lore. I have emphasized my\nbelief that in other kinds of writing his attainment is less original,\nthough often beautiful in its imitativeness, and this imitativeness I\nwill explain as being due partly to that quality of the play-actor that\nwas in him as in so many of Celtic blood, partly to his lack of time to\nhew out for himself a way of his own, and partly to his quick\nresponsiveness to any new beauty pointed out by work that he admired. It\nwas not altogether, however, lack of time that prevented his attainment\nof a larger originality, an originality in other sorts of writing than\nthe \"Seanchas.\" Sharp had an unfortunate disbelief in early life in the\nvalue of technique. In the preface to the \"Romantic Ballads\" (1888), for\ninstance, he expressed the belief that \"the supreme merit of a poem is\nnot perfection of art, but the quality of the imagination which is the\nsource of such real or approximate perfection.\" This, as I interpret it\nmeans that a poem, when of perfect art, has back of that perfect art a\nhigh imaginative quality; but by his own practice Sharp knows that he\nthought the quality would suffice without the highest art in its\nexpression. It was this belief that made him leave his work incomplete;\nhe read his verses, no doubt, with the glow in which he wrote them\nrecalled to memory, and without the realization that he had not got down\non paper for others half of the creative force that was in him as he\nwrote.\n\nI have found a reason for a lesser success than the early work of \"Fiona\nMacleod\" promised to him in his imitativeness, but in some ways he was\nhandicapped, too, by lack of models to follow. Granted he could have\nblazed other ways for himself than that of the \"Seanchas,\" he lessened\nthe originality of his attainment by imitation, but if he could not have\nso blazed other ways he just as surely could have gone further had he\nhad models, or rather good models, to follow, models, for instance, in\nnovels of Highland life. The very fact of there being great realistic\nstories of Highland life might have made it possible for him to have\nwritten a Highland \"Silence Farm.\"\n\nBut enough of what might have been: what is is good enough, good enough\nat its best to treasure among those things that are a lasting part of\nour lives. However great may be the reaction against his work because of\nthe nine days' wonder about the identity of its creator, certain parts\nof it, certain tales and certain verses and a play, will hold their own\nagainst the years. Through such tales as \"The Sad Queen,\" and such\nverses as \"The Dirge of the Four Cities,\" and \"The House of Usna\" even\neyes of little vision may see \"eternal beauty wandering on her way,\"\nleaving about them a glamour as recurrent to the mind as sunset to the\nskies.\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\nPLAYS PRODUCED, IN DUBLIN, BY THE ABBEY THEATRE COMPANY AND ITS\nPREDECESSORS, WITH DATES OF FIRST PERFORMANCES\n\n\nIRISH LITERARY THEATRE AT ANTIENT CONCERT\nROOMS\n\nMay    8, 1899. \"The Countess Cathleen.\"           W.B. Yeats.\nMay    9, 1899. \"The Heather Field.\"               Edward Martyn.\n\n\nIRISH LITERARY THEATRE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE\n\nFeb.  19, 1900. \"The Bending of the Bough.\"        George Moore.\nFeb.  19, 1900. \"The Last Feast of the Fianna.\"    Alice Milligan.\nFeb.  20, 1900. \"Maeve.\"                           Edward Martyn.\nOct.  21, 1901. \"Diarmuid and Grania.\"             W.B. Yeats and\n                                                     George Moore.\nOct.  21, 1901. \"The Twisting of the Rope.\"        Douglas Hyde.\n                (The first Gaelic play produced in any theatre.)\n\n\nMR. W.G. FAY'S IRISH NATIONAL DRAMATIC COMPANY AT ST. TERESA'S HALL,\n  CLARENDON STREET\n\nApr.   2, 1902. \"Deirdre.\"                         \"A.E.\"\nApr.   2, 1902. \"Kathleen ni Houlihan.\"            W.B. Yeats.\n\n\nIRISH NATIONAL DRAMATIC COMPANY AT ANTIENT CONCERT ROOMS\n\nOct.  29, 1902. \"The Sleep of the King.\"           Seumas O'Cuisin.\nOct.  29, 1902. \"The Laying of the Foundations.\"   Fred Ryan.\nOct.  30, 1902. \"A Pot of Broth.\"                  W.B. Yeats.\nOct.  31, 1902. \"The Racing Lug.\"                  Seumas O'Cuisin.\n\nIRISH NATIONAL THEATRE SOCIETY, MOLESWORTH HALL\n\nMar.  14, 1903. \"The Hour-Glass.\"                  W.B. Yeats.\nMar.  14, 1903. \"Twenty-Five.\"                     Lady Gregory.\nOct.   8, 1903. \"The King's Threshold.\"            W.B. Yeats.\nOct.   8, 1903. \"In the Shadow of the Glen.\"       J.M. Synge.\nDec.   3, 1903. \"Broken Soil.\"                     Padraic Colum.\nJan.  14, 1904. \"The Shadowy Waters.\"              W.B. Yeats.