Give me time to undo what I have done. Everyone who has to interest his audience through the voice discovers that his success depends upon the clear, simple and varied structure of his thought. I have seen plenty of angels. Is it that old dried herring, that old red juggler who has made us quarrel for his own comfort? Broken Soil, by P. Colm. Of cathleen the daughter of houlihan poem. Even in France and England almost the whole prose fiction professes to describe the life of the country, often of the districts where its writers have lived, for, unlike a poem, a novel requires so much minute observation of the surface of life that a novelist who cares for the illusion of reality will keep to familiar things. Where would they be going and no fair at hand?
Over the young streams. The Canavans (new version), by Lady Gregory. 'Show him to us; show us your God. Such a great wise teacher as you are will not refuse a penny to a fool. Sometimes the writer delights us, when we grow to understand him, with new forms of virtue discovered in persons where one had not hitherto looked for it, and sometimes, and this is more and more true of modern art, he changes the values not by the persons he sets before one, who may be mean enough, but by his way of looking at them, by the implications that come from his own mind, by the [191] tune they dance to as it were. Oh cathleen the daughter of houlihan. If you will take off heads, take off the head of the sea turtle of Muirthemne, or of the pig of Connaught that has a moon in his belly, or of that old juggler Manannan, son of the sea, or of the red man of the Boyne, or of the King of the Cats, for they are of your own sort, and it may be they understand your ways. The other writer had in mind, when he spoke of thought, the shaping energy that keeps us busy, and the obstinate questionings he had most respect for were, how to change the method of government, how to change the language, how to revive our manufactures, and whether it is the Protestant or the Catholic that scowls at the other with the darker scowl. I will find out where. How many of those old religious sayings can one not apply to the life of art?
Should it be written in the language that one's country does speak or the language that it ought to speak? It is of the first importance that those among us who want to write for the stage study the dramatic masterpieces of the world. If Literature is but praise of life, if our writers are not to plead the National Cause, nor insist upon the Ten Commandments, nor upon the glory of their country, what part remains for it, in the common life of the country? We could not have done this if our movement had not opened a way of expression for an impulse that was in the people themselves. A certain number of propagandist plays are unavoidable in a popular movement like the Gaelic revival, but they may drive out everything else. I think that many confuse applicability with allegory, but the one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author.
H] John Bull's Other Island. The colour-scheme in The Hour-Glass, our first experiment, was worked out by Mr. Robert Gregory and myself, and the costumes were made by Miss Lavelle, a member of the company; while Mr. Robert Gregory has designed the costumes and scenery for Kincora. He opens the door and calls. ] The Gaol Gate, by Lady Gregory. Aflame, But something rustled. It must be the strange woman Patrick saw a while ago. I have to find once again singers, minstrels, and players who love words more than any other thing under heaven, for without fine words there is no literature. What are you going to tell us? There is no use leaving it out for every stranger to look at. Go out of this: there is another house a little further along the shore; our wives are there with their servants, and they will give you food and drink. He turns towards BRIDGET. ]
The player rose into importance in the town, but the minstrel is of the country. I cannot describe the various dramatic adventures of the year with as much detail as I did last year, mainly because the movement has got beyond me. It sounded like Cuchulain's horn, but that's not possible. Lady Gregory has written of the people of the markets and villages of the West, and their speech, though less full of peculiar idiom than that of Mr. Synge's people, is still always that vivid speech which has been shaped through some generations of English speaking by those who still think in Gaelic. In addition to these plays, many of which are constantly revived, translations of foreign masterpieces are given occasionally. Some of these have already been acted, but some may not be acted for a long time, but all seem to me, though they were but a part of a summer's work, to have more of that countenance of country life than anything I have done since I was a boy. Bridget [to the Old Woman]. Clothes, the pale unsatisfied.
Who called me by my name. Your prayers are better than mine. It is possible that the players who are to produce plays in October for the Samhain festival of Cumann na n-Gaedheal may grow into such a company. I will not harm you, Cuchulain. Aristophanes held up the people of Athens to ridicule, and even prouder of that spirit than of themselves, they invited the foreign ambassadors to the spectacle. It was short, sweet, and beautiful. DELIA CAHEL engaged to MICHAEL. All the characters seemed to be less than life-size; the stage, though it was but the little Royalty stage, seemed larger than I had ever seen it. Yet I have this power with my message. It was impossible, from the nature of the words the poet had put into his mouth, or that he had made for himself, that he should speak as another person. Flight; To and fro we leap.
As it was my first Irish play, I'm glad to say that I loved it. Comic songs of a certain kind were to be driven from the stage, everyone was to wear Irish cloth, everyone was to learn Irish, everyone was to hold certain opinions, and these ends were sought by personal attacks, by virulent caricature and violent derision. Had he accustomed himself to read out his poems upon those Sunday evenings that he gave to Socialist speeches, and to gather an audience of average men, precisely such an audience as I have often seen in his house, he would have been forced to Chaucer's variety, to his delight in the height and depth, and would have found expression for that humorous many-sided nature of his. There is a certain school of painters that has discovered that it is necessary in the representation of light to put little touches of pure colour side by side. Here he has written: 'The learned in old times forgot the visible country. ' The Building Fund, by William Boyle. An old tree in a black. It's simple, yet so full of meaning; no wonder it's so important in the History of Irish Theatre.