Studies of Contemporary Poets Part 9

... Dear!

What would I give to climb our down, Where the wind hisses in each stalk And, from the high brown crest to see, Beyond the ancient, sea-grey town, The sky-line of our foam-flecked sea; And, looking out to sea, to hear, Ah! Dear, once more your pleasant talk; And to go home as twilight falls Along the old sea-walls!

The best to come! The best! The best!

One says the wildest things at times, Merely for comfort. But--_The best!_

Again, in "Grey Matter" and "Thanks Whilst Unharnessing," the colloquial touch is right and sure. In the latter poem, the almost halting time of the opening lines clearly suggests the tired horse as he draws to a standstill in the early darkness of a winter evening: there is a quicker movement as the robin's note rings out; the farmer's song is broken at intervals as he moves about the business of unharnessing, and when he stands at the open stable door, peering through the darkness at the robin on the thorn, the impression of relief from toil, of grat.i.tude for home and rest, of simple kindliness and humanity, is complete--

Small brother, flit in here, since all around The frost hath gripped the ground; And oh! I would not like to have you die.

We's help each other, Little Brother Beady-eye.

One might continue to cite examples: the rapid unrhymed dialogue of "Grey Matter," which continues so long as there is a touch of controversy in the talk of husband and wife, and changes to a lyric measure as emotion rises; the real childlikeness of the "Children's Song"; or the mingled pain and sweetness of "To Christina at Nightfall,"

epitomising life in its philosophy and reflecting it in its art. But it is unnecessary to go further; and this last little poem (I will not do it violence by extracting any part of it) is perhaps the most complete vindication of our poet's theories. Never surely were impressions so vivid conveyed with a touch at once so firm and tender; never were thought and feeling so intense rendered with such gracious homeliness.

_An Irish Group_

The spirit of poetry is native to Ireland. It awakened there in the early dawn, and has hardly slumbered in two thousand years. Probably before the Christian era it had become vocal; and as long as twelve hundred years ago it had woven for the garment of its thought an intricate and subtle prosody. You would think it had grown old in so great a time. You would almost expect to find, in these latter days, a pale and mournful wraith of poetry in the green isle. You would look for the symbol of it in the figure of some poor old woman, like the legendary Kathleen ni Houlihan, who is supposed to incarnate the spirit of the country. But even while you are looking it will happen with you as it happened before the eyes of the lad in the play by Mr Yeats. The bent form will straighten and the old limbs become lithe and free, the eyes will sparkle and the cheeks flush and the head be proudly lifted.

And when you are asked, "Did you see an old woman?" you will answer with the boy in the play:

I did not; but I saw a young girl, and she had the walk of a queen.

So it is with the later poetry of Ireland. One would not guess, in the more recent lyrics, that these singers are the heirs of a great antiquity. Their songs are as fresh as a blade of gra.s.s: they are as new as a spring morning, as young and sweet as field flowers in May. They partake of youth in their essence; and they would seem to proceed from that strain in the Irish nature which has always adored the young and beautiful, and which dreamed, many centuries ago, a pagan paradise of immortal youth which has never lost its glamour:

Where n.o.body gets old and G.o.dly and grave, Where n.o.body gets old and crafty and wise, Where n.o.body gets old and bitter of tongue.

Doubtless we owe this air of newness largely to the rebirth of literature in the Isle. When we say that poetry has never slumbered there, we get as near to the truth as is possible; it seems always to have been quick, eager and spontaneous, and never to have drowsed or faded. But there was a black age when it was smitten so hard by external misfortune that it nearly died. It was early in the nineteenth century when, as Dr Hyde tells, "The old literary life of Ireland may be said to come to a close amidst the horrors of famine, fever and emigration." All that Dr Hyde and Lady Gregory have done to build up the new literary life of their land cannot be fully realized yet. But out of their labours has surely sprung the movement which we call the Irish Literary Renaissance--a movement in which, disregarding cross currents, the detached observer would include the whole revival, whether popular or aesthetic. By fostering the Gaelic they have awakened in the people themselves a sense of the dignity of their own language and literature.