\nJan.  14, 1904. \"The Townland of Tamney.\"          Seumas McManus.\nFeb.  25, 1904. \"Riders to the Sea.\"               J.M. Synge.\n\nIRISH NATIONAL THEATRE SOCIETY AT THE ABBEY THEATRE\n\nDec.  27, 1904. \"On Baile's Strand.\"               W.B. Yeats.\nDec.  27, 1904. \"Spreading the News.\"              Lady Gregory.\nFeb.   4, 1905. \"The Well of the Saints.\"          J.M. Synge.\nMar.  25, 1905. \"Kincora.\"                         Lady Gregory.\nApr.  25, 1905. \"The Building Fund.\"               William Boyle.\nJune   9, 1905. \"The Land.\"                        Padraic Colum.\n\nNATIONAL THEATRE SOCIETY, LTD. (ABBEY COMPANY)\n\nDec.   9, 1905. \"The White Cockade.\"               Lady Gregory.\nJan.  20, 1906. \"The Eloquent Dempsey.\"            William Boyle.\nFeb.  19, 1906. \"Hyacinth Halvey.\"                 Lady Gregory.\nOct.  20, 1906. \"The Gaol Gate.\"                   Lady Gregory.\nOct.  20, 1906. \"The Mineral Workers.\"             William Boyle.\nNov.  24, 1906. \"Deirdre.\"                         W.B. Yeats.\nDec.   8, 1906. \"The Canavans.\"                    Lady Gregory.\nDec.   8, 1906. New Version of \"The Shadowy        W.B. Yeats.\n                 Waters.\"\nJan.  26, 1907. \"The Playboy of the Western        J.M. Synge.\n                 World.\"\nFeb.  23, 1907. \"The Jackdaw.\"                     Lady Gregory.\nMar.   9, 1907. \"The Rising of the Moon.\"          Lady Gregory.\nApr.   1, 1907. \"The Eyes of the Blind.\"           Miss W.M. Letts.\nApr.   3, 1907. \"The Poorhouse.\"                   Douglas Hyde and\n                                                    Lady Gregory.\nApr.  27, 1907. \"Fand.\"                            Wilfred Scawen\n                                                    Blunt.\nOct.   3, 1907. \"The Country Dressmaker.\"          George Fitzmaurice.\nOct.  31, 1907. \"Devorgilla.\"                      Lady Gregory.\nNov.  21, 1907. \"The Unicorn from the Stars.\"      W.B. Yeats and\n                                                    Lady Gregory.\nFeb.  13, 1908. \"The Man who missed the Tide.\"     W.F. Casey.\nFeb.  13, 1908. \"The Piper.\"                       \"Norreys Connell.\"\nMar.  10, 1908. \"The Piedish.\"                     George Fitzmaurice.\nMar.  19, 1908. \"The Golden Helmet.\"               W.B. Yeats.\nApr.  20, 1908. \"The Workhouse Ward.\"              Lady Gregory.\nOct.   1, 1908. \"The Suburban Groove.\"             W.F. Casey.\nOct.   8, 1908. \"The Clancy Name.\"                 Lennox Robinson.\nOct.  15, 1908. \"When the Dawn is come.\"           Thomas MacDonogh.\nOct.  21, 1908. New Version of \"The Man who        W.F. Casey.\n                  missed the Tide.\"\nFeb.  11, 1909. Revised Version of \"Kincora.\"      Lady Gregory.\nMar.  11, 1909. \"Stephen Grey.\"                    D.L. Kelleher.\nApr.   1, 1909. \"The Crossroads.\"                  Lennox Robinson.\nApr.   1, 1909. \"Time.\"                            \"Norreys Connell.\"\nApr.  29, 1909. \"The Glittering Gate.\"             Lord Dunsany.\nMay   27, 1909. \"An Imaginary Conversation.\"       \"Norreys Connell.\"\nAug.  25, 1909. \"The Showing-up of Blanco Posnet.\" Bernard Shaw.\nSept. 16, 1909. \"The White Feather.\"               R.J. Ray.\nOct.  14, 1909. \"The Challenge.\"                   Miss W.M. Letts.\nNov.  11, 1909. \"The Image.\"                       Lady Gregory.\nJan.  13, 1910. \"Deirdre of the Sorrows.\"          J.M. Synge.\nFeb.  10, 1910. \"The Green Helmet.\"                W.B. Yeats.\nMar.   2, 1910. \"The Travelling Man.\"              Lady Gregory.\nMay   12, 1910. \"Thomas Muskerry.\"                 Padraic Colum.\nMay   26, 1910. \"Harvest.\"                         Lennox Robinson.\nSept. 28, 1910. \"The Casting-out of Martin         R.J. Ray.\n                  Whelan.\"\nOct.  27, 1910. \"Birthright.\"                      T.C. Murray.\nNov.  10, 1910. \"The Full Moon.\"                   Lady Gregory.\nNov.  24, 1910. \"The Shuiler's Child.\"[3]          Seumas O'Kelly.\nDec.   1, 1910. \"Coats.\"                           Lady Gregory\nJan.  12, 1911. \"The Deliverer.\"                   Lady Gregory.\nJan.  26, 1911. \"King Argimenes and the            Lord Dunsany.\n                  Unknown Warrior.\"\nFeb.  16, 1911. \"The Land of Heart's Desire.\"[4]   W.B. Yeats.\nMar.  30, 1911. \"Mixed Marriage.\"                  St. John G. Ervine.\nNov.  23, 1911. \"The Interlude of Youth.\"          Anon., first\n                                                     printed 1554.\nNov.  23, 1911. \"The Second Shepherds' Play.\"      Anon., _circa_\n                                                     1400.\nNov.  30, 1911. \"The Marriage.\"                    Douglas Hyde.