1 n-Éirinn 1 n-Allód.
Loc: Caisleán Átha Cliath.
Am: An t-am go raibh Gaoidhil i n-Éirinn beo.
Pearsain: EAMON A’CHNUIC, SHEAN O DUIBHIR A’ GHLEANNA, FEAR NA MNA
Ruaidhe, Sheán Buidhe, agus lucht Coimhdeachta an duine—uasail iar ráidhte
Sheán Buidhe: lú, Éadhbard Hill fbhait acsplainéisin cean iú gibh for thabhaing des seidisius dochúmaints in iúr poisiéisiun?
Eamonn a’ Chnuic: Nil ann acht athchuinge go dtabharfí dúinn cead aighnis.
Sheán O Duibhir: agus radharc ar an gcoróin.
Sheán Buidhe: Fbhait ár iúr méin traighing thú sae, Sairdint?
Sairdint Tharbhaigh: Aigh tink dae ár tócuing abamht a bhuman cóld Agnes, a biútiful accomplas eigh supós.
Sheán Buidhe: Méic amht a bharant for thur airéist. Namh deintilmein—Sheán Ó Duibhir: níor dhubairt mé fhaic i dtaobh Agnes.
Sheán Buidhe: Tabh iú famhnd ánaigh mór seidisius dochúmaints bitheighnd deir Teairlí.
Poiléismeán Bairlí: Bucats obh dem Sur.
Poileismeán Deonson: ond thiar ár mór sur.
Éamhon a’ Chnuic: bhéarfainn mo lámh dheas acht fáill a’ fhagháil an fear gránna buídhe seo do réabadh mar réabfainn sean-bhróg.
Fear na mná ruaidhe: Bheil dá mbeadh sean-bhróg agam-sa geallaim duit nach í réabadh dhéanfainn. Chaithfinn ar mo chois í agus bheinn lánbhuídheach.
Shean O Duibhir: Namh deintilmein díos docúmaints ár bhéarigh sióruigheas, iú hav nó reispeict for ló and óirdiur—
Fear na mná Ruaidhe: God séabh dé Cbhín.
Sheán O Duíbhir: iu sbheign;
Sheán Buidhe: Aigheam glad tú saoí dat bhun obh iú ios loigheal.
Reilís thim and loch de odars up, só dat dé mé leirn tú bí gúid and loigheal suibdeicts obh thur mós gréisius maidistigh. Díos tú ár a disgréis tú thur aighrís suibdeicts.
Aigh nó a mean thú ios só léasaigh dat thí slíps in this clós, bhears a bíord, and dos not smóc bíocós obh de trobal obh straigeing a meaits. It is só long sins thi did an anasth dea’s bhorc dat thí thincs ‘manuil leabear’ is de neim obh a Portuguis arditeitear.
[Lamhd láftar]
Sa tsean-aimsir bhí fear ’na chonuí insa tír seo a dtoirfí Síomus air. Cha robh áit mhaith ige agus is air éigin abhí se abulta e hín a chothú. Siocair fíor-bheagan bídh bheith ige, bhí se i dtólamh corthaí agus cha robh se abulta a chuid graithe a gheanamh.
Bhí se ag goil air gcúl sa chíos agus bhí dóigh bhocht air uilig.
Ach an t-acras an rud ba mheasa abhí ag goilstin air.
‘Mura bhfuighe me hoult ar ghíota bread go luath,’ adubhairt sé leis hín lá, ‘creidim go bhfuighe me bás’. Cé bhéadh ag goil a’bhealaigh a’ lá sin acht a’diabhal. Chualaidh an lad dubh goidé bhí ráidhte ag Síomus agus rinn se delay beag ar a bhealach “Goidé seo tá cearr leat a Shíomuis?” arsa diabhal, adeirse. ‘Tá acras air mo belly’ arsa Síomus ‘agus chan f huair me hoult air giota bread le fada an day’ air seisean, adeirse.
‘O bhal’, arsa diabhal, adeirse, ‘gluais liomsa go dtí a leithid seo d’áit agus gheobha me feed mór duid’.
‘Creidim go bhfuil a’ ceart agad’, arsa Siomus, adeirse, agus d’imigh siad frid a’ tír, miles agus miles soir agus go leor miles eile siar. Fuaidh siad leofa go dtí gur reach síad a leithid seo d’áit. Bhí cró beag ionn agus dubhairt a’ díabhal le Síomus gur honuí se sa chró leis hín.
‘Tar isteach, a Shíomuis’, arsa diabhal, adeirse.
‘Creidim go rachaidh’, arsa Síomus.
Fuaidh an dís isteach agus leag a’ diabhal feed mór amach air a tábla.
‘Anois a Shíomuis’, adeirse, ‘tá an oiread nourishment sa feed seo,’ air seisean, ‘nach mbeidh feed a dhíth ort go bráth má chaitheann tú é. Bhéara mé duid é air a leithid seo de luach.’
‘Creidim go bhfuil a’ ceart agad,’ arsa Síomus.
Shuidh Síomus síos agus chaith se a’ feed. N’áir abhi a’ feed caithte fuair se bás nó bhi nimh curtha ionn ag a’ diabhail, Cha robh feed eile a dhith air Síomus go bráth agus thug a’ diabhal leis go h-Ifreann é. Char chúalaidh mé goidé mar bhí sé ag teanamh ó shoin.
A Péid obh éinsint Thistirí.
O chlé go deis: Séairdint Deoinstin, Sheán O Duíbhir a’ Ghleanna, Eamon a’ Chnuic, an Spailpín Fánach agus Tadhg a’ dá Thaobh.
An obair seo atá breachta sa pictúir, tháinig sí i gcúrsa ins an am go raibh Goidhil in Éirinn beagnach marbh.
Fuarthas scéala go raibh Sur Sheán Buídhe le cuaird do tabhairt ar chríochaibh Fodhla agus le cur faoí i gcaisleán Átha Clíath.
Bhí fhios ag na Gaoidhil gurbé an gnás imeasc daoine úaisle a gcuid bagaiste do chur lá nó mar sin rómpa le giolla i dtreo is go mbeadh gach nidh ar foghnamh fa na gcoinne ar shriochtan dóibh a gceann scríbe.
Lá fuarthas scéala go raibh an bagáiste tagaithe agus bhris an dream beag thuas isteach sa Chaisleán an oidhche sin. Fuaireadar Séardint Deoinstin i gcúl-tseomra ann agus na málaí ina chúram. Chuireadar in-iúl dó go raibh sé i bpeiriceal a scriosta acht ‘bhun píp’ do leigint as.
