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Title: Samhain, issue 2, October 1902
an occasional review
Editor: W. B. Yeats
Contributor: Douglas Hyde
George William Russell
Translator: Lady Gregory
Release date: October 12, 2026 [eBook #79768]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Frank Cass and Company Limited, 1901
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79768
Credits: Chris Hapka and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAMHAIN, ISSUE 2, OCTOBER 1902 ***
SAMHAIN
An occasional review
edited by W. B. Yeats and
containing a Play in Irish by
Douglas Hyde with English
translation by Lady Gregory,
a Play in English and Notes
by the Editor and an Article
by A.E. Published in October
1902 by Sealy Bryers and
Walker in Dublin, and by
T. Fisher Unwin in London,
and sold for Sixpence.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Samhain: An occasional
review edited by W. B. Yeats.
Published in October 1902 by
Sealy Bryers & Walker and
by T. Fisher Unwin.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PRINTED BY
SEALY, BRYERS AND WALKER,
MIDDLE ABBEY STREET,
DUBLIN.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Notes.
The Irish Literary Theatre wound up its three years of experiment last
October with _Diarmuid and Grania_, which was played by Mr. Benson’s
Company, Mr. Benson himself playing _Diarmuid_ with poetry and fervour,
and _Casad an tSugan_, played by Dr. Hyde and some members of the Gaelic
League. _Diarmuid and Grania_ drew large audiences, but its version of
the legend was a good deal blamed by critics, who knew only the modern
text of the story. There are two versions, and the play was fully
justified by Irish and Scottish folk-lore, and by certain early Irish
texts, which do not see Grania through very friendly eyes. Any critic
who is interested in so dead a controversy can look at the folk tales
quoted by Campbell in, I think, “West Highland Superstitions,” and at
the fragment translated by Kuno Meyer, at page 458 of Vol. I. of
_Zeitschrift für Keltische Philologie_. Dr. Hyde’s play, on the other
hand, pleased everybody, and has been played a good many times in a good
many places since. It was the first play, in Irish, played in a Theatre,
and did much towards making plays a necessary part in Irish propaganda.
* * * * *
The Irish Literary Theatre has given place to a company of Irish actors.
Its Committee saw them take up the work all the more gladly because it
had not formed them, or influenced them. A dramatic society, with
guarantors and patrons can never have more than a passing use, because
it can never be quite free; and it is not successful until it is able to
say it is no longer wanted. Amateur actors will perform for
_Cumann-na-Gael_ plays chosen by themselves, and written by A. E., by
Mr. Cousins, by Mr. Ryan, by Mr. MacGinley and by myself. These plays
will be given at the Antient Concert Rooms at the end of October, but
the National Theatrical Company will repeat their successes with new
work in a very little hall they have hired in Camden Street. If they
could afford it they would have hired some bigger house, but, after all,
M. Antoine founded his _Theatre Libre_ with a company of amateurs in a
hall that only held three hundred people.
* * * * *
The first work of theirs to get much attention was their performance,
last spring, at the invitation of _Inghnidhe h-Eireann_ of A.E.’s
_Deirdre_, and my _Cathleen ni Hoolihan_. They had Miss Maud Gonne’s
help, and it was a fine thing for so beautiful a woman to consent to
play my poor old Cathleen, and she played with nobility and tragic
power. She showed herself as good in tragedy as Dr. Hyde is in comedy,
and stirred a large audience very greatly. The whole company played
well, too, but it was in _Deirdre_ that they interested me most. They
showed plenty of inexperience, especially in the minor characters, but
it was the first performance I had seen since I understood these things,
in which the actors kept still enough to give poetical writing its full
effect upon the stage. I had imagined such acting, though I had not seen
it, and had once asked a dramatic company to let me rehearse them in
barrels that they might forget gesture, and have their minds free to
think of speech for a while. The barrels, I thought, might be on
castors, so that I could shove them about with a pole when the action
required it. The other day I saw Sara Bernhardt and De Max in _Phedre_,
and understood where Mr. Fay, who stage manages the National Theatrical
Company, had gone for his model. For long periods the performers would
merely stand and pose, and I once counted twenty-seven quite slowly
before anybody on a fairly well-filled stage moved, as it seemed, so
much as an eyelash. The periods of stillness were generally shorter, but
I frequently counted seventeen, eighteen or twenty before there was a
movement. I noticed, too, that the gestures had a rythmic progression.
Sara Bernhardt would keep her hands clasped over, let us say, her right
breast for some time, and then move them to the other side, perhaps,
lowering her chin till it touched her hands, and then, after another
long stillness, she would unclasp them and hold one out, and so on, not
lowering them till she had exhausted all the gestures of uplifted hands.
Through one long scene De Max, who was quite as fine, never lifted his
hand above his elbow, and it was only when the emotion came to its
climax that he raised it to his breast. Beyond them stood a crowd of
white-robed men who never moved at all, and the whole scene had the
nobility of Greek sculpture, and an extraordinary reality and intensity.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen upon the stage, and made
me understand, in a new way, that saying of Goethe’s which is understood
everywhere but in England, “Art is art because it is not nature.” Of
course, our amateurs were poor and crude beside those great actors,
perhaps the greatest in Europe, but they followed them as well as they
could, and got an audience of artisans, for the most part, to admire
them for doing it. I heard somebody who sat behind me say, “They have
got rid of all the nonsense.”
* * * * *
I thought the costumes and scenery, which were designed by A. E.
himself, good, too, though I did not think them simple enough. They were
much more decorative and simple than ordinary stage costumes and
scenery, but I would like to see poetical drama, which tries to keep at
a distance from daily life that it may keep its emotion untroubled,
staged with but two or three colours. The background, especially in
small theatres, where its form is broken up and lost when the stage is
at all crowded should, I think, be thought out as one thinks out the
background of a portrait. One often needs nothing more than a single
colour with perhaps a few shadowy forms to suggest wood or mountain.
Even on a large stage one should leave the description of the poet free
to call up the martlet’s procreant cradle or what he will. But I have
written enough about decorative scenery elsewhere, and will probably
lecture on that and like matters, before we begin the winter’s work.
* * * * *
The performances of _Deirdre_ and _Cathleen ni Hoolihan_, which will be
repeated in the Antient Concert Rooms, drew so many to hear them that
great numbers were turned away from the doors of St. Theresa’s Hall.
Like the plays of the Irish Literary Theatre, they started unexpected
discussion. Mr. Standish O’Grady, who had done more than any other to
make us know the old legends, wrote in his _All Ireland Review_ that old
legends could not be staged without danger of “banishing the soul of the
land.” The old Irish had many wives for instances, and one had best
leave their histories to the vagueness of legend. How could uneducated
people understand heroes who lived amid such different circumstances?
And so we were to “leave heroic cycles alone, and not to bring them down
to the crowd.” A. E. replied in the _United Irishman_ with the
impassioned letter I give a part of at the end of these notes. “The old,
forgotten music,” he writes about is, I think, that regulated music of
speech at which both he and I have been working, though on somewhat
different principles. I have been working with Miss Farr and Mr. Arnold
Dolmetsch, who has made a psaltery for the purpose, to perfect a music
of speech which can be recorded in something like ordinary musical
notes; while A. E. has got a musician to record little chants with
intervals much smaller than those of modern music.
* * * * *
After the production of these plays the most important Irish dramatic
event was, no doubt, the acting of Dr. Hyde’s _An Posadh_, in Galway.
Through an accident it had been very badly rehearsed, but his own acting
made amends. One could hardly have had a play that grew more out of the
life of the people who saw it. There may have been old men in that
audience who remembered its hero the poet Raftery, and there was nobody
there who had not come from hearing his poems repeated at the Galway
_Feis_. I think from its effect upon the audience that this play in
which the chief Gaelic poet of our time celebrates his forerunner in
simplicity, will be better liked in Connaught at any rate than even
_Casad an tSugan_. His _Tincear agus Sidheog_, acted in Mr. Moore’s
garden, at the time of the Oireachtas, is a very good play, but is, I
think, the least interesting of his plays as literature. His
imagination, which is essentially the folk imagination, needs a looser
construction, and probably a more crowded stage. A play that gets its
effect by keeping close to one idea reminds one, when it comes from the
hands of a folk poet, of Blake’s saying, that “Improvement makes
straight roads, but the crooked roads are the roads of genius.” The idea
loses the richness of its own life, while it destroys the wayward life
of his mind by bringing it under too stern a law. Nor could charming
verses make amends for that second kiss in which there was profanation,
and for that abounding black bottle. Did not M. Trebulet Bonhommie
discover that one spot of ink would kill a swan?