\nDec.   7, 1911. \"Red Turf.\"                        Rutherford Mayne.\nDec.  16, 1911. Revival of \"The Countess           W.B. Yeats.\n                  Cathleen.\"\nJan.   4, 1912. \"The Annunciation.\"              _circa_ 1400.\nJan.   4, 1912. \"The Flight into Egypt.\"         _circa_ 1400.\nJan.  11, 1912. \"MacDarragh's Wife.\"               Lady Gregory.\nFeb.   1, 1912. Revival of \"The Country            George Fitzmaurice.\n                  Dressmaker.\"\nFeb.  16, 1912. \"The Tinker and the Fairy.\"        Douglas Hyde.\n                 (Played in Gaelic.)\nFeb.  29, 1912. \"The Worlde and the Chylde.\"       15th century.\nMar.  28, 1912. \"Family Failings.\"                 William Boyle.\nApr.  11, 1912. \"Patriots.\"                        Lennox Robinson.\nJune  20, 1912. \"Maurice Harte.\"                   T.C. Murray.\nJuly   4, 1912. \"The Bogie Men.\"                   Lady Gregory.\nOct.  17, 1912. \"The Magnanimous Lover.\"           St. John G. Ervine.\nNov.  21, 1912. \"Damer's Gold.\"                    Lady Gregory.\n\nTRANSLATIONS OF THE FOLLOWING HAVE BEEN PRODUCED\n\nApr.  16, 1906. \"The Doctor in spite of Himself.\"  (Moliere.) Translated\n                                                     by Lady Gregory.\nMar.  16, 1907. \"Interior.\"                        (Maeterlinck.)\nMar.  19, 1908. \"Teja.\"                            (Sudermann.)\n                                                     Translated by Lady\n                                                     Gregory.\nApr.   4, 1909. \"The Rogueries of Scapin.\"         (Moliere.)\n                                                     Translated by Lady\n                                                     Gregory.\nJan.  21, 1909. \"The Miser.\"                       (Moliere.)\n                                                     Translated by Lady\n                                                     Gregory.\nFeb.  24, 1910. \"Mirandolina.\"                    (Goldini.) Translated\n                                                     by Lady Gregory.\nJan.   5, 1911. \"Nativity Play.\"                   (Douglas Hyde.)\n                                                     Translated by Lady\n                                                     Gregory.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[3] First produced by an amateur company at the Molesworth Hall in 1909.\n\n[4] First produced at the Avenue Theatre, London, in 1894.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n\nAbbey Theatre, organization of company, 13-36.\n\n_All Ireland Review_, 86.\n\n_All on the Irish Shore_, 6.\n\nAllgood, Sara, 19, 22, 23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 211.\n\nAllingham, William, 39.\n\n_Ancient Legends of Ireland_, 51.\n\nAntient Concert Rooms, the, 18, 78, 86, 106, 200.\n\n_Apostle, The_, 111.\n\n_Aran Islands, The_, 168, 187, 188, 191.\n\nAran Islands, the, 147, 162, 166, 170, 171, 177, 178, 179, 181, 187,\n 188, 190, 191, 192.\n\nArgyll, 4, 267, 268.\n\nArnold, Matthew, 3, 59, 255.\n\nArran, 267.\n\nArthurian stories, 3, 48.\n\nAusten, Jane, 155, 156.\n\n_Ave_, 73, 76, 94, 99, 108, 109.\n\nAvenue Theatre, London, 25, 50.\n\n\n_Bards and Saints_, 8.\n\nBarker, Granville, 230.\n\nBarlow, Jane, 1, 7, 148.\n\nBeerbohm, Max, 81.\n\nBelfast, 47.\n\n_Beltaine_, 75, 85.\n\n_Bending of the Bough, The_, 76, 88, 95, 98, 105.\n\nBenson, Sir Frank, 18.\n\nBenson Company, the, 106.\n\nBeowulf, 142.\n\nBerkeley, George, 135.\n\nBernhardt, Sara, 16.\n\nBhagavad-Gita, 117.\n\nBirmingham, George A. (The Rev. Dr. James O. Hannay), 8.\n\n_Birthright_, 216, 217, 218, 219, 222.\n\nBjoernson, Bjoernstjerne, 36.\n\nBlack, William, 271, 284.\n\nBlake, William, 38.\n\nBodley Head, the, 2.\n  _Book of Saints and Wonders_, 138, 142.\n\nBorrow, George, 161, 165, 173, 179.\n\nBoucicault, Dion, 168.\n\nBoyle, William, 15, 33, 208-215, 238, 239, 240.\n  _Building Fund, The_, 209-213;\n  _Eloquent Dempsey, The_, 208, 209, 213;\n  _Family Failings_, 208;\n  _Mineral Workers, The_, 208, 213-214, 238.\n\nBrigit, St., 142, 147, 282.\n\nBrittany, 3, 266.\n  _Broken Soil_, 32, 202.\n\nBrown, T.E., 4, 5.\n\nBrowning, Robert, 50.\n\nBuchanan, Robert, 272.\n\nBuckley, William, 7, 8.\n  _Building Fund, The_, 208, 209-213, 214.\n\nBullock, Shan, 7, 214, 234, 236, 270.\n\nBunyan, John, 285.\n\nBurns, Robert, \"Jolly Beggars,\" 177, 234.\n\nBurroughs, John, 290, 292.\n  _Bursting of the Bubble, The_, 9.\n  _By Thrasna River_, 7.\n\n\n_Calendar of the Saints_, 247.\n\nCameron, Dr., of Brodick, 283.\n\nCampbell, John F., of Islay, 283, 284.\n\nCampbell, Joseph (Seosamh MacCathmhaoil), 246-250.\n  _Judgment_, 247-250;\n  _Mearing Stones_, 247;\n  _The Mountainy Singer_, 247.\n\nCampbell, Mrs. Patrick, 23, 28, 45.