' Across the villages
of fishermen and turners of the earth, so different are these from us,
we can write but one line that is certain, 'Here are ghosts.
of fishermen and turners of the earth, so different are these from us,
we can write but one line that is certain, 'Here are ghosts.
Yeats
Both seek--one
in wandering sentences, the other in symbolic pictures and subtle
allegoric poetry--to express a something that lies beyond the range of
expression; and both, if X---- will forgive me, have within them the vast
and vague extravagance that lies at the bottom of the Celtic heart. The
peasant visionaries that are, the landlord duellists that were, and the
whole hurly-burly of legends--Cuchulain fighting the sea for two days
until the waves pass over him and he dies, Caolte storming the palace
of the gods, Oisin seeking in vain for three hundred years to appease
his insatiable heart with all the pleasures of faeryland, these two
mystics walking up and down upon the mountains uttering the central
dreams of their souls in no less dream-laden sentences, and this mind
that finds them so interesting--all are a portion of that great Celtic
phantasmagoria whose meaning no man has discovered, nor any angel
revealed.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] I wrote this sentence long ago. This sadness now seems to me a part
of all peoples who preserve the moods of the ancient peoples of the
world. I am not so pre-occupied with the mystery of Race as I used to
be, but leave this sentence and other sentences like it unchanged. We
once believed them, and have, it may be, not grown wiser.
VILLAGE GHOSTS
IN the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our
minority. In the little towns and villages there are no minorities;
people are not numerous enough. You must see the world there, perforce.
Every man is himself a class; every hour carries its new challenge.
When you pass the inn at the end of the village you leave your
favourite whimsy behind you; for you will meet no one who can share
it. We listen to eloquent speaking, read books and write them, settle
all the affairs of the universe. The dumb village multitudes pass on
unchanging; the feel of the spade in the hand is no different for all
our talk: good seasons and bad follow each other as of old. The dumb
multitudes are no more concerned with us than is the old horse peering
through the rusty gate of the village pound. The ancient map-makers
wrote across unexplored regions, 'Here are lions.
' Across the villages
of fishermen and turners of the earth, so different are these from us,
we can write but one line that is certain, 'Here are ghosts. '
My ghosts inhabit the village of H----, in Leinster. History has in no
manner been burdened by this ancient village, with its crooked lanes,
its old abbey churchyard full of long grass, its green background of
small fir-trees, and its quay, where lie a few tarry fishing-luggers.
In the annals of entomology it is well known. For a small bay lies
westward a little, where he who watches night after night may see a
certain rare moth fluttering along the edge of the tide, just at the
end of evening or the beginning of dawn. A hundred years ago it was
carried here from Italy by smugglers in a cargo of silks and laces.
If the moth-hunter would throw down his net, and go hunting for ghost
tales or tales of the faeries and such-like children of Lilith, he
would have need for far less patience.
To approach the village at night a timid man requires great strategy. A
man was once heard complaining, 'By the cross of Jesus! how shall I go?
If I pass by the hill of Dunboy old Captain Burney may look out on me.
If I go round by the water, and up by the steps, there is the headless
one and another on the quays, and a new one under the old churchyard
wall. If I go right round the other way, Mrs. Stewart is appearing at
Hillside Gate, and the devil himself is in the Hospital Lane. '
I never heard which spirit he braved, but feel sure it was not the one
in the Hospital Lane. In cholera times a shed had been there set up
to receive patients.
in wandering sentences, the other in symbolic pictures and subtle
allegoric poetry--to express a something that lies beyond the range of
expression; and both, if X---- will forgive me, have within them the vast
and vague extravagance that lies at the bottom of the Celtic heart. The
peasant visionaries that are, the landlord duellists that were, and the
whole hurly-burly of legends--Cuchulain fighting the sea for two days
until the waves pass over him and he dies, Caolte storming the palace
of the gods, Oisin seeking in vain for three hundred years to appease
his insatiable heart with all the pleasures of faeryland, these two
mystics walking up and down upon the mountains uttering the central
dreams of their souls in no less dream-laden sentences, and this mind
that finds them so interesting--all are a portion of that great Celtic
phantasmagoria whose meaning no man has discovered, nor any angel
revealed.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] I wrote this sentence long ago. This sadness now seems to me a part
of all peoples who preserve the moods of the ancient peoples of the
world. I am not so pre-occupied with the mystery of Race as I used to
be, but leave this sentence and other sentences like it unchanged. We
once believed them, and have, it may be, not grown wiser.
VILLAGE GHOSTS
IN the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our
minority. In the little towns and villages there are no minorities;
people are not numerous enough. You must see the world there, perforce.
Every man is himself a class; every hour carries its new challenge.
When you pass the inn at the end of the village you leave your
favourite whimsy behind you; for you will meet no one who can share
it. We listen to eloquent speaking, read books and write them, settle
all the affairs of the universe. The dumb village multitudes pass on
unchanging; the feel of the spade in the hand is no different for all
our talk: good seasons and bad follow each other as of old. The dumb
multitudes are no more concerned with us than is the old horse peering
through the rusty gate of the village pound. The ancient map-makers
wrote across unexplored regions, 'Here are lions.
' Across the villages
of fishermen and turners of the earth, so different are these from us,
we can write but one line that is certain, 'Here are ghosts. '
My ghosts inhabit the village of H----, in Leinster. History has in no
manner been burdened by this ancient village, with its crooked lanes,
its old abbey churchyard full of long grass, its green background of
small fir-trees, and its quay, where lie a few tarry fishing-luggers.
In the annals of entomology it is well known. For a small bay lies
westward a little, where he who watches night after night may see a
certain rare moth fluttering along the edge of the tide, just at the
end of evening or the beginning of dawn. A hundred years ago it was
carried here from Italy by smugglers in a cargo of silks and laces.
If the moth-hunter would throw down his net, and go hunting for ghost
tales or tales of the faeries and such-like children of Lilith, he
would have need for far less patience.
To approach the village at night a timid man requires great strategy. A
man was once heard complaining, 'By the cross of Jesus! how shall I go?
If I pass by the hill of Dunboy old Captain Burney may look out on me.
If I go round by the water, and up by the steps, there is the headless
one and another on the quays, and a new one under the old churchyard
wall. If I go right round the other way, Mrs. Stewart is appearing at
Hillside Gate, and the devil himself is in the Hospital Lane. '
I never heard which spirit he braved, but feel sure it was not the one
in the Hospital Lane. In cholera times a shed had been there set up
to receive patients.