* * * * *
Among the other plays in Irish acted during the year Father Dineen’s
_Tobar Draoidheachta_ is probably the best. He has given up the many
scenes, of his _Creadeamh agus Gorta_, and has written a play in one
scene, which, as it can be staged without much trouble, has already been
played in several places. One admires its naivete as much as anything
else. Father Dineen, who, no doubt, remembers how Finn mac Cumhal when a
child was put in a field to catch hares and keep him out of mischief,
has sent the rival lovers of his play when he wanted them off the scene
for a moment, to catch a hare that has crossed the stage. When they
return the good lover is carrying it by the heels, and modestly compares
it to a lame jackass. One rather likes this bit of nonsense when one
comes to it, for in that world of folk imagination one thing seems as
possible as another. On the other hand, there is a moment of beautiful
dramatic tact. The lover gets a letter telling of the death of a
relative in America, for whom he has no particular affection, and who
has left him a fortune. He cannot lament, for that would be insincere,
and his first words must not be rejoicing. Father Dineen has found for
him the one beautiful thing he could say, “It’s a lonesome thing death
is.” With, perhaps, less beauty than there is in the closing scene of
_Creadeamh agus Gorta_, the play has more fancy and a more sustained
energy.
* * * * *
Father Peter O’Leary has written a play in his usual number of scenes
which has not been published, but has been acted amid much Munster
enthusiasm. But neither that or _La an Amadan_, which has also been
acted, are likely to have any long life on our country stages. A short
play, with many changes of scene, is a nuisance in any theatre, and
often an impossibility on our poor little stages. Some kind of play, in
English, by Mr. Standish O’Grady, has been acted in the open air in
Kilkenny. I have not seen it, and I cannot understand anything by the
accounts of it, except that there were magic lantern slides and actors
on horseback, and Mr. Standish O’Grady as an Elizabethan night watchman,
speaking prologues, and a contented audience of two or three thousand
people.
* * * * *
As we do not think that a play can be worth acting, and not worth
reading, all our plays will be published in time. Some have been printed
in _The United Irishman_ and the _All Ireland Review_. I have put my
_Cathleen ni Hoolihan_ and a little play by Dr. Hyde into this SAMHAIN.
Once already this year I have had what somebody has called the noble
pleasure of praising, and I can praise this _Lost Saint_ with as good a
conscience as I had when I wrote of _Cuchulain of Muirthemne_. I would
always admire it, but just now, when I have been thinking that
literature should return to its old habit of describing desirable
things, I am in the mood to be stirred by that old man gathering up food
for fowl with his heart full of love, and by those children who are so
full of the light-hearted curiosity of childhood, and by that
schoolmaster who has mixed prayer with his gentle punishments. It seems
natural that so beautiful a prayer as that of the old saint should have
come out of a life so full of innocence and peace. One could hardly have
thought out the play in English, for those phrases of a traditional
simplicity and of a too deliberate prettiness which become part of an
old language would have arisen between the mind and the story. One might
even have made something as unreal as the sentimental schoolmaster of
the Scottish novelists, and how many children, who are but literary
images, would one not have had to hunt out of one’s mind before one met
with those little children? Even if one could have thought it out in
English one could not have written it in English, unless perhaps in that
dialect which Dr. Hyde had already used in the prose narrative that
flows about his _Love Songs of Connaught_.
* * * * *
Dr. Hyde has written a little play about the birth of Christ which has
the same beauty and simplicity. These plays remind me of my first
reading of the _Love Songs of Connaught_. The prose parts of that book
were to me, as they were to many others, the coming of a new power into
literature. I find myself now, as I found myself then, grudging to
propaganda, to scholarship, to oratory, however necessary, a genius
which might in modern Irish or in that idiom of the English-speaking
country people discover a new region for the mind to wander in. In
Ireland, where we have so much to prove and to disprove, we are ready to
forget that the creation of an emotion of beauty is the only kind of
literature that justifies itself. Books of literary propaganda and
literary history are merely preparations for the creation or
understanding of such an emotion. It is necessary to put so much in
order, to clear away so much, to explain so much, that somebody may be
moved by a thought or an image that is inexplicable as a wild creature.
* * * * *
I cannot judge the language of his Irish poetry, but it is so rich in
poetical thought, when at its best, that it seems to me that if he were
to write more he might become to modern Irish what Mistral was to modern
Provençal. I wish, too, that he could put away from himself some of the
interruptions of that ceaseless propaganda, and find time for the making
of translations, loving and leisurely, like those in _Beside the Fire_
and _The Love Songs of Connaught_. He has begun to get a little careless
lately. Above all I would have him keep to that English idiom of the
Irish-thinking people of the west which he has begun to use less often.
It is the only good English spoken by any large number of Irish people
to-day, and one must found good literature on a living speech. English
men of letters found themselves upon the English Bible, where religious
thought gets its living speech. Blake, if I remember rightly, copied it
out twice, and I remember once finding a few illuminated pages of a new
decorated copy that he began in his old age. Byron read it for the sake
of style, though I think it did him little good, and Ruskin founded
himself in great part upon it. Indeed, one finds everywhere signs of a
book which is the chief influence in the lives of English children. The
translation used in Ireland has not the same literary beauty, and if we
are to find anything to take its place we must find it in that idiom of
the poor, which mingles so much of the same vocabulary with turns of
phrase that have come out of Gaelic. Even Irish writers of considerable
powers of thought seem to have no better standard of English than a
schoolmaster’s ideal of correctness. If their grammar is correct they
will write about “keeping in touch,” and “object-lessons,” and “shining
examples,” and “running in grooves,” and “flagrant violations” of
various things, with a light heart. Yet, as St. Beuve has said, there is
nothing immortal except style. One can write well in that country idiom
without much thought about one’s words, the emotion will bring the right
word itself, for there everything is old and everything alive and
nothing common or threadbare. I recommend to the Intermediate Board--a
body that seems to benefit by advice--a better plan than any they know
for teaching children to write good English. Let every child in Ireland
be set to turn first a leading article and then a piece of what is
called excellent English, written perhaps by some distinguished member
of the Board, into the idiom of his own country side. He will find at
once the difference between dead and living words, between words that
meant something years ago, and words that have the only thing that gives
literary quality, personality, the breath of men’s mouths. Zola, who is
sometimes an admirable critic, has said that some of the greatest pages
in French literature are not even right in their grammar, “They are
great because they have personality.”
* * * * *
The habit of writing for the stage, even when it is not country people
who are the speakers, and of considering what good dialogue is, will
help to increase our feeling for style. Let us get back in everything to
the spoken word, even though we have to speak our lyrics to the Psaltery
or the Harp, for, as A. E. says, we have begun to forget that literature
is but recorded speech, and even when we write with care we have begun
“to write with elaboration what could never be spoken.” But when we go
back to speech let us see that it is either the idioms of those who have
rejected, or of those who have never learned the base idioms of the
newspapers.
* * * * *
Mr. Martyn argued in the _United Irishman_ some months ago that our
actors should try to train themselves for the modern drama of society.
The acting of plays like _Deirdre_, and of _Cathleen ni Hoolihan_, with
its speech of the country people, did not seem to him a preparation. It
is not, but that is as it should be. Our movement is a return to the
people, like the Russian movement of the early seventies, and the drama
of society could but magnify a condition of life which the countryman
and the artisan could but copy to their hurt. The play that is to give
them a quite natural pleasure should either tell them of their own life,
or of that life of poetry where every man can see his own image, because
there alone does human nature escape from arbitrary conditions. Plays
about drawing-rooms are written for the middle classes of great cities,
for the classes who live in drawing-rooms, but if you would uplift the
man of the roads you must write about the roads, or about the people of
romance, or about great historical people. We should, of course, play
every kind of good play about Ireland that we can get, but romantic and
historical plays, and plays about the life of artisans and country
people are the best worth getting. In time, I think, we can make the
poetical play a living dramatic form again, and the training our actors
will get from plays of country life, with its unchanging outline, its
abundant speech, its extravagance of thought, will help to establish a
school of imaginative acting. The play of society, on the other hand,
would but train up realistic actors who would do badly, for the most
part, what English actors do well, and would, when at all good, drift
away to wealthy English theatres. If, on the other hand, we busy
ourselves with poetry and the countryman, two things which have always
mixed with one another in life as on the stage, we may recover, in the
course of years, a lost art which, being an imitation of nothing
English, may bring our actors a secure fame and a sufficient livelihood.