Annsin d’ionnsuigheadar na málaí. Cuaidh Sheán ag cuartú agus ag tóraíocht ar a dhícheall.
‘Ní fheicim í’, ar sé fá dheireadh. ‘Nil sí ann.’
‘Bí cinnte, bí cinnte,’ arsa Eamon a’ Chnuic go deifreach.
‘Doirt amach an t-iomlán’.
‘Níl sí ann,’ adeirim.
‘Bféidir go gcaitheann sé i gcómhnuidhe í in ionad hata,’ arsan Spailpín, ‘agus go mbeidh sí leis ar a cheann i mbárach.’
‘Maighgod,’ ars Sheán Ó Duibhir go scáthmhar, ‘ná h-abair liom nach mbeidh radharc ar an gcoróin againn anocht taréis ár ndicheall, taréis a bhfuil déanta againn de chreich agus de bhriseadh tighe.’
‘Cluinim duine éigin ag teacht.’ arsan Spailpin. ‘Iú bhil pae for dios, iú reibeal sbhaighn,’ arsa Séirdint Deoínstin.
‘Iú siut iúr durtaigh trap,’ arsa Tadhg a’ dá Taobh. Annsin ós íseal leis féin:
‘Geobhaidh mé pighinn maith i mbárach nuair dhórtim na pónairí seo i gcluais Sur Sheáin. Dis ios a béaraigh profitibil géam seiling dé peas’.
‘Leits go,’ arsa Shean Ó Duibhir. ‘Nil coróin na fiú leath-choróin ins na málaí seo.’
Seirdint Deoinstin: Durtaigh disloigheal Reibeal aighris dogs.
(Ecseunt).
POEM in five spenderian stanzas. By Myles na gCopaleen, M.R.I.A. Limited edition of 90,000 copies (of which this is Number 64,284) printed on hand-scuffed antique barley-grained vellum. Each copy signed by author and artist. Entered as second class matter at the Post Office of St Louis. As read and recited by prominent Verse Speakers. ‘Here we have something that is alert, sensitive, taut.’—The Bell.
Three sons of great learnin’
Binchy and Bergin and Best,
They worked out that riddle
Old Irish and Middle,
Binchy and Bergin and Best,
They studied far higher
Than ould Kuno Meyer
And fanned up the glimmer
Bequeathéd by Zimmer,
Binchy and Bergin and Best.
They rose in their night-shift
To write for the Zeitschrift,
Binchy and Bergin and Best,
They proved they were bosses
At wrastling with glosses,
Binchy and Bergin and Best,
They made good recensions
Of ancient declensions,
And careful redactions
To their three satisfactions,
Binchy and Bergin and Best.
They went for a dander
With Charlie Marstrander
Binchy and Bergin and Best,
They added their voices
(Though younger) to Zeuss’s,
Binchy and Bergin and Best.
Stout chase the three gave
Through the Táin for Queen Maeve
And played ‘Find the Lady’
With Standish O’Grady,
Binchy and Bergin and Best.
They sang in the choir
Of the Institute (Higher)
Binchy and Bergin and Best,
The former two quit,
Binchy and Bergin and Best
But the third will remain
To try to regain
At whatever cost
Our paradigms lost,
Binchy and Bergin and Best.
So, forte con brio
Three cheers for the trio,
Binchy and Bergin and Best,
These friends of Pokorni
Let’s toast in Grand Marnier,
Binchy and Bergin and Best—
These justly high-rated,
Advanced, educated,
And far from facetious
Three sons of Melesius,
Binchy and Bergin and Best.
Reproduction in whole or part forbidden. All rights reserved.
Not to be exported to Great Britain or Northern Ireland without a licence.
Any person found taking sand from the foreshore will be taken a poor view of.
Páipear beag dána iseadh ‘AN GLÓR’ Ní choshnuigheann sé acht pighin ruadh agus bíonn sé ar fáil dhá uair sa mhí. Cuir an dhá phighin chaitheann tú air sa mhi i gcompráid leis an scilling glan airgid agus an raol trom luaidhe a iarrtar uait ar ‘THE BELL’ agus ní fheadar an mbeidh tú sásta.
Ní fheadar nach bhfuighidh tú níos mó adhbhar léightheoireachta (atá inléighte) sa ‘GLÓR’ ar do dhá phinghin. Ní bhionn an stuif is fearr i gcómhnuí sa chulaith éadaigh atá daor mar adeir Muireadh Ó Buirtín.
I n-eagrán déannach don ‘Glór’ chuir mé suim agus sonnadh i bpíosa dár teideal ‘ERSATZ IRISH LITERATURE’.
Sean-chnámh atá á chognadh ag an údar ann. Ní aontuigheann sé gur ceaduithe ‘IRISH LITERATURE’ do thabhairt ar aon saothar nach bhfuil i nGaedhilg.
Ní ‘IRISH LITERATURE’ a bhfuil scríobhtha ag James Joyce adeir-sé, acht tá an teideal sin ion-luaidhte aige i dtaobh ‘SÉADHNA’ leis an Athair Ó Laoghaire. Ní bhainfidh an té a léigh an dá leabhar tathneamh as an ráiteas sin. Gan bacadh leis an focal ‘IRISH’, is litríocht den chéad aicme ‘ULYSSES’ agus ní litriocht ar chor ar bith, olc nó maith, aon líne a scríobh an t-Athair Peadar. Is féidir leat (má tá an léigheann agat rud nach bhfuil) ‘ULYSSES’ a léigheamh i Seapanais acht ní féidir ‘SÉADHNA’ a léigheamh fiú i mBéarla.
Gan amhras bhí tábhacht ag baint le ‘SÉADHNA’ lá den tsaol ar an ghaedhilg atá ann agus bhi glaodhach mór ar an leabhar ag macaibh léighinn. Acht ní chun sochair do macaoimh ná maighdeana a ceaptar fíor-litríocht. Is bocht an dríodar ‘SÉADHNA’ má mheastar mar litríocht é; mar an gcéadna do beagnach gach leabhar eile a luadhann an scríobhnóir seo sa ‘GHLÓR’. Ní thuilleann siad an t-ainm litríocht. Tá a lán aca ‘ar an gcúrsa’, dí-mholadh nach féidir a sharú.
Acht i litríocht, cuir i gcás ‘AN t-OILEÁNACH’, níl aon leabhar (againn-ne nó ag aon treibh eile) i mBéarla ata ion-churtha leis.