\n\n_Canavans, The_, 149, 152.\n\n\"Carberry, Ethna\" (Anna Johnston MacManus), 10, 216, 255.\n\nCarmichael, Alexander, 263, 282, 283, 284.\n\n_Carmina Gadelica_, 263.\n\nCarnegie Lyceum, The, New York, 85.\n\n_Cathleen ni Houlihan_, 10, 17, 19, 31, 50-51, 53, 54, 55, 77.\n\n_Catriona_, 272.\n\n\"Celtic Gloom, The,\" 274.\n\n_Celtic Literature, On the Study of_, 3.\n\nCeltic Renaissance, The, 1-12, 13, 18, 33, 36, 41, 93, 105, 114, 158,\n  251, 256, 259, 260.\n\n_Celtic Twilight, The_, 37, 41, 42, 54.\n\nChesson, Nora Hopper, 10.\n\n_Child of Nature, A_, 272.\n\n_Children of Lir_, 200.\n\n_Children of Tempest, The_, 4, 271.\n\n_Children of To-morrow_, 264.\n\nChurch, Richard William, 138.\n\n_Clancy Name, The_, 223, 224, 228.\n\nClare, 84, 141.\n\nColeridge, Samuel Taylor, 210, 211.\n\nColum, Padraic, 11, 15, 21, 198-208, 240.\n  _Broken Soil_, 32, 202;\n  _Children of Lir_, 200;\n  _Eoghan's Wife_, 201;\n  _The Fiddler's House_, 200, 202, 204-205, 206;\n  _The Foleys_, 201;\n  _The Kingdom of the Young_, 201;\n  _The Land_, 200, 202, 204, 206;\n  _The Miracle of the Corn_, 200, 202;\n  _The Saxon Shillin'_, 201;\n  _Studies_, 200;\n  _Thomas Muskerry_, 199, 200, 206;\n  _Wild Earth_, 200, 208.\n\nColumba, 147, 282, 289.\n\nCongreve, William, 13.\n\n_Conn the Shaughraun_, 168.\n\nConnacht, 39, 154, 179, 188, 215, 239.\n\n\"Connell, Norreys\" (Conal O'Riordan), 31, 241-243.\n  _An Imaginary Conversation_, 242;\n  _Piper_, 31, 33, 242, 243;\n  _Shakespeare's End_, 242;\n  _Time_, 242.\n\nConnemara, 7, 147, 188.\n\n_Connla_, 20, 21.\n\nConway, Hart, 218.\n\nCork, 15, 47, 220, 222.\n\nCork Dramatic Society, The, 35, 216, 223.\n\n_Cork Realists_, 216.\n\nCornwall, 2, 3, 4.\n\n_Countess Cathleen, The_, 18, 32, 43, 47, 48-49, 50, 51, 59, 64,\n  69, 78.\n\nCourt Theatre, London, The, 241.\n\nCousins, James H., 20, 32.\n\nCraig, Gordon, 29.\n\nCraigie, Pearl Teresa (\"John Oliver Hobbes\"), 104, 105.\n\nCrashaw, Richard, 135.\n\nCroker, Crofton, 168.\n\n_Croppies Lie Down_, 7.\n\n_Crossroads, The_, 224-228, 230, 231.\n\n_Cuchulain of Muirthemne_, 58, 138, 143.\n\nCumann nan Gaedheal, 90, 115.\n\n\n_Dan the Dollar_, 7, 214.\n\n_Dandy Dick_, 233.\n\nDarragh, Miss, 28.\n\nDartmoor, 6.\n\n_Daughters of Erin, The_, 18, 200.\n\nDavis, Thomas, 39.\n\n_Death of Dermid, The_, 109.\n\n_Death of Tintagiles, The_, 252.\n\n_Deirdre_ (G.W. Russell), 20, 21, 31, 77, 115.\n\n_Deirdre_ (W.B. Yeats), 23, 27, 28, 44, 50, 61-63.\n\n_Deirdre of the Sorrows_, 160, 163, 166, 168, 181, 183, 192, 196,\n  197, 285.\n\n_Deliverer, The_, 149.\n\nDeMax, 16.\n\nDe Quincey, Thomas, 265.\n\nDerry, 14.\n\n_Destruction of the Hostel, The_, 205.\n\n_Devorgilla_, 152.\n\n_Dhoya_, 41, 286.\n\n_Diarmid and Grania_, 32, 106-110, 143.\n\nDickens, Charles, 6.\n\nDigges, T. Dudley, 21, 22.\n\n_Discoveries_, 42.\n\n_Divine Adventure, The_, 263, 270, 273, 275, 279, 289.\n\n_Divine Vision, The_, 116, 122.\n\nDolmetsch, Arnold, 64, 98.\n\n_Dome, The_, 81.\n\n_Dominion of Dreams, The_, 273, 274.\n\nDonegal, 7, 246, 247, 249, 250.\n\n_Donegal Fairy Stories_, 7.\n\nDonne, John, 164.\n\nDown, 15, 210, 216, 226, 235, 237, 238, 243.\n\n_Drama in Muslin, A_, 96, 101, 102, 110, 171.\n\n_Drone, The_, 210, 235, 236.\n\n_Drosdan and Yssul_, 254.\n\nDual personality, 278.\n\nDublin Castle, 32.\n\n_Dublin University Review_, 38.\n\nDuffy, Sir Charles Gavan, 2.\n\nDun Theatre, the, Cork, 224.\n\n\n_Earth Breath, The_, 116.\n\nEdgeworth, Maria, 6.\n\n\"Eglinton, John.\" (_See_ Magee, W.K.)\n\nElizabethan Stage Society, the, 30.\n\n_Eloquent Dempsey, The_, 208, 209, 213.\n\nEmerson, R.W., 115, 120, 122, 125, 126, 127, 135, 293.\n\n_Enchanted Sea, The_, 75, 77, 83, 85-87, 89, 90.\n\n_Enchanted Valleys, The_, 254.\n\n_Eoghan's Wife_, 201.\n\nErvine, St. John G., 15, 33, 243-246.\n  _The Eviction_, 246;\n  _The  Magnanimous Lover_, 243, 245, 246;\n  _Mixed Marriage_, 243, 246, 247.\n\n_Esther Waters_, 6, 96, 112.\n\n_Evelyn Innes_, 95, 96, 97, 98, 122.\n\n_Everyman_, 30, 51.\n\n_Eviction, The_, 246.\n\n\nFairies, 39, 41.\n\n_Family Failings_, 208.\n\nFarr, Florence, 25, 26, 27, 28.\n\nFay, Frank J., 19, 21, 22, 23, 24.\n\nFay, William G., 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 28, 201.\n\n_Fellowe and his Wife, A_, 261, 264, 278.\n\nFerguson, Sir Samuel, 39, 61, 109, 184.\n\nFermanagh, 7.\n\n_Fiddler's House, The_, 200, 202, 204-205, 206.\n\nFitzGerald, Edward, 141.\n\nFlamel, 43.\n\n_Flora MacDonald_, 266.\n\n_Foleys, The_, 201.\n\nFolk-plays, 17, 29, 35, 49.\n\nFolk-songs, 2, 40.\n\nFolk-tales, 283.\n\n_From the Hills of Dream_, 259.\n\n_Full Moon, The_, 152.\n\n\nGaelic League, the, 1, 18, 41, 107.\n\nGaiety Theatre, the, Dublin, 30, 106, 110.\n\nGalway, 73, 101, 108, 141, 189, 208, 210, 216, 238, 240.\n\n_Gaol Gate, The_, 153, 154.