* * * * *
Sealy, Bryers & Walker have still a few copies of last year’s _Samhain_,
and the three numbers of its forerunners, _Beltaine_, can still be got,
bound up in one volume, for a shilling, from the Unicorn Press, Cecil
Court, St. Mark’s Lane, London. They record the rise of the Irish
dramatic movement. Any money made by the sale of the present number of
_Samhain_ will be spent on the production of plays on Irish subjects.
W. B. YEATS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Dramatic Treatment of Heroic Literature.
“_The Red Branch ought not to be staged.... That literature
ought not to be produced for popular consumption for the
edification of the crowd.... I say to you, drop this thing at
your peril.... You may succeed in degrading Irish ideals and
banishing the soul of the land.... Leave the heroic cycles
alone, and don’t bring them down to the crowd...._”--_Standish
O’Grady in “All Ireland Review.”_
Years ago, in the adventurous youth of his mind, Mr. O’Grady found the
Gaelic tradition like a neglected antique dun with the doors barred.
Listening, he heard from within the hum of an immense chivalry, and he
opened the doors and the wild riders went forth to work their will. Now
he would recall them. But it is in vain. The wild riders have gone
forth, and their labours in the human mind are only beginning. They will
do their deeds over again, and now they will act through many men and
speak through many voices. The spirit of Cuculain will stand at many a
lonely place in the heart, and he will win, as of old, against
multitudes. The children of Turann will start afresh, still eager to
take up and renew their cyclic labours, and they will gain, not for
themselves, the Apples of the Tree of Life, and the Spear of the Will,
and the Fleece which is the immortal Body. They will not grow weary
warring upon things that die, but will be fighters in the spirit against
immortal powers, and, as before, the acts will be sometimes noble and
sometimes base. They cannot be stayed from their deeds, for they are
still in the strength of a youth which is ever renewing itself. Nor for
all the wrong which may be done should they be restrained. Mr. O’Grady
would now have the tales kept from the crowd to be the poetic luxury of
a few. Yet would we, for all the martyrs who perished in the fires of
the Middle Ages, counsel the placing of the gospels on the list of books
to be read only by a few esoteric worshippers? The literature which
should be unpublished is that which holds the secret of the magical
powers. The legends of Ireland are not of this kind. They have no
special message to the aristocrat more than to the man of the people.
The men who made the literature of Ireland were by no means nobly born,
and it was the bards who placed the heroes, each in his rank, and
crowned them for after ages, and gave them their famous names. They have
placed on the brow of others a crown which belonged to themselves, and
all the heroic literature of the world was made by the sacrifice of the
nameless kings of men who have given a sceptre to others they never
wielded while living, and who bestowed the powers of beauty and pity on
women, who, perhaps, had never uplifted a heart in their day, and who
now sway us from the grave with a grace only imagined in the dreaming
soul of the poets.
* * * * *
The drama in its mystical beginning was the vehicle through which divine
ideas, which are beyond the sphere even of heroic life and passion, were
expressed; and if Mr. Yeats and myself fail of such greatness, it is not
for that reason that the soul of Ireland will depart. I can hardly
believe Mr. O’Grady to be serious when he fears that many forbidden
subjects will be themes for dramatic art, that Maeve with her many
husbands will walk the stage, and the lusts of an earlier age be revived
to please the lusts of to-day. The danger of art is not in its subjects,
but in the attitude of the artist’s mind. The nobler influences of art
arise, not because heroes are the theme, but because of noble treatment
and the intuition which perceives the inflexible working out of great
moral laws. The abysses of human nature may well be sounded if the
plummet be dropped by a spirit from the heights. The lust which leads on
to death may be a terrible thing to contemplate, but in the event there
is consolation; and the eye of faith can see even in the very exultation
of corruption how God the Regenerator is working His will, leading man
onward to his destiny of inevitable beauty. Mr. O’Grady[1] in his youth
had the epic imagination, and I think few people realise how great and
heroic that inspiration was; but the net that is spread for Leviathan
will not capture all the creatures of the deep, and neither epic or
romance will manifest fully the power of the mythical ancestors of the
modern Gael who now seek incarnation anew in the minds of their
children. Men too often forget in this age of printed books that
literature is, after all, only an ineffectual record of speech. The
literary man has gone into strange byways through long contemplation of
books, and he writes with elaboration what could never be spoken, and he
loses that power of the bards on whom tongues of fire had descended, who
were masters of the magic of utterance, whose thoughts were not meant to
be silently read from the lifeless page. For there never can be, while
man lives in a body, a greater means of expression for him than the
voice of man affords, and no instrument of music will ever rival in
power the flowing of the music of the spheres through his lips. In all
its tones, from the chanting of the Magi, which compelled the elements,
to those gentle voices which guide the dying into peace, there is a
power which will never be stricken from tympan or harp, for in all
speech there is life, and with the greatest speech the deep tones of
another Voice may mingle. Has not the Lord spoken through His prophets?
And man, when he has returned to himself, and to the knowledge of
himself, may find a greater power in his voice than in those powers
which he has painfully harnessed to perform his will, in steamship or
railway. It is through drama alone that the writer can summon, if even
vicariously, so great a power to his aid; and it is possible we yet may
hear on the stage, not merely the mimicry of human speech, but the old
forgotten music which was heard in the duns of kings, which made the
revellers grow silent and great warriors to bow low their faces in their
hands. Dear O’Grady, if we do not succeed, it is not for you to blame
us, for our aims are at least as high as your own.
A. E.
-----
Footnote 1:
I think it was his “History of Ireland, Heroic Period,” that started
us all; it stirred others, too. Burne-Jones said to somebody, I forget
who now, that it had made an epoch in his life; and I remember hearing
William Morris praise it once.
W. B. Y.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
AN NAOMH AR IARRAID.
DRAMA AON-GHNÍMH.
AN FHUIREANN:--
SEAN-FHEAR.
OIDE.
CONAL.
FEARGHAILL.
FEARGUS.
ART.
AODH.
PÁISTIDHE, ⁊c.
_Seomra mór mar do bhíodh ins na sean-aimsiribh. Bord fada ann. Tá
sgata páistidhe ann, cuid aca ag ithe a mbéile agus cuid aca ’na
seasamh tar éis a ithte. Tá oide ag cromadh ar leabhar i gcornéall
eile de’n tseomra._
ART--[_ag seasamh suas_] tar amach a Fhéidhlim go bhfeicfimid an uc
nuadh.
FEIDHLIM--Ní fhéadamaoid. Dubhairt an máighistir linn gan dul amach
go ndéarfamaois an dán sin dó, an dán do mhúin sé dhúinn indé.
FEARGHAILL--Maiseadh, gráin go deo ar an sean dán céadna, acht níl
eagla orm-sa: rachaidh mise amach ar chuma ar bith. Tá sé de mheabhar
agam-sa--acht ní mheasaim go bhfuighfidh tusa amach a Chonaill. O! sin é
an máighistir agus é réidh le tosughadh.
AN t-OIDE--[_ag tógbháil a chinn_]. Anois a chlann O, bhfuil an
béile críochnuighthe agaibh?
PÁISTE--Ní’l go fóil.
[_Tig sean-fhear liath droch-ghleusta go dtí an dorus_].
ART--O sin sean-Chormaicín a bhíos ag meilt na mine dhúinn, agus ag
tabhairt aire do’n áithche.
AN SEAN-FHEAR--Go mbeannuighidh Dia ann so! A mháighistir, an
dtiubhraidh tu cead dam an sprúilleach bidh sin do chruinniughadh agus
do thabhairt amach liom.
AN t-OIDE--Déan sin [_leis na páistibh_] tigidhe ann so anois, go
bhfeicidh mé bhfuil an dán sin i gceart agaibh, agus leigfidh mé dhaoibh
dul amach, nuair bhéidh sé ráidhte agaibh.