By the translation of saga and romance, the patient gathering of folk-tale and fairy-lore, the search for and interpretation of old ma.n.u.scripts, they have given to native poets a ma.s.s of material which is peculiarly suited to their genius. And since approximately the year 1890 they have seen their reward in the work of a band of brilliant writers.

Romance is reborn in the novel; the poetry of the old saga blooms again in the lyric; and a healthy new development has given to Ireland what she never before possessed--a native drama.

Now it is true that the larger figures of the movement have receded a little; the one in whom the flame of genius burned most fiercely has pa.s.sed into silence. And Synge being gone, there is no hand like his, cunning to modulate upon every string of the harp. There is no voice of so full a compa.s.s, booming out of tragic depths or shrilling satiric laughter or sweet with heroic romance; breathing essential poetry and yet rich with the comedy of life. It is a fact to make us grieve the more for that untimely end, but it is not a cause for despair. For there are many legatees of the genius of Synge. They are slighter figures--naturally so, at this stage of their career--but they belong, as he did, to the new birth of the nation's genius and they draw their inspiration directly from their own land.

Here we touch a constant feature of Irish poetry. Dr. Hyde tells that from the earliest times the bards were imbued with the spirit of nationality: that their themes were always of native G.o.ds and heroes, and that they were, in a sense, the guardians of national existence. The singers of a later day curiously resemble them in this. Sometimes it is a matter of outward likeness only, the new poets having drawn directly upon the stories which have been placed in their hands from the old saga. But much more often it is a rooted affinity--a thing of blood and nerve and mental fibre. Then, although the G.o.ds may bear another name and the heroes be of a newer breed and the national ideal may be enlarged, it is still with these things that the poets are preoccupied.

This has become to the scoffer a matter of jest, and to the grumbler a cause of complaint--that the Irish poet is obsessed by race. They say that they can guess beforehand what will be the mood, the manner and the subject of nine Irish poems out of ten. They are very clever people, so they probably could get somewhere near the mark. And they would naturally find themselves cramped in these narrow bounds. Religion and history and national ideals would give them no scope. But when they maintain that this is a radical defect, I am not at all convinced. I remember that many of the world's great books proceeded from an intense national self-consciousness; and I ask myself whether it may not be a law in the literary evolution of a people, as well as in their political development, that they proceed by way of a strong, free and proud spirit of nationality to something wider. The reply may be that that is a relatively early stage through which, in a normal literary progress, Ireland should have pa.s.sed long since. True, but normal growth and advance have never been possible to her; and recalling the events of her history, it is something of a marvel that the literary genius should have survived at all.

In contrast with modern English poetry, impatient as it is to escape from tradition, these traits which mark a line of descent so clearly are the more striking. One may even smile a little at them--whimsically, as we do when we see a youth or a young girl reproducing the very looks and tones and gestures of an older generation. There is something comical in the unconscious exact.i.tude of it. But the laugh comes out of the deeper sources of comedy. There lies below it, subconsciously perhaps, a profound sense of those things in life which are most precious and most enduring.

One of the gayer features of this family likeness is the persistence of a certain kind of satire. We know from Dr Hyde's _Literary History of Ireland_ that an important function of the ancient bards was to satirize the rivals and enemies of their chieftain. They had, of course, to sing his victories, to inspire and encourage his warriors and to weave into verse the hundreds of romances which had come down to them from times older still. But their equipment was not complete unless it included a good stinging power of ridicule; and the _ollamh_, or chief bard, was commonly required to castigate in this way the king of some other province who happened to have given offence. But it is not to be supposed that the rival _ollamh_ would remain silent under the punishment inflicted on his lord; and one can imagine the battle of wits which would follow. Or, if we need any a.s.surance as to the caustic power of the bard, it may be found in one quaint incident. The hero Cuchulain was ranged against Queen Maeve of Connacht in her famous raid into Ulster about the year 100 B.C. Maeve was astute as well as warlike, and when she had failed several times to induce Cuchulain to engage singly with one of her warriors, she sent to him a threat that her bards "would criticize, satirize and blemish him so that they would raise three blisters on his face" ... and Cuchulain instantly consented to her wish.

