Scarcely to be analysed is that fragrance9 of Irish air; the pureness of bleak10 mountains is in it, the twang of turf smoke is in it, and there is something more, inseparable from Ireland's green and grey landscapes, wrought11 in with her bowed and patient cottages, her ragged12 walls, and eager rivers, and intelligible13 only to the spirit.
Over in England there are clustered cottages half buried in rich meadows, covered with roses to the edge of their mellow14 roof tiles, shaded by venerable and venerated15 trees, pleasant resting-places for the memory. From one of them comes forth16 a mild-faced elderly woman in a mushroom hat, the embodiment of respectability and hard work. If you talk to her you will be impressed by her sincerity17, her reticence18, her reverence19 for cleanliness, and further, as the conversation progresses, by her total lack of humour, and her conscientious20 recital21 of details not essential to the story. You will admire and like her, and she will bore you; so will her husband, with the serious face and sober blue eyes, and you will be ashamed of being bored.
IN A LONELY COTTAGE
IN A LONELY COTTAGE
Approach one of these lonely cottages on a Connemara road, and you will find it crooked22 without quaintness23, clumsy, dirty, distressful24; yet there will come forth to you round the manure-heaps in front of the door a human being, probably barefooted, and better skilled in Irish than in English, who will converse25 with you in the true sense of the word, that is to say, with give and take, with intuition, and with easy and instant sense of humour. While you talk to her you can observe two elderly women in red petticoats and black cloaks advancing on the long road from Galway, carrying heavy baskets from the market: their eyes are quick, their faces clearly cut and foreign-looking. Were it in your power to listen to what they are saying, you would be entertained as you have seldom been, by highly seasoned gossip, narrative26, both humorous and tragic27, and wide and exhaustive criticism. A cart lumbers28 by, loaded with men and women, their teeth, one would say, loosened in their heads by the clattering29 and jolting30, but their flow of ideas and language unshaken. The two women in the cloaks have arrived at a juncture31 at which they must stand still in the ecstasy32 of the story; the narrator shoots out a spike33 of a thumb, and digs her auditor34 in the chest to barb35 the point of the jest as it is delivered. The recipient36 swings backward from the waist with a yell of appreciation37, they hitch38 their cloaks on their shoulders, and enter on the Committee stage of the affair as they move on again.
One might safely say that this bare and still country carries an amount of good talk, nimble, trenchant39, and humorous, to the square mile, that the fat and comfortable plains of England could never rival. It has been so for centuries, and all the while the sons and daughters of Connemara have remained aloof40 and self-centred, hardly even aware of the marching life of England, least of all aware that Ireland holds the post of England's Court Jester. Others of their countrymen, more sophisticated, more astute41, probably less agreeable, have not been slow to realise it. Perhaps they would have refused the Cap and Bells had they known the privilege entailed42.
"As for our harps43," said the Children of the Captivity44, "we hanged them up upon the trees that are therein." That was when the songs of Zion were required of them in the strange land, and the strong Euphrates saw their tears. The sympathy of all the centuries has been theirs for that poignant45 hour; yet, as far as can be known, they were spared an extremer pang46. It is nowhere recorded that the people of the strange land made any attempt to sing the songs of Zion to the Children of Israel.
When the Children of Erin hang up their harps in the Babylon of to-day, the last thing they wish to emulate47 is that passionate48 silence of the Israelites. They hang them up as those do who enter in and possess the land, and the songs of Zion have not faltered49 on their lips. A captive race they may be, but their national desire to "take the floor" has remained unshaken. They have discovered that an Irish brogue has a market value, and the songs of Zion have gone through many editions and held many audiences, since the days when Tom Moore exploited his country in London drawing-rooms. The moment of bitterness is when the English become fired with the notion of singing them for themselves.
Perhaps it comes about from English love of a theory, especially an hereditary50 theory, that has been handed down to them, well-thumbed by preceding generations. They have established a theory for the Irish, and particularly and confidently for Irish humour, and from owning the theory there is but a step to becoming proprietors51 also of the humour. Myself, when young, was nourished upon a work named "Near Home," and in the edition current at the time, I remember that the Irish were indulgently described as "a merry people, and fond of pigs." The hereditary theory could hardly have been better summarised. The average Englishman owns an Irish story or two, and is genially52 certain of his ability to tell it, with all necessary embellishment of accent and expression. As often as possible he tells it to an Irishman.
Elusive53 as running water is the brogue of the Irish peasant; hardly attained54 even by those who have known its tune55 from childhood. They, at least, know how it ought to be, and with this knowledge in their hearts, they have to sit in dreary56 submission57 while the stage Irishman convulses the English audience; they must smile, however galvanically, when friends, otherwise irreproachable58, regale59 them with the Irish story in all its stale exuberance60 of Pat and the Pig, or expound61 for their benefit that epitome62 of vieux jeu, the Saxon conception of an Irish Bull.