\n\n_Ghosts_, 80.\n\nGilbert, Lady (Rosa Mulholland), 6.\n\n_Gillian the Dreamer_, 4.\n\n_Gods and Fighting Men_, 109, 138, 141, 145.\n\n_Golden Helmet, The_, 27, 63.\n\nGoldsmith, Oliver, 13.\n\nGonne, Maud, 27, 59, 136.\n\nGore-Booth, Eva, 11.\n\n_Grangecolman_, 91-92.\n\n_Grania_ (Lady Gregory), 110, 154, 156-157.\n\n_Grania_ (The Hon. Emily Lawless), 7.\n\n_Greek Backgrounds_, 286.\n\n_Green Fire_, 263, 266.\n\n_Green Helmet, The_, 63.\n\nGregory, Lady, 8, 9, 15, 22, 30, 31, 32, 47, 53, 54, 56, 58, 73, 74,\n  75, 76, 88, 92, 93, 108, 109, 110, 114, 138-159, 179, 206, 215.\n  _Book of Saints and Wonders_, 138, 142;\n  _The Canavans_, 149, 152;\n  _Cuchulain of Muirthemne_, 58, 138, 143;\n  _The Deliverer_, 149;\n  _Devorgilla_, 152;\n  _The Full Moon_, 152;\n  _The Gaol Gate_, 153, 154;\n  _Gods and Fighting Men_, 109, 138, 141, 145;\n  _Grania_, 110, 154, 156-157;\n  _Hyacinth Halvey_, 150, 151;\n  _The Image_, 150, 151;\n  _The Jack Daw_, 151;\n  _Kincora_, 152;\n  _MacDaragh's Wife_, 154, 155;\n  _Poets and Dreamers_, 147;\n  _The Poorhouse_, 9;\n  _The Rising of the Moon_, 22, 31, 32, 152;\n  _Spreading the News_, 150, 151;\n  _A Travelling Man_, 153;\n  _Twenty-five_, 32, 152;\n  _The Unicorn from the Stars_, 27, 53-56;\n  _The White Cockade_, 152;\n  _The Workhouse Ward_, 152, 154.\n\nGregory, Robert, 30.\n\nGrundy, Sydney, 104.\n\nGwynn, Stephen, 122.\n\nGyles, Althea, 247.\n\n_Gypsy Christ, The_, 265, 279.\n\n\n_Hail and Farewell_, 73, 92, 98, 113.\n\nHankin, St. John, 245.\n\nHardy, Thomas, 6, 7, 101, 164, 175, 176, 192, 193, 239, 258, 271.\n\nHarrigan plays, the, 22.\n\nHarte, Bret, 241.\n\n_Harvest_, 221, 224, 228, 229, 230, 231.\n\nHawthorne, Nathaniel, 82, 175.\n\n_Heather Field, The_, 18, 78-83, 85, 89, 91, 92, 93, 95.\n\nHebrides, the, 271, 274, 283.\n\n_Hedda Gabler_, 104, 175.\n\nHermetic Society, the, 39, 117, 120.\n\nHewlett, Maurice, 165.\n\nHighlands of Scotland, the, 3, 4, 260, 263, 264, 267, 268, 270, 271,\n  272, 274, 276, 284, 295.\n\nHinkson, Katherine Tynan, 1, 6, 10.\n\nHomer, 64, 120, 144, 286.\n\n_Homestead, The_, 117.\n\n_Homeward_, 116.\n\nHorniman, Miss, 21, 31, 33, 35.\n\n_House of Usna, The_, 251, 252, 253, 254, 259, 285.\n\n_Hyacinth Halvey_, 150, 151.\n\nHyde, Douglas, 1, 2, 8, 18, 40, 41, 46, 107, 147, 153, 158, 166,\n  171, 179.\n\nHypnotic suggestion, 278.\n\n\nIbsen, Henrik, 13, 34, 36, 38, 80, 93, 163, 168, 178, 213.\n\n_Ideas of Good and Evil_, 42.\n\n_Image, The_, 150, 151.\n\n_Imaginary Conversation, An_, 242.\n\n_Immortal Hour, The_, 251, 252, 285, 287.\n\n_Impressions and Opinions_, 103.\n\n_In a Balcony_, 50.\n\n_In Chimney Corners_, 7.\n\nIndependent Theatre, The, London, 103, 104, 105.\n\n_Iona_, 277, 289.\n\nIona, 282.\n\n\"I.O.,\" 116.\n\n_Irish Idylls_, 7, 148.\n\nIrish Agricultural Organization Society, the, 13, 117, 118, 137, 225.\n\nIrish Literary Theatre, The, 5, 18, 19, 42, 52, 73, 74, 76, 85, 105,\n  109, 110, 115, 251.\n\n_Irish Pastorals_, 7.\n\nIrving Terry Company, the, 105.\n\n_Island of Statues, The_, 47.\n\n\n_Jack Daw, The_, 151.\n\nJanvier, Mrs. Thomas A., 256.\n\nJefferies, Richard, 290, 291.\n\n_John Bull's Other Island_, 241.\n\n_John Sherman and Dhoya_, 41.\n\n_John Splendid_, 4.\n\nJohnson, Lionel, 5, 10, 64.\n\nJohnston, Charles, 125, 134, 146.\n\n_Journeys End in Lovers Meeting_, 105.\n\nJoyce, Dr. P.W., 3, 110, 139.\n\n_Judgment_, 246, 249, 250.\n\n\nKailyard School, the, 270.\n\nKeats, John, 48, 293.\n\nKelley, P.J., 21, 22.\n\nKelpius, 122.\n\nKembles, the, 18.\n\nKerrigan, J.M., 23, 27, 217.\n\nKerry, 166, 188, 190, 216.\n\n_Kidnapped_, 272.\n\nKiltartan English, 141, 142.\n\n_Kincora_, 152.\n\n_King of Ys, The_, 254.\n\n_Kingdom of the Young, The_, 201.\n\n_King's Threshold, The_, 60, 69.\n\nKingston, Thomas, 81.\n\nKipling, Rudyard, 47.\n\n\n_Lady from the Sea, The_, 85.\n\n_Lake, The_, 96, 99, 101, 102, 111, 112, 113.\n\n_Land, The_, 200, 202, 204, 206.\n\nLand League, the, 102.\n\n_Land of Heart's Desire, The_, 25, 43, 49-50, 51, 59.\n\nLarminie, William, 8.\n\n_Last of the De Mullins, The_, 245.\n\n_Last Supper, The_, 251.\n\n_Laughter of Peterkin, The_, 267, 284.\n\nLawless, The Hon. Emily, 6.\n\n_Laying of the Foundations, The_, 32.\n\n_Lays of the Western Gael, The_, 110.\n\n_Leabhar Sgeuluigheachta_, 41.\n\n_Lear_, 45.\n\n_Legend of Montrose, The_, 272.\n\nLeinster, 215.\n\nLe Moyne, Mrs., 50.\n\n_Lesson of Life, The_, 224.\n\nLever, Charles James, 102.\n\n_Literary Geography_, 289.\n\n_Lost Pibroch, The_, 4.\n\n_Lost Saint, The_, 9.\n\n_Love in the Valley_, 49.\n\n_Love Songs of Connacht, The_, 1, 9, 166, 179.\n\nLover, Samuel, 101.\n\nLowlands  of Scotland, the, 258, 260, 264.\n\n_Luke Delmege_, 7.\n\nLynchehaun case, the, 171.\n\n_Lyra Celtica_, 4.\n\n\n_Mabinogion_, 285.