FEARGUS--Támaoid teacht, acht fan móimid go n-innseóchaidh
sean-Chormaicín dúinn cad tá sé dul a dhéanam leis an sprúilleach bidh
sin.
AN SEAN-FHEAR--Tá mé d’á chruinnughadh le tabhairt do na
h-éanachaibh a mhuirnín.
AN t-OIDE--Déanfaidh sin anois. Gabh a leith ann so. [_Seasann na
páistidhe os a choinne in a líne_].
AN t-OIDE--Anois innseóchaidh mé dhaoibh cia rinne an dán atá sibh
dul a rádh liom. Bhí fear cráibhtheach naomhtha i n-Éirinn bliadhanta ó
shoin. Aonghus Céile Dé an t-ainm do bhí air. Ní raibh aon duine i
n-Éirinn budh mhó úmhlacht ’ná é. Níor mhaith leis, na daoine do bheith
ag tabhairt onóra dhó, ná do bheith ag rádh go mbudh mhór an naomh é, no
go mbudh bhreágh an file é. Ar an ádhbhar sin, bhí sé chomh h-úmhall
sin, gur éalaigh sé leis, aon oidhche amháin. Chuir sé culaidh bréige
air féin, agus d’imthig sé ’na dhuine bocht ar fud na tíre ag
saothrughadh a bheatha féin gan eólas ag duine ar bith air. Tá sé
imthighthe as eólas anois, gan fhios ag duine ar bith cá bhfuil sé.
B’éidir gur ag beathughadh muc no gur ag meilt mine atá sé anois, mar
aon duine bocht eile.
FEARGHAILL--Ag meilt mine mar sean-Chormaicín ann so.
AN t-OIDE--Go díreach. Acht sul ar imthigh sé leis, is iomhdha dán
breágh milis do rinne sé ag moladh Dé agus na n-aingeal, agus is ceann
aca sin do bhí mé d’a mhúnadh dhaoibh indé.
ART--Cad é an t-ainm a dubhairt tu, do bhí air.
AN t-OIDE--Aonghus Céile Dé. Thug siad “Céile Dé” air, mar bhí sé
chomh naomhtha sin. Anois a Fhéidhlim abair an dá líne thosaigh, thusa,
agus déarfaidh Art an dá líne leanas, agus déarfaidh Conall an dá líne
na dhiaigh sin, agus mar sin go dtí an deireadh.
FEIDHLIM.
Shuas, i bhflaitheas Dé, atá
Árd-aingeal ag gach aon-lá.
ART.
Agus is iad sin go cruinn
A stiúraigheas an tseachtmhain.
AODH.
An chéad-lá, is naomhtha é,
Ag Dia atá Dia Dómhnaigh.
FEARGHAILL.
Faireann Gabriel go buan
h-uile sheachtmhain an Dia-luain.
CONAL.
Faireann Gabriel go buan----
AN t-OIDE--Ní h-eadh, a Chonail, dubhairt Fearghaill sin.
CONAL.
Ag Dia tá Dia Dómhnaigh.
AN t-OIDE--Ní h-eadh, dubhradh sin cheana. Ag Dia Máirt atámaoid
anois. Cia ag a bhfuil Dia Máirt? [_ní fhreagrann an buachaillín_]. Cia
aige a bhfuil Dia Máirt? Ná bí d’amadán anois.
CONAL--[_ag cuir ailt a mhéir chum a shúile_] ní’l fhios agam.
AN t-OIDE--O mo náire thu! Féach anois, gabh i n-áit a raibh
Fearghaill agus rachaidh seisean i d’áit-se. Nois a Fhearghaill!
FEARGHAILL.
Is fíor é go bhfuil Dia Mairt
Ag Micheál in a lán-neart.
AN t-OIDE--’Seadh, ’nois a Chonail, abair cia ag a bhfuil Dia Luain.
CONAL [_ag gol_] ní fheadar----
AN t-OIDE--Abair an dá líne thosaigh, mar sin, agus béidh mé sásta.
Cia ag a bhfuil Dia Dómhnaigh.
CONAL [_ag gol_]--ní’l fhios agam.
AN t-OIDE--O nach tú an t-amadáinín! Ní chuirfidh mé dadaidh in do
cheann a choidhche. Ní leigfidh mé amach thú go mbéidh an dán sin agad.
A bhuachaillidhe, sgrios amach libh anois agus fágfamaoid Conal Amadán
ann so. [_Imthigheann an t-oide agus na páistidhe eile amach_].
AN SEAN-FHEAR--Ná bí ag gol a mhuirnín, múinfidh mise an dán duit.
Tá sé de mheamhar agam féin.
CONAL--Óra, a Chormaicín ní thig liom a fhóghluim. Níl mé críona ná
glic mar na buachaillídhe eile. Ní fhéadaim aon rud chur asteach in mo
cheann [_sgairteann sé ar chaoineadh_] ní bhíonn aon chuimhne agam ar
aon rud.
AN SEAN-FHEAR [_ag leagan a láimhe ar a cheann_]--Glac meisneach a
stóir. Béidh tú d’ fhear críona go fóil le congnamh Dé. Gabh leith ann
so agus cuidigh liom ag roinnt na sprúille seó. [_Éirigheann an
buachaillín_]. Sin é anois, triomuigh do shúil agus ná bíodh aon
droch-mheisneach ort.
CONAL [_ag triomughadh a shúl_]--Cad chuige bhfuil tú ag déanamh tri
chuid de’n sprúlleach so.
AN SEAN-FHEAR--Tá mé dul an chuid seo do thabhairt do na géanaibh,
chuir mé an gabáiste uile ar an mhéis seo dhóibh, agus nuair rachas mé
amach craithfidh mé gráinín mine air sin, agus beathóchaidh sé go breágh
iad. Tá sprúilleach na feóla agam ann so, agus sean sgreamóga, agus arán
briste tríd, agus bhéarfaidh mé sin do na cearchaibh: béarfaidh siad
uibheacha níos fearr nuair geobhaidh siad biadh mar sin. Tá an
sprúilleach bheag so agam le tabhairt do na h-éinínibh beaga bhíos ag
seinm dam ar maidin, agus dhúisigheas mé le n-a gcuid ceóil. Tá sé
brúighte mion agam dóibh. [_Sguabann sé an t-urlár agus cruinnigheann sé
mion-ghiotaidh aráin._] Tá grádh mór agam do na h-éinínibh beaga.
[_Féachann an sean-fhear suas, agus chidh sé go bhfuil an
buachaillín ’na luidhe ar chuisín agus é ’na chodladh, agus
ag osnaoil in a chodladh. Seasann sé tamaillín ag féachaint
anuas air. Tagann deóra in a shúilibh féin. Ann sin
téidheann sé ar a dhá ghlúin._]
AN SEAN-FHEAR--O, a Thighearna a Dhé, glac truaighe do’n pháistín
bog óg so. Cuir críonacht in a cheann, glan a chroidhe, sgap an ceó atá
ar a inntinn, agus leig dó a cheacht d’fhóghluim mar na buachaillidhe
eile. O, a Thighearna, do bhí tú féin óg, tráth, glac truaighe do’n
óige. O, a Thighearna, do shil tú féin na deóra, triomuigh deóra an
bhuachaillín seo. Éist, a Thighearna, le guidhe do shearbhfhóghanta,
agus ná tóg air an nidh beag so d’iarraidh ort. O, a Thighearna, is
goirt deóra an leinbh, millsigh iad, is doimhin smuaínte an leinbh,
ciúnaigh iad, is searbh brón an leinbh, bain dé é, is bog croidhe an
leinbh, O ná cruadhaigh é.
[_Nuair atá an sean-fhear ag guidhe, tagann an t-oide asteach.
Dearcann sé air. Sméideann sé ar na páistibh atá taobh
amuigh, tagann siad asteach, cruinnigheann siad in a
thimchioll. Tógann an sean-fhear a cheann. Preabann sé ’na
shuidhe agus lasadh náire air._]
AN t-OIDE--Chualaidh mé do ghuidhe, a shean-duine, acht ní’l aon
mhaith ann. Molaim go mór thú faoi, acht tá an leanbh sin go ro mhall ag
fóghluim. Rinne mé féin athchuinge ar Dhia uair no dó, d’á thaoibh, acht
ní raibh aon mhaith ann.