Agus ní an ‘Chainnt na ndaoine’ nó na ‘cora deasa cainnte’ atá ann a bhronnann uaisleacht litríochta air. Níl aon bhaint ag liteardhachas an leabhair leis an nGaédhilg. Tá an fíor-stuif udarásach daonna ann, tá sé caladhanta, bogan se an léightheóir chun cumhtha nó áthais do réir mar is rogha leis an údar. Ní h-amhlaidh, faroar le ‘SÉADHNA’. Nó le ‘NIAMH’.
Más náir dúinn ‘ULYSSES’ go bhfôiridh Dia orainn. Léirigheann an leabhar san Baile Áth Cliath agus a Mhuintir go h-iomlán agus go h-iongantach agus láthair an t-Saoil mhóir. Minigheann sé eagna, meon agus dearcadh na ndaoine, ath-chruithuigheann sé a saol, a ngrádh, a ndrúis agus fiú a smaointeacha mar bhíodar aca triocha bliain ó shion. Ní raibh príomh-cathair na h-Éireann Gaelach ó togadh í. Ní fhéadfaí ‘ULYSSES’ a scríobhadh i nGaedhilg ná aon líne de.
Bhéadh leagan Gaedhilge ar ‘ULYSSES’ comh bréagach le fáilte lucht gaimbín.
Acht ’na dhiaidh sin, deirtear linn nach ‘IRISH LITERATURE’ an leabhar is luachmhaire a tháinig as Éirinn leis na cianta.
Is den tír seo go smior gach siolla dár scríobh an Seóigheach riamh. Tá an blas agus boladh go h-údarásach ar a shaothar tríd síos. Níl an mothú céadna Gaelach ná blúire de ar shaothar Phádraig Uí Chonaire. Ní h-amhlaidh go raibh an Seoigheach ‘níos Gaelaí’ ná an fear eile acht gur thuig sé a cheárd ó bhun go bárr, go raibh d’éirim agus d’acfuinn agus d’ealadhain ann a raibh aige ina cheann do chuir i dtuigsint don léightheôir agus ni beag sin.
Agus féach an ‘CROCK OF GOLD’ le James Stephens. Níor scríobhadh riamh (agus ní scríobhfar ní dóigh liom) aon leabhar i nGaedhilg atá leath comh Gaedhleach leis. Tá Gaelachas sa leabhar san atá níos Gaelaí ‘ná an Ghaedhlig féin.
Agus tá greann thar na beartaibh ann, rud nach bhfuil le fagháil thoir ná thiar i ‘Litríocht na Gaedhilge’.
Acht ní ‘IRISH LITERATURE’ an leabhar aoibhinn seo. Bféidir gur ‘ENGLISH LITERATURE’ é.
Tuigtear an méid seo. Ní chumann ná ní chruthuigheann litríocht an saol acht leanann sí é. Beidh litríocht náisiúnta na h-Éireann i nGaedhilg amháin ní h-eadh an lá ar a bhfuil an Ghaedhilg á labhairt airís go forleathan ar fúd na tíre, acht céad bliain, bféidir, taréis an lae sin. Ní ar indiú, ná amáireach, atá an deaghúdar ag féachaint, acht indé. An f had go mbíonn Gaedhilg agus Béarla in Éirinn againn is dual dúinn litríocht sa dá theangaidh.
Ní fiú mórán go fóill litríocht na nua-Gaedhilge. Ghoid Sasana a lán neithe maithe uainn—an Ghaedhilg féin.
Faire nach dtabharfamuid anois mar féirin do Shasana an rud beag amháin ealadhna atá nua-dhéanta againn, ár litríocht ghall-Ghaelach. Is beag atá againn in a h-éaghmuis.
Tugann ‘An Glór’ ‘Ersatz Irish Literature’ ar ár saothar liteardha i mBéarla cuid den ‘Nua—Litriocht ata againn i Gaedhilg ba mhaith an teideal di ‘Erse-atz Irish Literature’ dar liomsa.
Do réir an fhoclóra ‘PIARÓID’ an Deaghghaoidhilg ar ‘parrot’ acht mise nár ghéill riamh do dhaoine nach aithnid dhom i gcúrsaí gramadaighe ná briathrachais, ní ghlacfaidh mé le ‘Piaróid’. Is fearr liom pearat. Tráth i n-Éirinn bhí Teach Mór i gceanntar áirithe agus bhí buic uaisle gallda ’na gcomhnuide ann. Bhi mná caola buidhe aca ann agus iad amuigh ag íascaireacht, ag ridireacht ar muin capaill, ag seilg, ag lámhach agus ag déanamh gach ní is dual do bhean uasal atá ‘Conndae’. Bhí na fir uaisle ar an déanamh céadhna acht amháin gur chaitheadar a lán ama i bhfeighil agus i mbun Snúcoir. Bhíodar go léir eadar fearaibh agus peatai go galánta thoití-toití agus bhí na tuaithe urramach dóibh.
Bhí pearat uasal as an t-Sín ag na daoine móra so sa Teach Mhór agus bhí deis urlabhra bronnta ag Dia ar an bpearat. Ní nach ró-iongnadh, labhair sé le guth a mhaighistir. Lá amhán, d’eírig leis an bpearat ealodh as a bhosca. Bhí fuinneóg an t-seomra ar oscailt agus amach leis an chréatúr Sineach ag folamhain go ciotach cigilteach i measg na gcraobh amuigh.
Taréis tamaill éon éan ag taisteal san aer uachtarach, tháinig sé ar bhothán shuarach abhí i seilbh sliocht Éremon agus Éber—Padaí bocht éigin a bhí mar sclábhuidhe ar Thailte an Tighe Mhóir ar phighin sa lá.
Tháinig an pearat anuas ar dhíon an bhotháin agus shuidh annsin i n-áirde agus é ag leigint an tuirse as taréis a thurais.
Tháinig an fear fiadhain Padaí amach le na dreancaidi a chraitheadh dá chuid ‘éadaigh’ agus bhraith sé an créatúr allmhordha eadrocht ar mhullach a thíghe, sómpla iongantach i bfuirm éin le dathanna go léir na gréine ’na ruball.
Ghlac an scológ bocht íontas dá leithéid seo agus ghlaodh ar a theaglach eadar bean agus fiche paiste teacht ag breathnú an tsamhla neamhshaolta. Annsin smaoinigh sé go raibh tairbhe aige le fáil acht breith ar an rud agus b’fhéidir é dhiol le lucht an tíghe mhóir.
Ní túisce an obair sin beartuithe aige ná é ’na bun go dioghrasach. Le mórán duaidh chuaidh se in áirde ar mhullach a thighe agus bhog go faichilleach i dtreo an phearait.