\n\n_MacDaragh's Wife_, 154, 155.\n\nMcGee, Eithne, 23, 26, 211.\n\n\"Macleod,  Fiona.\" (_See_ Sharp, William.)\n\nMacManus, Anna Johnstone. (_See_ \"Ethna Carberry.\")\n\nMacManus, Seumas, 7.\n\nMacpherson, James, 3, 285.\n\n_Madge o' the Pool_, 279.\n\nMaeterlinck, Maurice, 13, 38, 45, 48, 113, 135, 178, 192, 202, 252,\n  253, 260.\n\nMagee, W.K. (\"John Eglinton\"), 8, 10.\n\nMagic, 67.\n\n_Magnanimous Lover, The_, 243, 245, 246.\n\nMan, Isle of, 3, 4, 5.\n\nMartin, Martin, 271.\n\nMartyn, Edward, 13, 18, 46, 72, 73, 74-95, 97, 98, 102, 105, 112, 115,\n  178, 207.\n  _The Enchanted Sea_, 75, 77, 83, 85-87, 89, 90;\n  _Grangecolman_, 91-92;\n  _The Heather Field_, 18, 78-83, 85, 89, 91, 92, 93, 95;\n  _Maeve_, 75, 76, 77, 83-85, 90;\n  _Morgante the Lesser_, 97;\n  _The Place Hunters_, 75, 78, 90, 93;\n  _A Tale of a Town_, 75, 76, 78, 81, 87-90, 105, 112, 213.\n\nMasefield, John, 238, 239.\n\n_Maurice Harte_, 216, 219-221, 222.\n\nMayne, Rutherford, 15, 210, 233-240, 244.\n  _The Drone_, 210, 235, 236;\n  _Red Turf_, 238, 239, 240;\n  _The Troth_, 235, 237;\n  _The Turn of the Road_, 216, 235, 238, 239.\n\nMayo, 95.\n\n_Mearing Stones_, 247.\n\n_Measure for Measure_, 24.\n\nMeath, 226.\n\n_Memoirs of My Dead Self_, 98.\n\nMeredith, George, 4, 11, 101, 165, 166, 261.\n\nMeynell, Alice, 10.\n\nMilligan, Alice, 116.\n\nMilton, John, 48, 120, 135.\n\n_Mineral Workers, The_, 208, 213, 214, 238.\n\n_Miracle of the Corn, The_, 200, 202.\n\n_Mixed Marriage_, 243, 246, 247.\n\n_Modern Lover, A_, 74, 96.\n\n_Modern Painting_, 95.\n\nMolesworth Hall, 163.\n\n_Monna Vanna_, 45.\n\nMoore, George, 6, 8, 18, 52, 72, 73, 74, 75, 80, 81, 88, 92, 94,\n  95-113, 122, 158.\n  _The Apostle_, 111;\n  _The Bending of the Bough_, 76, 88, 95, 98, 105;\n  _Diarmid and Grania_, 32, 106-110, 143;\n  _A Drama in Muslin_, 96, 101, 102, 110, 111;\n  _Esther Waters_, 6, 96, 112;\n  _Evelyn Innes_, 95, 96, 97, 98, 122;\n  _Hail and Farewell_, 73, 92, 98, 113;\n  _Ave_ (vol. I), 73, 76, 94, 99, 108, 109;\n  _Salve_ (vol. II), 99;\n  _Impressions and Opinions_, 103;\n  _The Lake_, 96, 99, 101, 102, 111, 112, 113;\n  _Memoirs of My Dead Self_, 98;\n  _A Modern Lover_, 74, 96;\n  _Modern Painting_, 95;\n  _A Mummer's Wife_, 101;\n  _Parnell and his Island_, 96, 97, 101;\n  _Sister Teresa_, 98;\n  _The Strike at Arlingford_, 103, 104;\n  _The Untilled Field_, 101, 102, 111, 112;\n  _The Wild Goose_, 101.\n\nMore, Henry, 135.\n\nMorgan, Sydney J., 217.\n\n_Morgante the Lesser_, 97.\n\nMorris, William, 38.\n\n_Mosada_, 47.\n\n_Mountain Lovers,  The_, 262, 264, 265, 266, 270, 274.\n\n_Mountainy Singer, The_, 247.\n\nMulholland, Rosa. (_See_ Lady Gilbert.)\n\n_Mummer's Wife, A_, 101.\n\nMunro, Neil, 4, 6, 59, 271, 284.\n\nMunster, 178, 215.\n\nMurray, T.C., 15, 215-222.\n  _Birthright_, 216, 217, 218, 219, 222;\n  _Maurice Harte_, 216, 219-221, 222;\n  _The Wheel o' Fortune_, 216.\n\n_My New Curate_, 7.\n\nMysticism, 11, 123, 134, 135, 273, 274, 275.\n\n\n_Nan_, 238, 239.\n\nNash, Thomas, 66.\n\nNational Dramatic Company, the 16, 19, 20, 21, 29, 32, 56, 77, 110,\n  115, 118.\n\nNational Players, the, 35.\n\nNational Theatre Society, the Ltd., 30, 35, 60, 202, 223, 241.\n\nNethersole, Olga, 233.\n\n_New Songs_, 116.\n\nNorway, 36.\n\n\nO'Curry, Eugene, 140.\n\nO'Doherty, Eileen, 217.\n\nO'Donoghue, Taidgh, 108.\n\nO'Donovan, Fred, 23, 26, 27, 211, 217.\n\n\"Oghma,\" 116.\n\nO'Grady, Standish Hayes, 110, 140, 141.\n\nO'Grady, Standish James, 3, 86, 117, 139.\n\nOisin, 13, 40, 69.\n\nOlcott, Chauncey, 22.\n\n_Old Celtic Romances_, 139.\n\n_Old Knowledge, The_, 122.\n\n_Omar Khayyam_, 141.\n\n_On Baile's Strand_, 27, 28, 58, 59.\n\nO'Neill, Maire, 23, 26.\n\n\"Moira O'Neill\" (Mrs. Nesta Higginson Skrine), 10, 255.\n\n_Origines Islandicae_, 238.\n\nO'Riordan, Conal. (_See_ \"Norreys Connell.\")\n\nO'Rourke, J.A., 211, 217.\n\n_Ossian_, 3, 138.\n\nO'Sullivan, Seumas, 11.\n\n_Our Dramatists and their Literature_, 103.\n\n_Our Mutual Friend_, 279.\n\n_Outer Isles, The_, 274.\n\n\n_Pagan Review, The_, 261.\n\nPalestrina, 77.\n\nParnell, Charles Stewart, 2, 147, 149.\n\n_Parnell and his Island_, 96, 97, 101.\n\nPater, Walter, 121, 133.\n\nPatrick, St., 13, 40, 142.\n\n_Patriots_, 231-232.\n\n\"Paul Gregan,\" 116.\n\n_Pebbles from a Brook_, 8.\n\n_Peer Gynt_, 163.\n\n_Pharais_, 262, 263, 264, 266, 270, 277.\n\n_Phedre_, 16.\n\nPhillpotts, Eden, 6.\n\nPinero, Sir Arthur Wing, 104, 214, 233.\n\n_Piper, The_, 31, 33, 242, 243.\n\n_Place Hunters, The_, 75, 78, 90, 93.\n\n_Playboy of the Western World, The_, 23, 26, 31, 32, 33, 75, 149,\n  163, 164, 166, 170, 171, 176, 178, 180, 182, 184, 196, 218, 228.\n\nPlayers Club, The, 86.\n\nPlotinus, 125.\n\nPoe, Edgar Allan, 40, 48, 265.\n\nPoel, William, 24.\n\n_Poems and Ballads_, 49.