AN SEAN-FHEAR--B’éidir gur chualaidh Dia mé--tá Dia réidh le
h-éisteacht i gcómhnuidhe. An uair a mbíonn sinn féin folamh gan aon
nidh, éisteann Dia linn, agus ní chuimhnighmid ar na neithibh do
chailleamar, acht cuirimid ar ndóchas in Dia.
AN t-OIDE--Is fíor a n-abrann tú, acht ní’l aon mhaith i
n-athchuinge an uair so. Tá an gasún so ro dho-mhúinte. [_Téidheann sé
féin agus an sean-fhear go dtí an buachaillín atá fós ’na chodladh agus
lorg na ndeór ar a ghruaidh._] Caithfidh sé oibriughadh go cruaidh agus
go an-chruaidh, agus b’éidir le neart oibre go bhféadfaidh sé beagán
fhóghluim am éigin. [_Cuireann sé a lámh ar ghualainn an bhuachaillín
agus preabann sé ’na dhúiseacht agus ongantas air nuair chidh sé na
daoine eile ’na thimchioll_].
AN SEAN-FHEAR--Fiafruigh dhé anois.
AN t-OIDE--An gcuimhnigheann tú ar an dán anois, a Chonail?
CONAL.
Shuas i bhflaitheas Dé atá
Árd aingeal ag gach aon-lá.
Agus is iad sin go cruinn
A stiuraigheas an tseachtmhain.
An chéad-lá is naomhtha é,
Ag Dia atá Dia Dómhnaigh.
Faireann Gabriel go buan
h-Uile sheachtmhain an Dia-Luain.
Agus fós atá Dia Máirt
Ag Micheál in a lán-neart.
Rafael go cóir ceart caoin,
Is aige tá Dia Céadaoin.
Ag Saciel nach cam claon
Gach seachtmhain tá an Diardaoin.
Haniel árd aingeal Dé,
Is aige tá Dia h-Aoine.
Cassiel geal na súl ngorm
Stiuraigheann sé Dia Sáthoirn.
AN t-OIDE--Is míorbhúil é! Níor theip focal air. Acht innis dam, a
Chonail a stóir, cia an chaoi an fhóghluim tú an dán sin ó shoin?
CONAL--Nuair bhí mé mo chodladh anois, tháinig sean-duine chugam,
agus dar liom-sa do bhí gach dath d’á bhfuil san mbógha-uisge air, agus
rug sé ar mo léine agus stróc sé é, agus ann sin d’fhosgail sé mo
bhrollach agus chuir sé an dán asteach in mo chroidhe.
AN SEAN-FHEAR--Is Dia do thug an bhrionglóid sin dó. Ní dóigh liom
go mbéidh sé ’na bhuachaill do-mhúinte as so amach.
CONAL--Agus an fear do tháinig chugam shaoil mé go mbudh
shean-Chormaicín ann sin do bhí ann.
FEARGHAILL--B’éidir go mbudh Aonghus céile Dé féin do bhí ann!
AODH--B’éidir gur Aonghus Cormaicín!
AN t-OIDE--An tú Aonghus Céile Dé? Cuirim ort as ucht Dé a innsint
dam.
AN SEAN-FHEAR [_ag cromadh a chinn_]--O! fuair sibh amach anois é.
O! shaoil mé nach mbeith aithne ag duine ar bith go bráth orm. Mo leun!
fuair sibh amach mé.
AN t-OIDE [_ag dul ar a dhá ghlúin_]--A Aonghuis Naomhtha, maith
dham é. Tabhair dham do bheannacht, a dhuine naoimh. Tabhair do
bheannacht do na páistibh seo. [_Téidhid na páistidhe ar a nglúnaibh ’na
thimchioll._]
AN SEAN-FHEAR [_ag tógbháil a láimhe_]--Beannacht Dé orraibh.
Beannacht Críosta agus a naomh-mháthar orraibh. Mo bheannacht féin
orraibh.
[CRÍOCH.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Lost Saint.
Translated by Lady Gregory.
AN OLD MAN.
A TEACHER.
CONALL }
FEARALL }
FERGUS }
FELIM } _Children._
ART }
AODH, ETC. }
SCENE.--_A large room as it was in the old time. A long table in it. A
troop of children, a share of them eating their dinner, another share of
them sitting after eating. There is a teacher stooping over a book in
the other part of the room._
ART (_Standing up_)--Come out, Felim, till we see the new hound.
FELIM.--We can’t. The Master told us not to go out till we would
learn this poem, the poem he was teaching us to-day.
AODH.--He won’t let anyone at all go out till he can say it.
FEARALL.--_Maiseadh_, disgust for ever on the same old poem, but
there is no danger of me! I’ll get out never fear, I’ll remember it well
enough. But I don’t think you will get out, Conall. Oh, there is the
master ready to begin.
THE TEACHER (_Lifting up his head_)--Now children, have you finished
your dinner?
CHILDREN.--Not yet. (_A poor-looking grey old man comes to the
door_).
FELIM.--Oh, that is old Cormacín, that grinds the meal for us, and
minds the kiln.
THE OLD MAN.--The blessing of God here! Master, will you give me
leave to gather up the scraps, and to bring them out with me?
MASTER.--You may do that. (_To the children_)--Come here now, till I
see if you have that poem right, and I will let you go out when you have
it said.
FEARALL.--We are coming, but wait a minute till I ask old Cormacín
what is he going to do with the leavings he has there.
THE OLD MAN.--I am gathering them to give to the birds, avourneen.
THE MASTER.--That will do now; come over here. (_The children stand
together in a row_).
THE TEACHER.--Now I will tell you who made the poem you are going to
say to me. There was a holy saintly man in Ireland, years ago, Aongus
Céile Dé was the name he had. There was no man in Ireland had greater
humility than he. He did not like the people to be giving honour to him,
or to be saying he was a great saint, or that he made fine poems. It was
because of his humility he stole away one night and put a disguise on
himself, and he went like a poor man through the country, working for
his own living without anyone knowing him. He is gone away out of
knowledge now, without anyone at all knowing where he is. Maybe he is
feeding pigs or grinding meal now, like any other poor person.
AODH.--Grinding meal like old Cormacín here.
TEACHER.--Exactly. But, before he went away, it’s many fine sweet
poems he made in the praise of God and the angels, and it is one of
those I was teaching you to-day.
A CHILD.--What is the name you said he had?
TEACHER.--Aongus Céile Dé, the servant of God. They gave him that
name because he was so holy. Now Felim, say the first two lines you, and
Art will say the next two lines, and Aodh the two lines after that, and
so on to the end.
FELIM.
Up in the Kingdom of God there are
Archangels for every single day.
ART.
And it is they certainly
That steer the entire week.
AODH.
The first day is holy,
Sunday belongs to God.
FERGUS.
Gabriel watches constantly
Every week over Monday.
CONALL.
Gabriel watches constantly--
TEACHER.--That’s not it, Conall, Fergus said that.
CONALL.
Sunday belongs to God.
THE TEACHER.--That’s not it, that was said before. It is at Tuesday
we are now. Who is it has Tuesday? (_The little boy does not answer_).
Who is it has Tuesday?--don’t be a fool now.
CONALL (_Putting the joint of his finger in his eye_)--I don’t know.
TEACHER.--Oh, my shame you are! Look now, go in the place Fearall
is, and he will go in your place. Now, Fearall.
FEARALL.
It is true that Tuesday is kept
By Michael in his full strength.
TEACHER.--That’s it. Now, Conall, say who has Monday?
CONALL (_crying_)--I can’t.
TEACHER.--Say the two lines before that, and I will be satisfied.
Who has Sunday?
CONALL (_crying_)--I don’t know.
THE TEACHER.--Oh, arn’t you the little amadán? I will never put
anything at all in your head. I will not let you go out till you know
that poem. Now boys, run off with you, and we will leave Conall Amadán
here. (_The teacher and all the other scholars go out_).
THE OLD MAN.--Don’t be crying, avourneen, I will teach the poem to
you. I know it myself.
CONALL.--Aurah, Cormacín, I can’t learn it. I am not clever or quick
like the other boys. I can’t put anything in my head. (_Bursts into
crying again_). I have no memory for anything.