As to Irish Bulls, it could be explained, were it of any avail, that they convey a finer shade of meaning than the downright English language will otherwise admit of.
"If ye were to be killed crossing a fence ye'd be all right!" said a looker-on to one whose horse had turned head over heels in the middle of a level pasture, "but if ye were killed on the flat o' the field ye'd never hold up your head again!"
Here was the effort of the true impressionist to create an effect regardless of the means.
"Jerry was a grand man. When he'd be idle itself he'd be busy!"
Had the author of this commendation merely said that Jerry's industry was unceasing, he would have been unassailable as to diction, but he would have left his audience cold. It is a melancholy64 fact that the English mind contrives65 to miss the artist's intention, and fastens unalterably on the obvious contradiction of terms.
As in converse, so, and with deeper disaster, is it in literature. There is scarcely a week in the life of the English comic papers that is guiltless of some heavy-handed caricature of Irish humour, daubed with false idiom and preposterous66 spelling, secure in its consciousness of being conventional. It is better to accuse a man of having broken a commandment than to tell him that his sense of humour appears to you defective67, so, leaving that branch of the subject open, I will only mention that there are alive many excellent people who will never, on this side of the grave, be convinced that the Irish peasant does not say "indade" for "indeed," "belave" for "believe," or "swape" for "sweep." Inborn68 and ingrained knowledge of such points is essential; if, among many anomalies, a rule can be found, it seems to be that in an Irish brogue the diphthong "ea" changes to "a," as in "say" for "sea," while the double e remains69 untampered with; thus you might hear a person say "I was very wake last week."
Writers of fiction have done much that is painful in dealing70 with Irish people. Thackeray's Captain Costigan spoke71 like a stage edition of a Dublin car-driver, which is not what one would expect in a gentleman who, according to his own account, "bore his Majesty's Commission in the foighting Hundtherd and Third," and his introduction of Arthur Pendennis as "a person of refoined moind, emiable manners, and a sinsare lover of poethry" is not convincing or even very amusing. It is strange that the error of making Irish ladies and gentlemen talk like their servants should to this hour have a fascination72 for novelists. It is not so very long since that, in a magazine, I read of a high-born Irish Captain of Hussars, who, in a moment of emotion, exclaimed: "Howly Mither av Hiven!"
Dealing with present day writers is treading on delicate ground, and it is with diffidence that one arraigns73 one of the most enthralling74 of living story-tellers. Few of his works have been more popular than "Soldiers Three," yet to me and others of my country, it is the narratives75 of Private Mulvany that give least pleasure. "Gurl" for girl, "Thimber" for timber, and "Quane" for Queen, are conventions that have unfortunately proved irresistible76; they are taken from a random77 page or two, and there is no page free of such.
But, after all, right or wrong, pronunciation and spelling are small things in the presentment of any dialect. The vitalising power is in the rhythm of the sentence, the turn of phrase, the knowledge of idiom, and of, beyond all, the attitude of mind. A laborious78 system of spelling exasperates79 the reader, jades80 the eye, and fails to convince the ear. If, in illustration, I again quote Mr. Kipling, it is because of the conspicuousness81 of his figure in literature; he can afford to occupy the position of target, indifferent alike to miss or bull's-eye.
Stripped of its curious and stifling82 superfluities of spelling, a sentence of Mulvaney's runs thus:
"Oh, boys, they were more lovely than the like of any loveliness in heaven; ay, their little bare feet were better than the white hands of a Lord's lady, and their mouths were like puckered83 roses, and their eyes were bigger and darker than the eyes of any living women I've seen."
With the exception of "the like" there is nothing in the wording of this panegyric84 that would even suggest it had been uttered by an Irishman. To stud the page with "ut" and "av" instead of "it" and "of" is of no avail. Irish people do not say these things; there is a sound that is a half-tone between the two, not to be captured by English voices, still less by English vowels85. The shortcoming is, of course, trivial to those who do not suffer because of it, but want of perception of word and phrase and turn of thought means more than mere63 artistic86 failure, it means want of knowledge of the wayward and shrewd and sensitive minds that are at the back of the dialect.
The very wind that blows softly over brown acres of bog8 carries perfumes and sounds that England does not know: the women digging the potato-land are talking of things that England does not understand. The question that remains is whether England will ever understand.
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1
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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propellers
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| n.螺旋桨，推进器( propeller的名词复数 ) | |
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oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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arable
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| adj.可耕的，适合种植的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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lumbers
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| 砍伐（lumber的第三人称单数形式） | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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38
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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43
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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44
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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49
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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50
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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52
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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53
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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54
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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55
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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56
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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57
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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arraigns
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| v.告发( arraign的第三人称单数 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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76
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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exasperates
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| n.激怒，触怒( exasperate的名词复数 )v.激怒，触怒( exasperate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
jades
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| n.玉，翡翠（jade的复数形式）v.（使）疲（jade的第三人称单数形式） | |
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81
conspicuousness
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| 显著，卓越，突出； 显著性 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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85
vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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