\n\n_Poetry of the Celtic Races, The_, 3.\n\n_Poets and Dreamers_, 147.\n\nPomfret, John, 203.\n\n_Poorhouse, The_, 9.\n\nPope, Alexander, 203.\n\nPorphyry, 54.\n\n_Pot of Broth, A_, 22, 32, 51, 52, 54.\n\nPre-Raphaelites, The, 10, 158.\n\n_Princess of Thule, The_, 271.\n\nProclus, 126.\n\nPsaltery, 64.\n\nPuritanism, 135, 234, 235, 244, 285.\n\n\nQuiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, 3.\n\nQuinn, Maire T., 21, 22.\n\n\n_Racing Lug, The_, 20, 21.\n\nRaftery, 147.\n\n_Red Turf_, 238, 239, 240.\n\nRehan, Ada, 233.\n\n_Religious Songs of Connacht, The_, 9, 171, 179.\n\nRenan, Ernest, 3, 255.\n\n_Revival of Irish Literature, The_, 2.\n\nRhys, Ernest, 4.\n\n_Riders to the Sea_, 149, 162, 178, 179, 181, 183, 195, 197.\n\nRinder, Edith Wingate, 268, 269.\n\n_Rising of the Moon, The_, 22, 31, 32, 152.\n\nRobin Hood, 138.\n\nRobinson, S. Lennox, 15, 33, 112, 215, 221, 222-232.\n  _The Clancy Name_, 223-224, 228;\n  _The Crossroads_, 224-228, 230, 231;\n  _Harvest_, 221, 224, 228-230;\n  _Lesson of Life_, 224;\n  _Patriots_, 231-232.\n\n_Rob Roy_, 272.\n\n_Romantic Ballads_, 253, 259, 294.\n\n_Rosmersholm_, 91.\n\nRoss, Martin. (_See_ Somerville, E. Oe.)\n\n_Rossetti, Dante Gabriel_, 293.\n\nRuskin, John, 89, 158, 159.\n\nRussell, G.W. (\"A.E.\"), 1, 5, 8, 11, 19, 20, 21, 39, 41, 46, 95, 98,\n  111, 112, 114-137, 146, 251, 253, 255.\n  _Deirdre_, 20, 21, 31, 77, 115;\n  _The Divine Vision_, 116, 122;\n  _The Earth Breath_, 116;\n  _Homeward_, 116;\n  \"Symbolism,\" 126;\n  \"Weariness,\" 128;\n  \"Memory of Earth,\" 130.\n\nRyan, Frederick, 32.\n\n\n_Salve_, 99.\n\n_Samhain_, 16, 29, 76, 81, 109.\n\n_Saturday Review, The_, London, 81.\n\n_Saxon Shillin', The_, 201.\n\nScotch Irish, the, 215, 234.\n\nScott, Sir Walter, 6, 100, 234, 272, 289.\n\nScotus Erigena, 135.\n\n_Second Mrs. Tanqueray, The_, 104.\n\n_Secret Rose, The_, 41, 54.\n\n_Seething Pot, The_, 8.\n\n_Seven Woods, In the_, 43.\n\n_Shadow of the Glen, In the_, 32, 60, 77, 162, 168, 169, 175, 178,\n  181, 184, 190, 195, 218.\n\n_Shadowy Waters, The_, 28, 56-58, 60.\n\nShakespeare, 120.\n\n_Shakespeare's End_, 242.\n\nSharp, William (\"Fiona Macleod\"), 4, 86, 251-296.\n  _A Child of Nature_, 272;\n  _Children of To-morrow_, 264;\n  \"The Dan-nan-Ron,\" 263, 287;\n  \"The Dirge of the Four Cities,\" 255, 259, 287, 296;\n  \"Dim face of beauty haunting all the world,\" 259;\n  _The Divine Adventure_, 263, 270, 273, 275, 279, 289;\n  _The Dominion of Dreams_, 273, 274;\n  _Drosdan and Yssul_, 254;\n  _The Enchanted Valleys_, 254;\n  _A Fellowe and his Wife_, 261, 264, 278;\n  _Flora MacDonald_, 266;\n  _From the Hills of Dream_, 259;\n  _Greek Backgrounds_, 286;\n  _Green Fire_, 263, 266;\n  _The Gypsy Christ_, 265, 279;\n  _The House of Usna_, 251, 252, 253, 254, 259, 285;\n  _The Immortal Hour_, 251, 252, 285, 287;\n  _Iona_, 277, 289;\n  _The King of Ys_, 254;\n  _The Last Supper_, 251;\n  _The Laughter of Peterkin_, 267, 284;\n  _Literary Geography_, 289;\n  _Lyra Celtica_, 4;\n  _Madge o' the Pool_, 279;\n  _The Mountain Lovers_, 262, 264, 265, 266, 270, 274;\n  _The Pagan Review_, 261;\n  _Pharais_, 262, 263, 264, 266, 270, 277;\n  _Romantic Ballads_, 253, 259, 294;\n  _Silence Farm_, 257, 258, 264, 265, 270, 271, 279, 295;\n  _The Sin-Eater_, 263;\n  _Sospiri di Roma_, 257, 258;\n  _Vistas_, 251, 252, 253, 259, 260, 273;\n  _The Washer of the Ford_, 263, 283;\n  _Where the Forest Murmurs_, 263, 285, 289, 290;\n  _The Winged Destiny_, 263, 274, 293;\n  _Wives in Exile_, 261, 264.\n\nSharp, Mrs. William, 251, 256, 262, 268, 279, 286, 290.\n\nShaw, George Bernard, 53, 177, 230, 241.\n\nSheehan, Canon, 7.\n\nShelley, P.B., 38.\n\nSheridan, Richard Brinsley, 13.\n\nShorter, Dora Sigerson, 11.\n\n_Showing-up of Blanco Posnet, The_, 241.\n\nSigerson, Dr. George, 2.\n\n_Silence Farm_, 257, 258, 264, 265, 270, 271, 279, 295.\n\nSims, George Robert, 103, 104.\n\nSinclair, Arthur, 19, 23, 24, 27, 211.\n\n_Sin-Eater, The_, 263.\n\n_Sister Teresa_, 98.\n\nSkrine, Nesta Higginson. (_See_ \"Moira O'Neill.\")\n\nSkye, 267, 283.\n\nSligo, 40, 41.\n\n_Sohrab and Rustum_, 59.\n\n_Some Experiences of an Irish R.M._, 6.\n\nSomerville, E. Oe., and Martin Ross, 6.\n\n_Sospiri di Roma_, 257, 258.\n\n_Sowing the Wind_, 104.\n\nSpenser, Edmund, 38, 39, 123.\n\nSpoer, Ada Goodrich-Freer, 274.\n\n_Spreading the News_, 150, 151.\n\n_Squireen, The_, 7, 236, 271.\n\nStage Society, the, London, 53, 112, 252.\n\nStephens, James, 8.\n\nStevenson, Robert Louis, 49, 260, 272, 289.\n\nStokes, Whitley, 140.\n\nStrand Theatre, the, London, 81.\n\n_Strike at Arlingford, The_, 103, 104.\n\n_Studies_, 200.\n\nSutherland, 272.\n\nSwift, Jonathan, 13, 173, 196, 282.\n\nSwinburne, Algernon Charles, 43, 49.\n\nSymbolism, 65-67, 126, 176.