Níor chorruigh an t-éan iar-ráidhte seo. Go h-obann rug Padaí greim ar an gcois bhig bhuidhe agus gan mhoill fuair sé sruth cainnte i gcanamhain uasal an Tighe Mhóir.
‘How daeh you, Sir: How daeh you?
‘Oi big yer pardon sor’ arsa Padaí go scannruithe ‘Oi tought you was a burd. Ackscoos me, Sor, yer honour’.
Tá litríocht na Gaedhilge agus gach litríocht eile ar a bhfuil eolas ar bith agam lán de stuif molta croidhiúil i dtaobh éanacha an aeir. Ní féidir go leor a rádh ar mhaithe leis na créathuirí beaga clúmhacha abhíonn ag cantain agus ag ceileabhar agus ag píobarnaigh i measc na gcraobh.
Ní cuala, a luin Doire an Chairn, ceol ba bhinne ná do cheol is tú fa bhun do nid.
Fáilte do éan is binne ar chraoibh; A Bhunnáin bhuidhe, sé mo leán do luighe agus mar sin de go bruinne an bhrátha.
Aoinne a mheabhruigheas an cogadh so atá ar siubhal agus an scrios fuilteach atá a dheanamh gach lá tuigfidh sé gur na h-éanacha atá cionntach 80 sa chéad ann.
Gan amhras, is dual achrann don duine. Bíodh na h-éanacha ann nó as, bheadh cogadh de chineal éigin ar siubhal againn-ne na daoine. Acht ní bheadh an t-ár uathbhásach agus an léirscrios millteanach is aithnid comh maith dúinn indiu indéanta ar chaoi ar bith meireach na h-eitileáin. Agus ni bheadh eitileán againn go deo meireach na h-éanacha.
An chéad fear riamh a bhraith éan ag sciordadh go glan glic tríd an aer, ag treasnú gach baic agus toirmisc tíre, thainic éad air. Is le neamhfhonn taréis an lae sin a thaisteal sé an domhan ar a chosa troma toirseacha do-bogtha. Bhí an síol curtha. Leis na mílte bliain bheadh an gam daonna ag tnúth le caoi éigin gluaiste ar fud na spéire agus bheadh na h-éanacha go deo á ghriogadh leis an ghaois aerdha a bhí aca féin ó dhúthchas.
Orainne na linne seo ata an mí-ádh go bhfuil maighstreacht fálta againn ar an aer níos fearr ná mar bhí riamh ag na gobadáin. Beidh cnumha á ithe againn fós!
Seadh, ‘ROSS’ iseadh an ghearmáinis ar ‘capall’ Féach an t-seanf hocal úd—‘Ní dhéanfaidh an saol capall (Ross) d’asal. ‘cé soir du mois de ianbhier, 1882 le promenoir des Foilies Bergere regorgeait de monde ‘Il était dies heures et demie lá premiere partie du programme bhenait de finir sur un chatoiant ballet …’
Slánabhaile Eh? Kod ay soh?
Mise: Saothar beag stairiúil. An chéad uair riamh ó cruthuigheadh an domhan a cuireadh Frainncis sa chló Ghaelach.
Slánabhaile: Ock Kunahayv?
Mise: Dochum neartuighthe clú Mhílis ar ghliocas agus dochum onóra na h-Éireann agus na Frainnce, dhá thír atá gaolta agus comhchairdiúil maidir le suim sa bhantracht, spéis i ndigh, clisteacht cainnte, fallsacht, bitheamhnachas agus ansmacht.
Slánabaile: Tigim. Guramahagut.
Ceist: Conus mar d’éirigh le James Joyce le linn dó comhnuidhe agus buan-mhaireachtaint do dhéanamh i ríocht na Frainnce?
Freagra: D’éirigh le Séamus go Seoighe.
Ceist: Agus conus mar saothraig sé a choid?
Freagra: Le Uilís a mhallacha.
Ceist: Cad a d’ól sé?
Freagra: Chartreuse.
Ceist: Agus cad a bhí uime mar éadach ar na balaidh iochtaracha?
Freagra: Sár-triubhais.
Ceist: An raibh vie mhaith aige sa Fhrainnc taréis clú do bheith buaidhte aige?
Freagra: Vie.
Ceist: An raibh sé seal i Vichy?
Freagra: Vichy.
Seadh, Seadh, Seadh.
Amannai léighim filiocht. Caitheann sí aimsear agus nil sí comh costasach le pórtar, pictuirí potaiocht, cúl-chainnt, ithe-feola, suibaloidhche, cúl-éisteacht Radio, curadóireacht, gabháil-muisice, bainisteoireacht bainnce, teachtachas Dála, lon-éisteacht, dochtúireacht, pósadh, nó pé gairm-bheatha nó caitheamh-aimsire eile atá ar domhan.
An dán úd ar an Impire Alacsandar atá fágtha againn ag an láimh anaithnid, tá an rann so ann:
‘Do bí’, arsan treas ughdar glic,
‘An bith indé ag mac Philip;
Indiu aige nochan fhuil.
Acht seacht dtroigthe do thalmhain’
Nuair léigheas sin, smaoinigheas ar Landless Men na linne seo. An t-órdú contráilte atá ortha go fíor. Le linn a mbeo bíonn seacht dtroighthe de talmhain aca—oiread is dheanfas ionad tighe. Teacht lá a mbás agus a n-adhlactha, is leo an domhan uile. Táid rann-pháirteach sá chré go léir. Is mar an gcéadna domhan agus duine. Roinn na Talmhan is teideal don aireacht rialtais atá freagarthach agus ‘roinn’ an focal oparataibh i dtuairim na Landless Men. Feirmeóir ar bith a chastar ort, níl ag teastáil uaidh acht feirm mhór.
Le na thaisbeáint an rian gheár atá fágtha ag na Scannáin Aimeiricean-acha ar inntin ar nDaoine, éist le seo. Bhíos ar tram an lá fa dheireadh agus chúamair thar teach an Árd-Aighne (nó Attorney General).
Bhí beirt fhear oilte deas-labhartha ar mo chúl. ‘Do you see that house’ arsa fhearr amháin ‘that’s where the District Attorney lives.”
Ag sco síos fáisnéis shuimiúil atá fálta agam ón Mhean-oirthear, mar a bhfuiltear na Tomáis, agus na Gearoidíní ag cogaint agus ag cogaíocht (le fada an lá) (mar deirtear ins na clísí). Acht ar dtús tuig go soiléir nach mbeadh a leithéid seo ceaduithe i mBéarla.
