THE SERIOUSNESS OF THE IRISH.

Otago Witness, Issue 3251, 5 July 1916, Page 71

THE SERIOUSNESS OF THE IRISH.

Bv Cahir He at a'.

Nothing could better mark the differences that separate the Celt from the Saxon than a brief glance into the manner in which each amuses himself. It was said long ago, "By their fruits vou shall know them," but if I might I would say what I think of that proverb. It is hard to be always saying what one thinks! I wonder who it was that first gave to the world the Irishman as a roysierer and a dancer of jigs Perhaps Lever. Whoever it was, the legend grew, and in time people forgot that it was only a legend, and have thought of it ever since as a fact. "We weave our own enchantments," says W. B. Yeats, " and bind ourselves with our own imaginations." For the Irishman is a terribly serious fellow all the time.

It is a much more unpleasant thing to destroy an illusion than a Government. The world treasure? its illusions; but who treasures a Cabinet? However, I am Irish enough and patriotic enough to prefer butter to jam, which, I understand, is a Scotch concoction let loose upon an innocent world by the dentists. The Roysterer.— The Englishman —at least, the man who, according to the Daily Mail, rules the street (I thought the policemen did) —is the true roysterer, the scoffer at Fate, the laugher at Destiny. He is the light, man of the world's music hall. See him as he sails his painted boat on a Saturday afternoon in the pond in Hyde Park ! He is a great hoy, with his long pole under his arm. He will leave his work betimes to run races with toy yachts in a toy lake. Over in Connacht. if the like occurred, the villagers would be calling in the dispensary doctor to certify another lunatic for the asylum. Thev may fight cocks on occasion : but what is that compared with sailing boats in a pond? The truth is that Irish life is gloomy in the main, sometimes hordering on the tragic, but seldom bright and joyous. The Irish are addicted to sport of a kind, but not to gaiety. The other world overshadows everything. The Cockney, on the other hand, knows the secret of getting the most out of a holiday. It is an event of splendid irresponsibility to him, a turning from East to West. He will sing music-hall ditties in a train ride to Southend until he can sing no longer. He has the missus and all the kids with him; or. if he has no missus, then a girl. If the train stops at a junction, the platform is instantly filled by couples waltzing to the music of a mouth-organ for the very overflow of wild joy. Quaro and Dacent.— Now, that could never happen on the way to Bundoran. If the •Cockney, finding himself there by any chance tried that on in Donegal, the railway people would I o wiring to the nearest police barrack. The young people look " quare and dacent," as a versatile critic oF things modern puts it, " with all their gran' tilings on." whilst the elders discuss politics and the backwardness of the harvest.

At Margate one may find at Bank Holi-day-time the Cockney peacefully sleeping i n the bench—crowds of him—when there are more heads than bods. It is good for his health, and lie hikes things philosophically, and never grumbles. Re wades in the' water with liis womenkind like a

stork, he disports himself upon the sand, and takes his joy-sleep in the sun. Verily Patrick is the heavy man of the piece. Oh, his seriousness! He will begin the day by attending Mass, and repeat his prayers like a good Christian twice over. If he ventures upon a dip—maybe he may,—Mrs Grundy herself might bathe alongside without being scandalised. In the evenings—in the evenings, when he and his friends, male and female, have said ten decades of the Ko-ary. and prayed beside for the Pope's intention — they retire to their virtuous couch. Serious and Sad.—

The sensibly, plays at politics, changing sides when the game becomes monotonous. The Irishman clings to..a party like a devotee to a god. The Englishman laughs in the intervals at the fun of it: the Irishman struts about, chin up, like the hero in a melodrama. Go to a fair or market and mark (lie serious air and the sad faces you will meet there. Laughter and they never sat in the same birony. I contrast them with the group of working men, women, and boys up to London for a day. whom I saw dancing to the music of a barrel-organ in a street near Euston Station one yonr. Someone says the difference is all a matter of temperament. lam inclined to think that it is rather the environment which colours the outlook upon life and beyond life. To the Irishman nothing, apparently, matters only his soul, and he sets about securing that in a way that his beliefs tell him is all wrong, but which the practice of them shows him to be right—viz., gathering up money.

It is the Beyond that fascinates him, the unattainable, where mastering, but masterless, one may pursue one's way unchecked. The Englishman sees only the things about him, his amusements, wife and children, and he is happy in the possession of them. With them or without them, the Irishman never would be happy. Long Faces.—

The Irishman loves tragedy and all unattainable things. He solemnly fixes up white churches with tall steeples upon the hill-tops, precisely where his fellow-worker beyond the channel sets up factory chimneys. He wants his son to become a priest and perform miracles, make the family “ decent,” and marry the girls to a “ warm ” man. He sees in the sturdy beggar who comes the way a figure of Christ, and he is merely “a person looking for his share.” Politeness —and faith—could not go much farther. You may travel Ireland to-day, north and south, and find no trace of the “stage” hilarity, and no laughter. We are all long-facers. A nation of dreamers, you think. A tragically religious people, I would say. What becomes, then, of the tradition that the Irish are a jocular, corae-easy, go-easy set? It just goes to the garret, with our other toys and noon-day disillusionments. —To-day.