\n\nSynge, John Millington, 15, 22, 26, 31, 32, 47, 61, 114, 148, 149, 155,\n   160-197, 205, 206, 238, 239, 240, 242, 285.\n  _Aran Islands_, 168, 187, 188, 191;\n  _Deirdre of the Sorrows_, 163, 166-168, 181, 183, 192, 196, 197,\n    285;\n  \"In  Kerry,\" 164;\n  verse, 192-194;\n  \"Preludes,\" 193;\n  _Playboy of the Western World_, 23, 26, 31, 32, 33, 75, 149,\n    163, 164, 166, 170, 171, 176, 178, 180, 182, 184, 196, 218, 228;\n  _Riders to the Sea_, 149, 162, 178, 179, 181, 183, 195, 197;\n  _In the Shadow of the Glen_, 32, 60, 77, 162, 168, 169, 175,\n    178, 181, 184, 190, 195, 218;\n  _The Tinker's Wedding_, 111, 163, 171, 174, 180, 182, 190, 196;\n  _Well of the Saints_, 23, 29, 164, 170, 175, 177, 178, 182, 190,\n    196, 218.\n\n\n_Tables of the Law, The_, 41.\n\n_Tale of a Town, A_, 75, 76, 78, 81, 87-90, 105, 112, 213.\n\nTaliaferro, Mabel, 50.\n\nTaylor, Thomas, 117.\n\n_Tempest, The_, 45.\n\n_Tess of the D'Urbervilles_, 7, 258.\n\nThackeray, W.M., 6, 101.\n\nTheatre Francais, 17.\n\nTheatre of Ireland, the, 35, 202.\n\nTheatre Royal, Dublin, 30.\n\n_Thomas Muskerry_, 199, 200, 206.\n\nThompson, Francis, 135.\n\nThoreau, Henry David, 290, 291.\n\n_Through the Turf Smoke_, 7.\n\n_Time_, 242.\n\n_Tinker's Wedding, The_, 111, 163, 171, 174, 180, 182, 190, 196.\n\nTipperary, 171.\n\n_Travelling Man, A_, 153.\n\n_Treasure of the Humble, The_, 115.\n\nTrench, Herbert, 11.\n\nTrinity College, 32, 33.\n\nTrollope, Anthony, 271.\n\n_Troth, The_, 235, 237.\n\n_Turn of the Road, The_, 216, 235, 238, 239.\n\n_Twenty-five_, 32, 152.\n\n_Twilight People, The_, 11.\n\n_Twisting of the Rope, The_, 107.\n\n_Two Essays on the Remnant_, 8.\n\n\nUlster, 215, 240, 245, 246.\n\nUlster Literary Theatre, the, 35, 239, 243.\n\n_Unicorn from the Stars, The_, 27, 53-56.\n\n_Untilled Field, The_, 101, 102, 111, 112.\n\nUpanishads, 117.\n\n\nVillon, Francois, 182.\n\n_Vistas_, 251, 252, 253, 259, 260, 273.\n\nVon Teuffel, Mrs., 261.\n\n\nWales, 2, 3, 4.\n\nWalker, Mary, 20, 21, 22.\n\n_Wanderings of Oisin, The_, 1, 39, 40, 41, 63, 64, 139.\n\n_Washer of the Ford, The_, 263, 283.\n\nWatts, George Frederic, 122.\n\n_Waverley_, 272.\n\nWeekes, Charles, 116.\n\n_Weir of Hermiston_, 272.\n\n_Well of the Saints, The_, 23, 29, 164, 170, 175, 177, 178, 182,\n  190, 196, 218.\n\nWessex, 7, 258.\n\nWest Britons, 32.\n\n_West Irish Folk-Tales_, 9.\n\nWexford, 141, 152.\n\n_Wheel o' Fortune, The_, 216.\n\n_Where the Forest Murmurs_, 263, 285, 289, 290.\n\n_Where there is Nothing_, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56.\n\nWhite, Gilbert, 290.\n\n_White Cockade, The_, 152.\n\nWhitman, Walt, 39, 173, 193, 294.\n\nWicklow, 162, 166, 170, 177, 184, 190, 216.\n\n_Wild Duck, The_, 80, 91.\n\n_Wild Earth_, 200, 208.\n\n_Wild Goose, The_, 101.\n\nWilde, Oscar, 13, 53, 245.\n\nWilde, Lady, 51.\n\n_William Sharp: A Memoir_, 262, 279, 290.\n\n_Wind among the Reeds, The_, 43, 54.\n\n_Winged Destiny, The_, 263, 274, 293.\n\n_Wives in Exile_, 261, 264.\n\nWolfe, Charles, 94.\n\n_Woman of no Importance, A_, 245.\n\nWordsworth, 48, 94, 265.\n\nWorkhouse Ward, The, 152, 154.\n\nWycherly, Margaret, 51.\n\nYeats, J.B., Sr., 38, 119.\n\nYeats, J.B., Jr., 118, 119.\n\nYeats, W.B., 1, 5, 8, 10, 11, 13, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 22, 23, 25, 26,\n  27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 36, 37-71, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 81, 85, 88,\n  92, 94, 95, 97, 98, 102, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 112, 114, 115,\n  116, 117, 123, 139, 145, 146, 148, 155, 158, 162, 179, 199, 251, 252,\n  253, 255, 259, 269, 279, 285, 286.\n  _Cathleen ni Houlihan_, 10, 17, 19, 31, 50-51, 53, 54, 55, 77;\n  _Celtic Twilight_, 37, 41, 42, 54;\n  _Countess Cathleen_, 18, 32, 43, 47, 48-49, 50, 51, 59, 64, 69,\n    78;\n  _Deirdre_, 23, 27, 28, 44, 56, 61-63;\n  _Dhoya_, 41, 286;\n  _Diarmid and Grania_, 32, 106-110, 143;\n  _Discoveries_, 42;\n  _The Golden Helmet_, 27, 63;\n  _The Green Helmet_, 63;\n  _The Hour-Glass_, 10, 27, 28, 51-52, 54;\n  _Ideas of Good and Evil_ 42;\n  _The Island of Statues_, 47;\n  _John Sherman and Dhoya_, 41;\n  _The King's Threshold_, 60, 69;\n  _The Land of Heart's Desire_, 25, 43, 49-50, 51, 59;\n  _Mosada_, 47;\n  _On Baile's Strand_, 27, 28, 58, 59;\n  _A Pot of Broth_, 22, 32, 51, 52, 54;\n  _The Secret Rose_, 41, 54;\n  _In the Seven Woods_, 43;\n  _The Shadowy Waters_, 28, 56-58, 60;\n  _The Tables of the Law_, 41;\n  \"The Valley of the Black Pig,\" 50, 65, 66, 67;\n  _Wanderings of Oisin_, 1, 39, 40, 41, 63, 64, 139;\n  _Where there is Nothing_, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56;\n  _The Wind among the Reeds_, 43.","title":"Irish Plays and Playwrights","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":91139}