Bhí saighdiuir airithe ann darb ainim Peadar agus gidh go raibh an t-éadach Sacsanach ar a dhruim, bhí sé fior-ghaelach ’na chroidhe istig agus is i gCorchaig a chonnaic sé solus an lae i dtosach.
Bhí Peadar agus a chomraidí ar a gcomh-chosaint i gcampa i lár an fhásaigh gainnmhe agus ní raibh faic le déanamh aca acht fuireach ann go foighdeach go dtí go gcuirfí tús ar fuilteachas agus achrann.
Acht bhí an Peadar so mí-cheádfach; niorbh ghnás aige bheith díomhaoin agus níor thaithnig an saol socair suaimhneach so leis (in-aochor) (ná ar chor ar bith).
Bhí nós aige dá bhrigh sin ceamal a fháil agus ealodh amach i ndorchadas na h-oidhche as an gcampa agus lá nó dhó a chaitheamh ag fánaíocht ar fud an fhásaigh ag faire ar na h-éanacha, an aimsir nó aon ní eile abhí ion-fhairithe.
Cúis agallmha agus magaidh ag na saighduirí eile an nós eagsúil seo a bhí ag Peadar agus nuair tháinic an scéal ar eolas lucht ceannais an champa, dubhradar go neamh-bhalbh le Peadar nach raibh an seachránoidhche seo ceaduithe agus go raibh air fanacht sa champa agus a dhualgaisí míleata do chóm-líonadh mar bhí a dhéanamh ag cách eile.
Acht ní fhéadfadh Peadar an mian mire seo do smachtú. Amach leis airís ar an gceamal an chéad oidhche eile. D’éirigh leis teacht arais airís slán acht an chéad uair eile a chuaidh sé amach, bhí sé seachtain as baile. Ar bhfilleadh do gabhadh é ag geata an champa, tugadh é í láthair na cúirte míleata agus fuair sé mí sa charcair.
Acht taréis tamaillín tionoladh dáil-chómhairle ag lucht ceannais an airm agus shocruigheadar fear do chur amach le spideoireacht do dheanamh ar an tír agus eolas do bhailiú ar suidhe agus ordú na nGearmánach. Chuimnigh Oifigeach éigin ar Pheadar agus d’ aontuigheadar go léir nach raibh éinne eile sa champa comh h-oilte ar a leithéid sin d’obair. Tugadh i láthair na cómhairle é agus minígheadh a dhualgaisí dhó. Annsin cuireadh ar mhuin cheamail mhaith é, tugadh gléas mors-radio dhó le na chuid teachtaireachtaí do chur abaile agus scaoileadh amach an geata e. Cailleadh Peadar as amharc ar imeall na spéire.
Bhí súil ag lucht an champa go gcluinfeadh siad scéala ón bhfánaí taréis trí lá nó mar sin acht ni raibh faic acht fíorchiúnas le clos ar an radio. D’imthigh lá agus lá eile.
D’imtigh seachtain gan aon scéala.
D’imtigh dhá lá eile agus fágadh lucht an champa beagnach briste.
Acht go mall trathóna, núair is lugha bhí coinne leis, bhíog an radio agus tháinic da fhocal Beárla uaidh:
Rith an nuaidheacht iongantach timpeall an champa le luas teinntrighe.
Thuit na buic mhóra beagnach i laige.
Annsain cuireadh na gunnaí móra agus na h-innil cogaidh i dtreo agus i n-ordú a ngluaiseachta. Dubhradh le gach fear bheith ollamh le mairseáil leis an gníomh mhór so do dhaingniú agus do chur i gcrích agus cromadh ar bheith ag éisteacht oidhche agus lá ag dúil go dtiochfadh sceála eile ón Radio. Acht ní tháinig. D’fhan an maisín balbh. Chuaidh lá tart agus lá eile. D’imthigh seachtain, bhí na h-oifigí anois beagnach ag rinnce le neart feirge agus cíocrais. Annsin go h-obann, labhair an Radió airís:
‘Last … mesids … siúd thábh … red ‘ceamal ruptiúrd’.
Loc: Bothán ar Bhán-chnuic Éireann ó.
Am: An t-am go raibh Gaoidhil i nÉirinn beo.
Pearsain i láthair: Sur Tharbhaigh Baigineal, an óifisear obh de Cbhín, in ful réidiméinteals; Tadhg agus Taidhgín; Éamon a’ Chnuic; Seán Ó Duibhir a’ Ghleanna; Séadna; agus Bran.
Sur Tharbhaigh: Aigh airéist iú, Éadbhart Hill, in de néam obh de Cbhín! Aigh bhas reidhding baigh—
Bran: Bhuf, bhuf!
Sur Tharbhaigh: Damhn, iú réibeal cur! Aigh bhas reidhding baigh ond théard iú méic fbhait samhndad leidhc a seidisius spíts. Thú ios dios péarson iú méintiond Shawn Brogue?
Seán Ó Duibhir: Cad é seo atá á rádh aige inonimadeel?
Éamon a’ Chnuic: Is follus gur chualaidh an phiast mise ag aithris mo chuid filíochta. “Sasanaigh do réabfainn mar do réabfainn sean-bhróg.”
Taidhgín: Thí bhas tócuing abamht boots, Sur.
Sur Tharbhaigh: Iú cean téil dat tú de Diuids. Éabharaighbodaigh thiar ios undar airéist. Aigh bhil títs iú tú bí dioslóigheal. Cbhuic meairts! (Ecseunt go dubhach.)
I was a day in Dingle and Paddy James, my sister’s man, in company with me and us in the direction of each other in the running of the day. A man he was that would not have a glass of whiskey long between the hands, or a pint of black porter either, without shooting them backwards; but he got no sweet taste ever on the one he would buy himself, and great would be the pleasure with him that another man should nudge him in the back to ask him to have one with him.
A time after that my brother Paddy moved towards me from being over there in Ameriky. There was great surprise on me he is coming from being over there the second time, because the two sons who were at him were strong hefty ones at that time; and my opinion was that they were on the pig’s back to be over there at all. On my seeing my brother on his arrival, there was no get-up on him—as would appear to any person who threw an opinion with him—save that it was in the woods he had spent his years yonder. There was no cloth on him, there was no shape on his person itself, there was not a dun-coloured penny in his pocket, and it was two sisters to him yonder who had sent him across at their own expense.