OLD MAN (_Laying his hand on his head_)--Take courage, astore. You
will be a wise man yet, with the help of God. Come with me now, and help
me to divide these scraps. (_The child gets up_). That’s it now, dry
your eyes, and don’t be discouraged.
CONALL (_Wiping his eyes_)--What are you making three shares of the
scraps for?
THE OLD MAN.--I am going to give the first share to the geese. I am
putting all the cabbage on this dish for them, and when I go out I will
put a grain of meal on it, and it will feed them finely. I have scraps
of meat here, and old crusts, and I will give that to the hens; they
will lay their eggs better when they will get food like that. These
little crumbs are for the little birds that do be singing to me in the
morning, and that awaken me with their share of music. I have it bruised
fine for them. (_Sweeps the floor and gathers little crumbs of bread._)
I have a great wish for the little birds. (_The old man looks up, he
sees the little boy lying on a cushion, and he asleep. He stands a
little while looking at him. Tears gather in his eyes, then he goes down
on his knees._)
OLD MAN.--Oh, Lord! Oh, God! take pity on this little soft child.
Put wisdom in his head, cleanse his heart, scatter the mist that is upon
his mind, and let him learn his lesson like the other boys. Oh, Lord,
Thou wast Thyself young one time, take pity on youth. Oh, Lord, Thou
thyself didst shed tears, dry the tears of this little lad. Listen, O
Lord, to the prayer of Thy servant, and do not blame him for this little
thing he is asking of Thee. O Lord, bitter are the tears of a child,
sweeten them; deep are the thoughts of a child, quiet them; salt is the
grief of a child, take it from him. Soft is the heart of a child, O do
not harden it.
(_While the old man is praying the Teacher comes in. He makes a
sign to the children outside, they come in and gather about
him. The old man raises his hand, he starts up, and shame
burns on him._)
THE TEACHER.--I heard your prayer, old man, but there is no good in
it. I praise you greatly for it, but that child is too slow at learning.
I prayed to God myself once or twice on his account, but there was no
good in it.
THE OLD MAN.--Perhaps God heard me. God is always ready to hear. The
time we ourselves are empty--without anything--God listens to us, and we
do not think on the thing we have lost, but we put our hope in God.
THE TEACHER.--It is the truth you are speaking, but there is no good
in praying this time. This boy is too unteachable. (_He and the old man
go over to the child, who is still asleep, and signs of tears on his
cheeks._) He must work hard, and very hard, and maybe with the dint of
work he will get a little learning some time. (_He puts his hand on the
shoulder of the little boy, and he starts up, and wonder on him when he
sees them all about him._)
THE OLD MAN.--Ask it to him now.
THE TEACHER.--Do you remember the poem now, Conall?
CONALL.
Up in the heaven of God there are
Archangels for every day.
And it is they certainly
That steer the entire week.
The first day is holy;
Sunday belongs to God.
Gabriel watches constantly
Every week over Monday.
It is true that Tuesday is kept
By Michael in his full strength.
Rafael honest and kind and gentle,
It is to him Wednesday belongs.
To Sachiel, that is without crookedness,
Thursday belongs every week.
Haniel, the Archangel of God,
It is he has Friday.
Bright Cassiel of the blue eyes,
It is he directs Saturday.
THE TEACHER.--That is a great wonder, not a word failed on him; but
tell me, Conall asthore, how did you learn that poem since?
CONALL.--When I was sleeping just now there came an old man to me,
and I thought that there was every colour that is in the rainbow upon
him. And he took hold of my shirt and he tore it, and then he opened my
breast, and he put the poem within in my heart.
THE OLD MAN.--It is God sent that dream to you. I have no doubt you
will not be hard to teach from this out.
CONALL.--And the man that came to me I thought it was old Cormacín
that was in it.
FEARALL.--Maybe it was Aongus Céile Dé himself, that was in it.
AODH.--Maybe Cormacín is Aongus.
TEACHER.--Are you Aongus Céile Dé? I desire you, in the name of God,
to tell me.
THE OLD MAN (_bowing his head_).--Oh, you have found it out now! Oh,
I thought no one at all would ever know me. My grief that you found me
out.
THE TEACHER (_going on his knees_).--Oh, holy Aongus, forgive me,
give me your blessing, O holy man. Give your blessing to these children
(_The children fall on their knees around him_).
THE OLD MAN (_stretching out his hand_).--The blessing of God on
you. The blessing of Christ and His holy Mother on you. My own blessing
on you.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cathleen ni Hoolihan.
BY W. B. YEATS.
PETER GILLANE.
MICHAEL GILLANE.--_His son, going to be married._
PATRICK GILLANE.--_A lad of twelve_, MICHAEL’S _brother_.
BRIDGET GILLANE.--_Peter’s wife._
DELIA CAHEL.--_Engaged to_ MICHAEL.
THE POOR OLD WOMAN.
NEIGHBOURS.
SCENE.--_Interior of a cottage close to Killala, in 1798. BRIDGET is
standing at a table undoing a parcel. PETER is sitting at one side of
the fire, PATRICK at the other._
PETER.--What is that sound I hear?
PATRICK.--I don’t hear anything. (_He listens._) I hear it now. It’s
like cheering. (_He goes to the window and looks out._) I wonder what
they are cheering about. I don’t see anybody.
PETER.--It might be a hurling match.
PATRICK.--There’s no hurling to-day. It must be down in the town the
cheering is.
BRIDGET.--I suppose the boys must be having some sport of their own.
PATRICK.--There is an old woman coming down the road. I don’t know
is it here she’s coming.
BRIDGET.--It will be a neighbour coming to hear about Michael’s
wedding. Can you see who it is?
PATRICK.--I think it is a stranger, and she’s not coming to the
house. She has not turned up the path. She’s turned into the gap that
goes down where Maurteen and his sons are shearing sheep. (_He turns
towards them._) Do you remember what Winnie of the Cross Roads was
saying the other night about the strange woman that goes through the
country the time there’s war or trouble coming?
BRIDGET.--Don’t be bothering us about Winnie’s talk, but go and open
the door for your brother. I hear him coming up the path.
BRIDGET.--Come over here, Peter, and look at Michael’s wedding
clothes. (_PETER shifts his chair to table._) Those are grand clothes,
indeed.
BRIDGET.--You hadn’t clothes like that when you married me, and no
coat to put on of a Sunday more than any other day.
PETER.--That is true, indeed. We never thought a son of our own
would be wearing a suit of that sort at his wedding, or have so good a
place to bring a wife to.
PATRICK (_Who is still at the window_)--Here is Michael coming back,
father.
PETER.--I hope he has brought Delia’s fortune with him safe, for
fear her people might go back of the bargain, and I after making it.
Trouble enough I had making it. (_PATRICK opens the door, and MICHAEL
comes in_).
BRIDGET.--What kept you, Michael? We were looking out for you this
long time.
MICHAEL.--I went round by the priest’s house to bid him be ready to
marry us to-morrow.
BRIDGET.--Did he say anything?
MICHAEL.--He said it was a very nice match, and that he was never
better pleased to marry any two in his parish than myself and Delia
Cahel.
PETER.--Have you got the fortune, Michael?
MICHAEL.--Here it is. (_He puts bag on the table and goes over and
leans against chimney jamb_).
(_BRIDGET who has been all this time examining the clothes, pulling
the seams and trying the lining of the pockets, etc., puts the clothes
on the dresser_).
PETER (_getting up and taking the bag in his hand and turning out
the money_)--Yes, I made the bargain well for you, Michael. Old John
Cahel would sooner have kept a share of this a while longer. “Let me
keep the half of it till the first boy is born,” says he. “You will
not,” says I. “Whether there is or is not a boy, the whole hundred
pounds must be in Michael’s hands before he brings your daughter to the
house.” The wife spoke to him then, and he gave in at the end.
BRIDGET.--You seem well pleased to be handling the money, Peter.
PETER.--Indeed, I wish I’d had the luck to get a hundred pounds, or
twenty pounds itself, with the wife I married.
BRIDGET.--Well, if I didn’t bring much I didn’t get much. What had
you the day I married you but a flock of hens and you feeding them, and
a few lambs and you driving them to the market at Ballina. (_She is
vexed, and bangs a jug on the dresser._) If I brought no fortune I
worked it out in my bones, laying down the baby--Michael, that is
standing there now, on a stook of straw, while I dug the potatoes, and
never asking big dresses or anything but to be working.