I cannot guess how many blisters have been raised by Irish satirists since that date, but I know the art has not died out. There are modern pract.i.tioners of it. Synge made the national susceptibility smart; and yet his satire, to the mere onlooker, would seem sympathetic enough. So, too, with Miss Susan Mitch.e.l.l. She pokes fun at her compatriots with perfect good humour and we cannot believe that they would be annoyed by it. But you never can tell. Perhaps the witty philosophy of "The Second Battle of the Boyne" would not appeal to an Ulster Volunteer; and it is conceivable that even a Nationalist might resent the sly shaft at the national pugnacity. The opening stanza tells about an old man, whose name of portent is Edward Carson MacIntyre. His little grandchild runs in to him from the field carrying a dark round thing that she has found, and she trundles it along the floor to the old man's feet.

Now Edward Carson MacIntyre Was old, his eyes were dim, But when he heard the crackling sound, New life returned to him.

"Some tax-collector's skull," he swore, "We used to crack them by the score."

"Why did you crack them, grandpapa?"

Said wee Victoria May; "It surely was a wicked thing These hapless men to slay."

"The cause I have forgot," said Mac, "All I remember is the crack."

"And some men said the Government Were very much to blame; And I myself," says MacIntyre, "Got my own share of fame.

I don't know why we fought," says he, "But 'twas the devil of a spree."

Again it is possible (though hardly probable one would think) that Mr George Moore does not really enjoy the fun so cleverly poked at him in the stanzas, "George Moore Comes to Ireland." Safe in our own detachment, the criticism seems delicious, brightly hitting off the personality which has grown so familiar in Mr Moore's work, and especially in "Hail and Farewell": the delightful garrulity, the disconcerting candour, the intimacy and nave egoism, and the perfectly transparent what-a-terror-I-was-in-my-youth air. The speaker in the poem is, of course, Mr Moore himself; and it will be seen how cunningly the author has caught his att.i.tude, particularly to the work of Mr W. B.

Yeats--

I haven't tried potato cake or Irish stew as yet; I've lived on eggs and bacon, and striven to forget A naughty past of ortolan and frothy omelette.

But W. B. was the boy for me--he of the dim, wan clothes; And--don't let on I said it--not above a bit of pose; And they call his writing literature, as everybody knows.

If you like a stir, or want a stage, or would admired be, Prepare with care a naughty past, and then repent like me.

My past, alas! was blameless, but this the world won't see.

When Miss Mitch.e.l.l's satire is engaged on personalities in this way, it has a piquancy which may obscure the subtler flavour of it. But the truth is that it is often literary in a double sense, both in subject and in treatment. So we may find a theme of considerable general interest in the world of literature, treated in the allusive literary manner which has so much charm for the booklover. And to that is added a racy and vigorous satirical touch. Thus, for instance, is the question of Synge's _Playboy_ handled. Ridicule is thrown on the stupid rage with which it was received, and on the folly which generalized so hotly from the play to the nation, deducing wild nonsense against a whole people and its literature because the man who killed his father in the story is befriended by peasants. Here is a s.n.a.t.c.h of it:

I can't love Plato any more Because a man called Sophocles, Who lived in distant Attica, Wrote a great drama _Oedipus_, About a Greek who killed his da.

I know now Plato was a sham, And Socrates I brush aside, For Phidias I don't care a d.a.m.n, For every Greek's a parricide.

So, too, comes the burlesque touch in the "Ode to the British Empire":

G.o.d of the Irish Protestant, Lord of our proud Ascendancy, Soon there'll be none of us extant, We want a few plain words with thee.

Thou know'st our hearts are always set On what we get, on what we get.

The genial temper of this work pervades even the political pieces. Miss Mitch.e.l.l is no respecter of persons or inst.i.tutions: she finds food for derision in friend as well as foe. But her laughter is not bitter--unless, perhaps, a tinge comes in when she touches that old source of bitterness, the gulf between the Saxon and the Celt--

We are a pleasant people, the laugh upon our lip Gives answer back to your laugh in gay good fellowship; We dance unto your piping, we weep when you want tears; Wear a clown's dress to please you, and to your friendly jeers Turn up a broad fool's face and wave a flag of green-- But the naked heart of Ireland, who, who has ever seen?