We had easy times then for a while, and the year that was in it, she was a fine quiet one. A lot of fish were being brought in by the big boats. The three boats were full to the tops, a day. Owing to the force of two men—my father and Patrick—being at us, there was a fine sight of it in the cabin. That was the first day of mine, I think, completely separated from being a mollycoddle, because a hard straining was taken out of my sides pulling the fish to the house with me in a bag down beyant on my back. A thousand fish had each single man on that particular day. That left two thousand to us. My father said that I had brought a thousand and more of them home.
—From ‘An tOileánach’, by Tomas Ó Criomhthain.
THE IRISH lexicographer Dinneen, considered in vacuo is, heaven knows, funny enough. He just keeps standing on his head, denying stoutly that piléar means bullet and asserting that it means ‘an inert thing or person’. Nothing stumps him. He will promise the sun moon and stars to anybody who will catch him out. And well he may. Just take the sun, moon and stars for a moment. Sun, you say, is grian. Not at all. Dinneen shouts that grian means ‘the bottom (of a lake, well)’. You are a bit nettled and mutter that, anyway, gealach means moon. Wrong again. Gealach means ‘the white circle in a slice of a half-boiled potato, turnip, etc.’ In a bored voice he adds that réalta (of course) means ‘a mark on the forehead of a beast’. Most remarkable man. Eclectic I think is the word.
That, of course, is why I no longer write Irish. No damn fear. I didn’t come down in the last shower. Call me a bit fastidious if you like but I like to have some idea of what I’m writing. Libel, you know. One must be careful. If I write in Irish what I conceive to be ‘Last Tuesday was very wet,’ I like to feel reasonably sure that what I’ve written does not in fact mean ‘Mr So-and-So is a thief and a drunkard.’
Do I exaggerate? Not at all. For fun let’s look for a moment at a bit of somebody else’s Irish. One picks up that little print An Glór dated the 22nd January. (Glór, of course, just means ‘noise’—they are hinting there at the funny word ‘noisepaper’, I’ll go bail.) They have a few pars on the back page about the concert that was got up in the Capitol a few Sundays ago. Here’s how they open up:
Is rud nuadh ar fad cuirm cheoil siansach (symphony) a bheith ar siubhal in éinfheacht le cór Gaedhealach …
Note first of all the cautious gloss ‘symphony’. They half suspect the danger. But too late. Dinneen is already roaring at us. Let’s see just what all that Irish really means.
First, rud. Rud means ‘concern, sympathy, anxiety, sorrow’. Nuadh means ‘act of strengthening, intensifying’. It also means ‘strength’. ‘Fad’ just means ‘longitude’. Then we come to cuirm. The lexicographer is only warming up now. In his frightfully superior voice he explains that cuirm means ‘a kind of ale formerly used by the Irish; drink in general; a feast or banquet’. He assigns absolutely no other meaning to the word. Ceol means ‘activity, vigour, sprightliness’. Siansach (despite the gloss) means ‘wise, sensible’. The next word is siubhal and the crafty master messes up everything with vindictive skill when he announces that this word means ‘a measure in music between fast and slow (moderato)’. The cuteness of this move is beyond belief. He won’t allow that ceol has anything to do with music, but insists that siubhal has. ‘In éinfheacht’ means ‘at once’ and ‘cór Gaedhealach’ means ‘an unsophisticated troop’.
Now let’s see what we have. Dinneen says the passage quoted has the following meaning:
‘It is longitudinally a strong anxiety that a wise and vigorous ancient Irish ale should be in moderato time at once with an unsophisticated troop.’
I infer that the writer (I know the type well) meant to say this:
‘It is entirely a new thing that a symphony concert should be held in conjunction with a Gaelic choir.’
Mr Charles Lynch is announced as giving dreas ceoil, ‘a sprightly bramble’. He is described as a pianadóir, Dinneen says pianadóir means (exclusively) ‘a punisher, a tormentor’. Granted that we’re not all fond of music, isn’t that a bit … hard? And brambles!
What a man.
A LADY lecturing recently on the Irish language drew attention to the fact (I mentioned it myself as long ago as 1925) that, while the average English speaker gets along with a mere 400 words, the Irish-speaking peasant uses 4,000. Considering what most English speakers can achieve with their tiny fund of noises, it is a nice speculation to what extremity one would be reduced if one were locked up for a day with an Irish-speaking bore and bereft of all means of committing murder or suicide.
My point, however, is this. The 400/4,000 ration is fallacious; 400/400,000 would be more like it. There is scarcely a single word in the Irish (barring, possibly, Sasanach) that is simple and explicit. Apart from words with endless shades of cognate meaning, there are many with so complete a spectrum of graduated ambiguity that each of them can be made to express two directly contrary meanings, as well as a plethora of intermediate concepts that have no bearing on either. And all this strictly within the linguistic field. Superimpose on all that the miasma of ironic usage, poetic licence, oxymoron, plamás, Celtic evasion, Irish bullery and Paddy Whackery, and it a safe bet that you will find yourself very far from home. Here is an example copied from Dinneen and from more authentic sources known only to my little self:
Cur, g. curtha and cuirthe, m.—act of putting, sending, sowing, raining, discussing, burying, vomiting, hammering into the ground, throwing through the air, rejecting, shooting, the setting or clamp in a rick of turf, selling, addressing, the crown of cast-iron buttons which have been made bright by contact with cliff-faces, the stench of congealing badger’s suet, the luminance of glue-lice, a noise made in an empty house by an unauthorised person, a heron’s boil, a leprachaun’s denture, a sheep-biscuit, the act of inflating hare’s offal with a bicycle pump, a leak in a spirit level, the whine of a sewage farm windmill, a corncrake’s clapper, the scum on the eye of a senile ram, a dustman’s dumpling, a beetle’s faggot, the act of loading every rift with ore, a dumb man’s curse, a blasket, a ‘kur’, a fiddler’s occupational disease, a fairy godmother’s father, a hawk’s vertigo, the art of predicting past events, a wooden coat, a custard-mincer, a blue-bottle’s ‘farm’, a gravy flask, a timber-mine, a toy craw, a porridge-mill, a fair-day donnybrook with nothing barred, a stoat’s stomach-pump, a broken—
But what is the use? One could go on and on without reaching anywhere in particular.
Your paltry English speaker apprehends sea-going craft through the infantile cognition which merely distinguishes the small from the big. If it’s small, it’s a boat, and if it’s big it’s a ship. In his great book An tOileánach, however, the uneducated Tomás Ó Criomhthain uses, perhaps, a dozen words to convey the concept of varying super-marinity—árthrach long, soitheach, bád, naomhóg, bád raice, galbhád, púcán and whatever you are having yourself.
