Ireland for three generations has been like those churlish logicians. Everything is argued over, everything has to take its trial before the dull sense and the hasty judgment, and the character of the nation has so changed that it hardly keeps but among country people, or where some family tradition is still stubborn, those lineaments that made Borrow cry out as he came from among the Irish monks, his friends and entertainers for all his Spanish Bible scattering, Oh, Ireland, mother of the bravest soldiers and of the most beautiful women!
Not that Synge brought out of the struggle with himself any definite philosophy, for philosophy in the common meaning of the word is created out of an anxiety for sympathy or obedience, and he was that rare, that distinguished, that most noble thing, which of all things still of the world is nearest to being sufficient to itself, the pure artist. Sir Philip Sidney complains of those who could hear sweet tunes (by which he understands could look upon his lady) and not bestirred to ravishing delight.
It was as I believe, to seek that old Ireland which took its mould from the duellists and scholars of the 18th century and from generations older still, that Synge returned again and again to Aran, to Kerry, and to the wild Blaskets.
Or if they do delight therein, yet are so closed with wit, As with sententious lips to set a title vain on it; Oh let them hear these sacred tunes, and learn in Wonders schools To be, in things past bonds of wit, fools if they be not fools!