PETER.--That is true, indeed. (_He pats her arm_).
BRIDGET.--Leave me alone now till I ready the house for the woman
that is to come into it.
PETER.--You are the best woman in Ireland, but money is good, too.
(_He begins handling the money again and sits down_). I never thought to
see so much money within my four walls. We can do great things now we
have it. We can take the ten acres of land we have a chance of since
Jamsie Dempsey died, and stock it. We will go to the fair of Ballina to
buy the stock. Did Delia ask any of the money for her own use, Michael?
MICHAEL.--She did not, indeed. She did not seem to take much notice
of it, or to look at it at all.
BRIDGET.--That’s no wonder. Why would she look at it when she had
yourself to took at--a fine strong young man; it is proud she must be to
get you; a good, steady boy, that will make use of the money, and will
not be running through it, or spending it on drink, like another.
PETER.--It’s likely Michael himself was not thinking much of the
fortune either, but of what sort the girl was to look at.
MICHAEL (_Coming over towards the table_).--Well, you would like a
nice comely girl to be beside you, and to go walking with you. The
fortune only lasts for a while, but the woman will be there always.
PATRICK (_Turning round from the window._)--They are cheering again
down in the town. Maybe they are landing horses from Enniscrone. They do
be cheering when the horses take the water well.
MICHAEL.--There are no horses in it. Where would they be going and
no fair at hand? Go down to the town, Patrick, and see what is going on.
PATRICK (_Opens the door to go out, but stops for a moment on the
threshold_).--Will Delia remember, do you think, to bring the greyhound
pup she promised me when she would be coming to the house?
MICHAEL.--She will, surely (_PATRICK goes out, leaving the door
open_).
PETER.--It will be Patrick’s turn next to be looking for a fortune,
but he won’t find it so easy to get it, and he with no place of his own.
BRIDGET.--I do be thinking sometimes, now things are going so well
with us, and the Cahels such a good back to us in the district, and
Delia’s own uncle a priest, we might be put in the way of making Patrick
himself a priest some day, and he so good at his books.
PETER.--Time enough, time enough; you have always your head full of
plans.
BRIDGET.--We will be well able to give him learning, and not to send
him tramping the country like a poor scholar that lives on charity.
MICHAEL.--They’re not done cheering yet. (_He goes over to the door
and stands there for a moment, putting up his hand to shade his eyes._)
BRIDGET.--Do you see anything?
MICHAEL.--I see an old woman coming up the path.
BRIDGET.--Who is it, I wonder?
MICHAEL.--I don’t think it’s one of the neighbours, but she has her
cloak over her face.
BRIDGET.--Maybe it’s the same woman Patrick saw a while ago. It
might be some poor woman heard we were making ready for the wedding, and
came to look for her share.
PETER.--I may as well put the money out of sight. There’s no use
leaving it out for every stranger to look at. (_He goes over to a large
box by the wall, opens it and puts the bag in, and fumbles with the
lock_).
MICHAEL.--There she is, father! (_An old woman passes the window
slowly. She looks at Michael as she passes_). I’d sooner a stranger not
to come to the house the night before the wedding.
BRIDGET.--Open the door, Michael, don’t keep the poor woman waiting
(_the old woman comes in, Michael stands aside to make way for her_).
OLD WOMAN.--God save all here!
PETER.--God save you kindly.
O. W.--You have good shelter here.
PETER.--You are welcome to whatever shelter we have.
BRIDGET.--Sit down there by the fire and welcome.
O. W.--(_Warming her hands_). There’s a hard wind outside.
(_MICHAEL watches her curiously from the door. PETER comes over to
the table_).
PETER.--Have you travelled far to-day?
O. W.--I have travelled far, very far; there are few have travelled
so far as myself.
PETER.--It is a pity, indeed, for any person to have no place of
their own.
O. W.--That is true for you, indeed, and it is long I am on the road
since I first went wandering. It is seldom I have any rest.
BRIDGET.--It is a wonder you are not worn out with so much
wandering.
O. W.--Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there
is no quiet in my heart. When the people see me quiet they think old age
has come on me, and that all the stir has gone out of me.
BRIDGET.--What was it put you astray?
O. W.--Too many strangers in the house.
BRIDGET.--Indeed you look as if you had had your share of trouble.
O. W.--I have had trouble indeed.
BRIDGET.--What was it put the trouble on you?
O. W.--My land that was taken from me.
PETER.--Was it much land they took from you?
O. W.--My four beautiful green fields.
PETER (_Aside to Bridget_).--Do you think could she be the Widow
Casey that was put out of her holding at Kilglas a while ago?
BRIDGET.--She is not. I saw the Widow Casey one time at the market
in Ballina, a stout, fresh woman.
PETER (_To old woman_).--Did you hear a noise of cheering, and you
coming up the hill?
O. W.--I thought I heard the noise I used to hear when my friends
came to visit me. (_She begins singing half to herself_).
I will go cry with the woman,
For yellow-haired Donough is dead;
With a hempen rope for a neckcloth
And a white cloth on his head.
MICHAEL (_Coming from the door_).--What is that you are singing,
ma’am?
O. W.--Singing I am about a man I knew one time, yellow-haired
Donough, that was hanged in Galway. (_She goes on singing much
louder_)--
I am come to cry with you, woman,
My hair is unwound and unbound;
I remember him ploughing his field,
Turning up the red side of the ground.
And building his barn on the hill
With the good mortared stone;
O! we’d have pulled down the gallows
Had it happened in Enniscrone!
MICHAEL.--What was it brought him to his death?
O. W.--He died for love of me; many a man has died for love of me.
PETER (_aside to Bridget_).--Her trouble has put her wits astray.
MICHAEL.--Is it long since that song was made? Is it long since he
got his death?
O. W.--Not long, not long. But there were others that died for love
of me a long time ago.
MICHAEL.--Were they neighbours of your own, ma’am?
O. W.--Come here beside me and I’ll tell you about them. (_Michael
sits down beside her at the hearth_). There was a red man of the
O’Donells from the North, and a man of the O’Sullivans from the South,
and there was one Brian that lost his life at Clontarf, by the sea, and
there were a great many in the West, some that died hundreds of years
ago, and there are some that will die to-morrow.
MICHAEL.--Is it in the West that men will die to-morrow?
O. W.--Come nearer, nearer to me.
BRIDGET.--Is she right, do you think? or is she a woman from the
North?
PETER.--She doesn’t know well what she’s talking about, with the
want and the trouble she has gone through.
BRIDGET.--The poor thing, we should treat her well.
PETER.--Give her a drink of milk, and a bit of the oaten cake.
BRIDGET.--Maybe we should give her something along with that to
bring her on her way; a few pence, or a shilling itself, and we with so
much money in the house.
PETER.--Indeed, I’d not begrudge it to her if we had it to spare,
but if we go running through what we have, we’ll soon have to break the
hundred pounds, and that would be a pity.
BRIDGET.--Shame on you, Peter. Give her the shilling and your
blessing with it, or our own luck will go from us.
(_Peter goes to the box and takes out a shilling_).
BRIDGET (_to the old woman_).--Will you have a drink of milk?
O. W.--It is not food or drink that I want.
PETER. (_Offering the shilling_).--Here is something for you.
O. W.--That is not what I want. It is not silver I want.
PETER.--What is it you would be asking for?
O. W.--If anyone would give me help he must give me himself, he must
give me all. (_Peter goes over to the table staring at the shilling in
his hand in a bewildered way and stands whispering to Bridget_).
MICHAEL.--Have you no man of your own, ma’am?
O. W.--I have not. With all the lovers that brought me their love, I
never set out the bed for any.
MICHAEL.--Are you lonely going the roads, ma’am?
O. W.--I have my thoughts and I have my hopes.
MICHAEL.--What hopes have you to hold to?
O. W.--The hope of getting my beautiful fields back again; the hope
of putting the strangers out of my house.
MICHAEL.--What way will you do that, ma’am?
O. W.--I have good friends that will help me. They are gathering to
help me now. I am not afraid. If they are put down to-day, they will get
the upper hand to-morrow. (_She gets up._) I must be going to meet my
friends. They are coming to help me, and I must be there to welcome
them. I must call the neighbours together to welcome them.
MICHAEL.--I will go with you.