The plight of the English speaker with his wretched box of 400 vocal beads may be imagined when I say that a really good Irish speaker would blurt out the whole 400 in one cosmic grunt. In Donegal there are native speakers who know so many million words that it is a matter of pride with them never to use the same word twice in a life-time. Their life (not to say their language) becomes very complex at the century mark; but there you are.
Tá litir fághalta agam o Muilte Farannáin adeir gur mithid go gcuirfí ar fagháil don lucht léighte, blúire eile den eolus atá in mo fhoclóir príobháideach féin (agus nách bhfuil in-aon foclóir eile). Seo thíos a bhfuil le leigheamh ar leathnach a 115.
Buachaill báire—a follower of Shels, a ball-faced youth, a moulder of suet balls.
Buachaill cúinne—a corner boy, a local boy who has turned the corner, a tool used by an unscrupulous wheat cartel.
Buachaill árd—a tallboy, one who tells tall stories, a youth addicted to looking over walls.
Buachaill Mara—a buoy, a sea scout.
Buachaill anbhruithe—a broth of a boy, a whey-face, a gruel complexioned wastling.
Buachaill Oidhche—an owl.
Buachaill Maidne—a peep o’day boy, a milkman’s nark, a hangover (facetious).
Buachaill Gunna—a garage ‘MEXICAN’ or greaser, a rowdy, a ‘Son of a gun’, a card, a terrible man.
Buachaill Siamsa—a play-boy, a waster, a tap-dancer, a jazzer, a George Raft.
Buachaill Soic—a nosey parker, a muzzle faced meddler, a van driver’s butty who has custody of the horse’s nosebag.
Buachaill Mála—a young Commercial Traveller, a young bag-eyed inebriate, a convict, a cat keeper, a ‘spook’ who stands on the fringe of strangers’ billiard games and retrieves the balls from the pockets, a ‘malley-boy’, a bag snatcher, a wearer of plus-fours, a porter, a ‘bags’.
FEACHTAR leat go beacht, a anam a liquoiuor, dánta grádha et corpus gean-fhilíocht fear Erenn (sraith moron nach maireann, farrier) et taréis infhiúchta, measta agus meaidhte na binnbhairdne sin duit, fíor go mbeidh deirhbiú agaibh, a léathóir, ar ar bhaineadar ár amateurs sinnseardha de thaithneamh, de shult et de chaitheamh—(cailín)—aimsire as an mbantracht. Binn a mbriathra, gasta a nglór, aicme narab mór mo bháidh; a gcáineadh is mairg nár loc; mairg adeir olc ris na mnáibh! Ita cecinit Gearóid Iarla, acht go deimhin is 6 baramhail an Mhíleasa úi cCopúláin gur ag faithbheadh ocus ag dénamh fonamhaide do bhí fitz fileata ngearailt an tan do grafadh ris an dréacht neaphróis odpertomor. Thamhéibhir bí deat as iot mé, iot ios ab-bhíos deait hí bheais neat iondifirint tú de féar séacs agus dearbhaimíd-ne (aos gCoupling) gurbh é a dhála-sa dála gacha bhaird có-aimseardha leis (et dála gacha bháird & beard & bird & bored & buyer & byre & Board & Bart & Bert & bear & Baer & beered & Byron noch aut olim in Ierne vixit). Ciodh trácht, a liuqcgrwthóir a anamchara, nach iongantach (ar fad) a annamhaighe is ainmnítear nó a sloinntear i rannaibh riartha rachtmhara roscacha ár sinnsear (rogers) adhbhar a suime teinntrighe? Or let me put it this way (I pray you): whereas we angle-irons, pardon me anglo-irish cry woo is Sylvier wot is she, or Lesbia hat a beaming i or Oh my poor Nellie Grey, níorbh’in gnás an tsein-fhile ghaedhealaigh: fear cúramach cigilteach discréideach abhi ann a thuig gur ró-mhaith an dídean an dorchadas agus nach mbionn an ráth acht mar a mbíonn an rún. Ba leisg leis dá bhrigh sin ainm, sloinneadh nó seoladh (nó fiú uimhir telefón—) a sheirce do scéitheadh nó do nochtadh—agus an tan dar leis go raibh sé riachtanach lideadh a thabhairt cé in Eirinn í agus gan aon dul-as aige, é sin do dhein sé sa chaoi go mbeadh sé deacair ag an gcoitchiantacht a h-aithint nec possint curiosi fascinare mala lingua. Agus é seo go léir fá ndear a leithéid seo d’fhilíocht, mairg an díol:
Coll is nion go nua-ghloine,
Is dá choll ar n-a gceangal,
Ruis is coll go cruadhshnigthe,
Ainm na mná so dam mealladh.
Seadh faith. Nó an amhlaidh go raibh an beautiful blonde spy beo in Eirinn sa tsean-aimsir (nó sa blackandtan-aimsir). Agent XP2. Please contact WR6, await instructions Ballyhickey. YSAKBN-576 will contact you Friday, please dress as bishop.
Cuid do dheireadh báid ós tuinn
Is seacht gcuill ar nach bid cna,
An t-ainm fá bhfuilim i mbroid;
Is aon do sgoil bheanfas as.
Smólach bheag agus lon dubh,
Agus naoi gcoill ’na gcruth féin,
Ainm na mná dá dtugas grádh,
Tré bhfuilim do ghnáth i bpéin.
Agus mar sin de. Acht cheana, tá teoiric agam féin maidir leis an ngean-fhilíocht seo go léir agus nílim ró-chinnte an raib cur-sios agam uirthi cheana. A leithéid seo—go bhfuil de dheacracht is de chastacht ins na meadarachtaí Gaedhilge gur cabhair ó Dhia don fhile an focal bean toisc go bhfuil fuaimeanna éagsúla aige do réir mar is tuiseal de .i. bean, mná, mnaoi, ban; agus dá bhrí sin go gcuireann na fili síos comh minic ar na mnáibh toisc an triall ceapadóireachta bheith níos fusa.
Mo chuidse den adhbhar, measaim gur chóir frainncis agus gaedhilg a mheascadh agus fille-eacht a thabhairt ar an obair seo go léir.
LAST WEEK we had a rather stern address over here———→* regarding the inadmissibility of the Irish language and although it is almost a gaffe for anybody who is qualified to speak on this subject to express opinions on it in the public prints, I feel I must speak out; otherwise there is the danger that the lying rumour will be spread by my enemies that I am silent because once again money has changed hands. (It cannot be too often repeated that I am not for sale. I was bought in 1921 and the transaction was final and conclusive.)