There is, however, a more important strain of heredity in the new Irish poetry; and it comes directly through the renaissance of which we have already spoken. There are two lines of development which begin in that rebirth; but they proceed almost at right angles from each other. One, the clearer and more direct, is towards work of a specifically literary order. The other is tending to a simple and direct rendering of life. On the one hand we find poetry which is romantic in manner and heroic in theme. This is largely of narrative form, and seems to hold within it the promise of epic growth. On the other hand, there is a lyric form of less pretension and wilder grace; music so fresh and apparently artless as to mock the idea of derivation. Yet it, too, owes its vitality to the same impulse, and is, perhaps, its healthiest blossoming.

The treasury of Irish romance has been eagerly drawn upon by the literary poet; and splendid stories they are for his purpose. Every one by this time knows the incomparable Deirdre legend, in one or other of the fine versions by Mr Yeats, Mr Trench or Synge. Deirdre, as a heroine of the ancient world, positively shines beside a Helen or a Cleopatra.

In her is crystallized the Celtic conception of womanhood, with her free, clean, brave, generous soul; magnificently choosing her true mate rather than wed the High King Conchubar; and with her lover magnificently paying the penalty of death.

We have become almost as familiar, too, with the Hosting of Maeve, the prowess of Cuchulain, and the mythological figures of Dagda and Dana, who are the Zeus and Hera of early Irish religion. Here is a fragment of a poem by Mr James Cousins called "The Marriage of Lir and Niav." The personages of the story belong to very early myth. To find Lir you must go back past the heroes and the demiG.o.ds: further still, past the G.o.ds themselves, to their ancestors. For Lir was the father of Mananan the sea-G.o.d; and he was the Lord of the Seven Isles. Niav (or Niamh) is described as the Aphrodite of Irish myth; which probably accounts for the symbolism in the pa.s.sage where Lir first sees her--

But, as upon the breathless hour of eve, The gentle moon, smiling amid the wreck And splendid remnant of the flaming feast Wherewith Day's lord had sated half the world, Sets a cool hand on the tumultuous waves, And soothes them into peace, and takes the throne, And beams white love that wakens soft desire In waiting hearts; so in that throbbing pause Came Niav, daughter of the King whose name May not be named till First and Last are one.

... And He who stood Unseen, apart, marked how about Her form, Clothed white as foam, Her sea-green girdle hung Like mermaid weed, and how within her wake There came the sound and odour of the sea, The swift and silent stroke of unseen wings, And little happy cries of mating birds;

This poem appeared in one of Mr. Cousins' earlier books, _The Quest_, published in 1904; and it is interesting to observe in it the little signs which indicate the nearness of the poet at that time to the source of his inspiration. The stories from the three great national cycles of romance had been made accessible in the years just preceding; and the poetic imagination seems to have been charmed by their quaint manner as well as stimulated by their vigour. Hence we find in this poem one or two familiar epic devices which have apparently been adopted as a means to catch the tone of the old story, and to convey a sense of its antiquity. There is, for instance, the trick of repet.i.tion that we know so well, a whole phrase recurring, either word for word or varied very slightly, at certain intervals through the poem. Thus we have the phrase which appears in the pa.s.sage quoted above, and which is several times repeated in other places--

--the King whose name May not be named till First and Last are one.

Thus, too, we find the frequent use of simile of an involved and elaborate order. Mr Cousins reveals himself as poet and artist in this device alone. Imagination and mastery of technique are alike implied in fancies so beautifully wrought. The opening lines of the pa.s.sage we have given supply an example, and another may be taken from "Etain the Beloved." It is simpler than most, but it ill.u.s.trates very aptly the grace of idea and expression which is characteristic of this poet. The scene is an a.s.sembly of the people before King Eochaidh; and the chief bard is presenting their urgent pet.i.tion to him--

He ceased, and all the faces of the crowd Shone with the light that kindles when the boon Of speech has eased the heart; as when a cloud Falls from the labouring shoulder of the moon, And all the world stands smiling silver-browed.