BRIDGET.--It is not her friends you have to go and welcome, Michael;
it is the girl coming into the house you have to welcome. You have
plenty to do; it is food and drink you have to bring to the house. The
woman that is coming is not coming with empty hands; you would not have
an empty house before her. (_To the old woman_)--Maybe you don’t know,
ma’am, that my son is going to be married to-morrow.
O. W.--It is not a man going to his marriage that I look to for
help.
PETER (_to BRIDGET_).--Who is she, do you think, at all?
BRIDGET.--You did not tell us your name yet, ma’am.
O. W.--Some call me the Poor Old Woman, and there are some that call
me Cathleen ny Hoolihan.
PETER.--I think I knew some one of that name once. Who was it, I
wonder? It must have been someone I knew when I was a boy. No, no, I
remember I heard it in a song.
O. W. (_who is standing in the doorway_).--They are wondering that
there were songs made for me; there have been many songs made for me. I
heard one on the wind this morning. (_She sings._)
Do not make a great keening
When the graves have been dug to-morrow;
Do not call the white-scarfed riders
To the burying that shall be to-morrow.
Do not spread food to call strangers
To the wakes that shall be to-morrow;
Do not give money for prayers
For the dead that shall die to-morrow....
They will have no need of prayers, they will have no need of
prayers.
MICHAEL.--I do not know what that song means; but tell me something I
can do for you.
PETER.--Come over to me, Michael.
MICHAEL.--Hush father; listen to her.
O. W.--It is a hard service they take that help me. Many that are
red-cheeked now will be pale-cheeked; many that have been free to walk
the hills and the bogs and the rushes will be sent to walk hard streets
in far countries; many a good plan will be broken; many that have
gathered money will not stay to spend it; many a child will be born and
there will be no father at its christening to give it a name. They that
had red cheeks will have pale cheeks for my sake; and for all that they
will think they are well paid. (_She goes out. Her voice is heard
outside singing_).
They shall be remembered for ever;
They shall be alive for ever;
They shall be speaking for ever;
The people shall hear them for ever.
BRIDGET (_to PETER_).--Look at him, Peter; he has the look of a man
that has got the touch. (_Raising her voice_)--Look here, Michael, at
the wedding clothes (_taking clothes from dresser_). You have a right to
fit them on now; it would be a pity to-morrow if they did not fit; the
boys would be laughing at you. Take them, Michael, and go into the room
and fit them on. (_She puts them on his arm._)
MICHAEL.--What wedding are you talking of? What clothes will I be
wearing to-morrow?
BRIDGET.--These are the clothes you are going to wear when you marry
Delia Cahel to-morrow.
MICHAEL.--I had forgotten that. (_He looks at the clothes and turns
towards the inner room, but stops at the sound of cheering outside._)
PETER.--There is the shouting come to our own door. What is it has
happened?
(_Neighbours come crowding in, PATRICK and DELIA with them._)
PATRICK.--There are ships in the bay; the French are landing at
Killala.
(_PETER takes his pipe from his mouth and his hat off and stands up.
The clothes slip from MICHAEL’S arm._)
DELIA.--Michael! (_He takes no notice._) Michael! (_He turns towards
her._) Why do you look at me like a stranger? (_She drops his arm.
BRIDGET goes over towards her._)
PATRICK.--The boys are all hurrying down the hillsides to meet the
French.
DELIA.--Michael won’t be going to join the French.
BRIDGET (_to PETER_).--Tell him not to go, Peter.
PETER.--It’s no use. He doesn’t hear a word we’re saying.
BRIDGET.--Try, Delia, and coax him over to the fire.
DELIA.--Michael, Michael, you won’t leave me! You won’t join the
French and we going to be married to-morrow! (_She puts her arms about
him. He turns to her as if about to yield._)
_Old woman’s voice outside_:
They shall be remembered for ever;
The people shall hear them for ever.
(_MICHAEL breaks away from DELIA and goes towards neighbours at
the door._)
MICHAEL.--Come, we have no time to lose; we must follow her.
(_MICHAEL and the neighbours go out._)
PETER (_laying his hand on PATRICK’S arm_).--Did you see an old
woman going down the path?
PATRICK.--I did not; but I saw a young girl, and she had the walk of
a queen.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cuchulain of Muirthemne.
THE STORY OF THE MAN OF THE RED BRANCH OF ULSTER.
Arranged and put into English by LADY GREGORY.
With a Preface by W. B. YEATS.
Large Crown 8vo. 6s. net.
SOME PRESS OPINIONS.
In his preface to Lady Gregory’s “Cuchulain of Muirthemne,” Mr. W. B.
Yeats expresses his opinion that it is the best book that has come from
Ireland in recent years. In this we heartily concur. For the first time,
we have a thoroughly literary version in English of the “Tain” and its
cycle of tales, which may be compared, without the least misgiving, to
Lady Charlotte Guest’s version of the “Mabinogian.”--_The Times._
Ireland’s Great Book.--Irish literature is well served at the present
time by those who believe that it is among the finest in the world, for
the men and women who say so have all shown that they know what good
literature is by the books which they have given the world. Lady Gregory
has translated these old myths with an ease and felicity of style which
allow one to enjoy the charm of them without thinking of the manner in
which they are told, which is itself a great achievement. It is a book
to keep on one’s shelf, and to dip into from time to time. It is full of
mystery and magic.--_Morning Post._
Lady Gregory’s altogether charming “Cuchulain of Muirthemne.”--_Pall
Mall Gazette._
With infinite pains and patience Lady Gregory has produced, from many
manuscripts, a consecutive and charming account of the hero’s wonderful
career. Unique and fresh, it will be welcome alike to the scholar and
the Irish peasant.--_Catholic Times._
Mr. Wilfred Blunt in the _Nineteenth Century_ gives a stately welcome to
Lady Gregory’s translations into noble and rhythmic Anglo-Irish prose of
the great Erse Epic, _The Life and Death of Cuchulain_.... These have
already found their welcome from hands the most appropriate. Mr. Yeats
in his preface to the volume calls it “the best book that has ever come
out of Ireland;” and he knows. Mr. Blunt himself says: “Of its English
rendering by Lady Gregory it is impossible to speak too highly;” and Mr.
Blunt knows.--_Tablet._
A book which ought to be welcome to lovers of early literatures, and may
win for the old heroes of Ulster a wider fame than they have yet
enjoyed.--_Athenæum._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kennedy’s
Bread.
FINEST QUALITY MADE.
_BAKERIES_:
_127 & 128 Gt. Britain Street_,
.._AND_..
_19 Patrick Street_,
DUBLIN.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Notes
The play _An Naomh ar Iarraid_ was originally printed in Cló Gaelach
(Irish script), with lenition indicated by a dot over the affected
consonant. This edition replaces the lenition dots with the letter “h,”
as is standard in modern written Irish. The Irish text uses the Tironian
et (⁊) rather than the Roman ampersand (&) to indicate “agus.”
As all plays are now set in Roman type, the formatting of each has been
somewhat standardised, with, for example, stage directions in the Irish
play set in italics and the formatting of the songs changed in the
English version to match the Irish formatting.
This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. Flourishes and
decorations in advertising copy have not been included in this plain
text version.
The following changes and corrections have been made:
• p. 5: Replaced “form” with “from” in phrase “there was nobody there
who had not come from hearing his poems.”
• p. 7: Replaced “Murthemne” with “Muirthemne” in phrase “when I wrote
of _Cuchulain of Muirthemne_.”
• p. 12 n. 1: Added period after initials “W. B. Y.”
• p. 17: Added period after “acht tá an leanbh sin go ro mhall ag
fóghluim.”
• p. 17: Changed comma to period after “There was no man in Ireland had
greater humility than he.”
• p. 25: Added period before “Whether there is or is not a boy.”
• p. 25: Added period after “That is true, indeed.”
• p. 25: Added opening parenthesis before “He begins handling the money
again.”
• p. 26: Added period after “They’re not done cheering yet.”
• p. 26: Replaced “its” with “it’s” in phrases “I don’t think it’s one
of the neighbours” and “Maybe it’s the same woman Patrick saw.”
• p. 30: Removed extra closing parenthesis after “She drops his arm.”
• p. 31: Added dash before “Tablet.”
In addition, small adjustments have been made to character names in
plays for consistency, such as adding small caps and adding or removing
periods and dashes.
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