In my lordship’s view the movement to revive the Irish language should be persisted in. I hold that it is fallacious to offer the Irish people a simple choice between slums and Gaelic. (Indeed, it is hardly an adult attitude and is known in hibernian philosophy as the Ignoratio Mac Glinchy.) If this doctrine of bread alone were followed, we would have (for one thing) to divert the revenues of Trinity College to slum clearance, and Alton and I simply will not have this. The horrible charge is made that Mr de Valera is spending half a million a year on reviving Irish. I may be a wild paddy but I take the view that the free expenditure of public money on a cultural pursuit is one of the few boasts this country can make. Whether we get value for all the money spent on Irish, higher learning and on our university establishments is one question but that we spend liberally on these things is to our credit and when the great nations of the earth (whose civilisations we are so often asked to admire) are spending up to £100,000,000 (roughly) per day on destruction, it is surely no shame for our humble community of peasants to spend about £2,000 per day on trying to revive a language. It is the more urbane occupation. And what is half a million in relation to slum clearance? Faith now, could we be honest enough (for one moment) to admit to ourselves (in our heart of hearts) that there is another sort of Irish, and forced down people’s throats, too, and that we spend enough on it every year to re-build all Dublin.
Irish has an intrinsic significance which (naturally enough) must be unknown to those who condemn the language. It provides through its literature and dialects a great field for the pursuit of problems philological, historical and ethnological, an activity agreeable to all men of education and good-will. Moreover, the language itself is ingratiating by reason of its remoteness from European tongues and moulds of thought, its precision, elegance and capacity for the subtler literary nuances; it attracts even by its surpassing difficulty, for scarcely anybody living today can write or speak Irish correctly and exactly in the fashion of 300 years ago (and it may have been noticed that the one person qualified to attempt the feat has been too tired to try for the past two or three weeks). True Irish prose has a steely latinistic line that does not exist in the fragmented English patois. Here is a literal translation of a letter addressed by Hugh O’Neill to a hostile captain:—
‘Our blessing to ye, O Mac Coghlin: we received your letter and what we understand from her is that what you are at the doing of is but sweetness of word and spinning out of time. For our part of the subject, whatever person is not with us and will not wear himself out in the interest of justice, that person we understand to be a person against us. For that reason, in each place in which ye do your own good, pray do also our ill to the fullest extent ye can and we will do your ill to the absolute utmost of our ability, with God’s will. We being at Knockdoney Hill, 6 februarii, 1600.’
That seems to me to be an exceptional achievement in the sphere of written nastiness and the original exudes the charm attaching to all instances of complete precision in the use of words.
There is probably no basis at all for the theory that a people cannot preserve a separate national entity without a distinct language but it is beyond dispute that Irish enshrines the national ethos and in a subtle way Irish persists very vigorously in English. In advocating the preservation of Irish culture, it is not to be inferred that this culture is superior to the English or any other but simply that certain Irish modes are more comfortable and suitable for Irish people; otherwise these modes simply would not exist. It is therefore dangerous to discourage the use of Irish because the revival movement, even if completely ineffective, is a valuable preservative of certain native virtues and it is worth remembering that if Irish were to die completely, the standard of English here, both in the spoken and written word, would sink to a level probably as low as that obtaining in England and it would stop there only because it could go no lower. Not even the Editor of the Irish Times is an authority on the hidden wells which sustain the ageless western Irishman, and cannot have considered the vast ethnogenic problems inherent in a proposal to deprive him of one of his essential chattels. I admire Liverpool but if Cork is to become another Liverpool by reason of stupid admiration for the least worthy things in the English civilisation, then I can only say that the Corkmen will not live there any more, the mysterious language they speak, which is not Irish and certainly not English will be heard no more, and a race of harmless, charming and amusing people will have been extirpated.
There is another aspect to this question. Even if Irish had no value at all, the whole bustle of reviving it, the rows, the antagonisms, and the clashes surrounding the revival are interesting and amusing. There is a profusion of unconscious humour on both sides. The solemn humbugs who pronounce weightily on the Irish language while knowing absolutely nothing about it I hold to be no less valuable than monetary reformers in the business of entertaining the nation. The lads who believe that in slip-jigs we have a national prophylaxis make life less stark. And the public-spirited parties who write letters to the papers in illiterate English expressing concern at the harm the revival movement is doing to the standard of education generally are also of clownish significance. They all combine to make colour and to amuse.
To one and all I would say this, my hand upon my heart: Go your ways build and take down, capture and set free, gather in conclave and debate … but … do not tamper with the Irishman, touch not his sacred belongings, be solicitous that thy tongue contemneth not the smallest thing he may prize or the least thing he may love. For he is unique; if you kill him he cannot be replaced, and the world is poorer.
Sooner or later one comes back to this question of ‘compulsory Irish’ and from it that is not a long way off to the other question of teaching through the medium of Irish. It has been held that the teaching of ‘subjects’ other than fishing not through Irish but through the medium of Irish leads to a generation ‘illiterate in two languages’ and this venerable joke is expected to make us smile bitterly. Upon all this I claim to have an objective view inasmuch as I am an old Westminster man and I still prize the old battered Greek grammar that was placed in my infant hands in the old school. It was rather different with us English, I mean. One’s parent—persons, when one was ‘born’ entered one for the old school—the idea being that one should learn to fight that odd angular hereditament, one’s corner. Incidentally, as it were, one became educated—viz., one ‘learnt’ Greek. This grammar of mine has an amusing preface beginning: ALTERVM jam faeculum ad finem vergit, cum vir pietate et doctrina praestans, Edwardus Grantus…and then, anti-climax … scholae regiae Weftmonafterienfis moderator … Graecam grammaticam in ufam scholae ejufdem publicavit … (Terrible men for lifping in those days!) But anyway this old boy (I think he must have been one of the first University Grants before the County Councils came along) goes on to say Graecae linguae fpicilegium prae modeftia appellare ipfi placuit…(Prae modeftia, eh?) I admit I never got beyond the first page of that grammar—Graecae grammaticae, I remember it said, quattuor funt partes: orthographia, etymologia, fyntaxis et profodia …
No doubt you see what I’m getting at. It’s not so much that you have to be got out of your mother’s way for a few years before you go up to Oxford; the point is that education means H.M. Humanities, i.e. one learns Greek and the grammar is in Latin because, of course, one already knows Latin. Our Irish educationalists, in reviving Irish, are therefore proceeding in a well-tried classical tradition.
*i.e., in the editorial columns of the Irish Times.