Part 2

The theories of the author regarding the speaking of verse I hold to be mistaken; I do not think they are capable to realization even by trained actors and actresses, but the attempt of our “poor mummers of a time-worn spring,” was, indeed, lamentable. Many times I prayed during the last act that the curtain might come down at once. Nevertheless, the performance of _The Countess Cathleen_ was not in vain. The beauty of the play was so intense that it was seen through the ridiculous representation as the outline of a Greek statue through the earth it is being dug out of. _The Countess Cathleen_ awakened in all who saw it a sense of beauty. I think a sense of beauty once awakened is immortal. I do not think anyone who ponders over a piece of antique sculpture, shall we say a broken bas-relief from Pompeii, ever forgets that keen sense of beauty which arises in his heart, and the imperfect and broken representations of _The Countess Cathleen_ awakened in me just such a sense of beauty as I have experienced in dim museums, looking at some worn and broken bas-relief.

The performances of our plays were so successful that the managers of the Gaiety Theatre asked us to produce our next plays in their theatre, and so confident were they of the ultimate success of our enterprise that they offered us their theatre on the same terms they gave to an ordinary troop of mummers. It is more difficult for me to speak of the second performances than of the first, because I undertook to re-write Mr. Martyn’s play, _A Tale of a Town_, a play which the Irish Literary Theatre did not think advisable to produce. The public will soon have an opportunity of judging our judgment, for Mr. Martyn has decided to publish the original text of his play. So much of the character of his play was lost in my rewriting that the two plays have very little in common, except the names of the personages and the number of acts. The Comedy, entitled, _The Bending of the Bough_, was written in two months, and two months are really not sufficient time to write a five act comedy in; and, at Mr. Martyn’s request, my name alone was put on the title page. Mr. Martyn’s _Maive_ did not gain by representation, it was inadequately acted, and the idea of the play is clearer in the printed text than it was on the stage. But all who saw the play will remember it; it will flash across their minds, and will become more and more realizable with time.

This year _Diarmuid and Grania_ will be given, and though it is longer by two acts than Dr. Hyde’s play, it is not so important, for the three act play is written in English, and the one act play is written in Irish. Dr. Hyde’s play will be the first Irish play produced in a Dublin theatre: I thought till the other day that it would be the first Irish play produced in Dublin, but now I hear that the organization called _Inghean na h-Eireann_ has produced at the Antient Concert Rooms (it was in this room that _The Countess Cathleen_ and _The Heather Field_ were performed), a play in Irish. In a way it would have pleased our vanity to have been the first in Dublin with an Irish play, but this would have been a base vanity, and unworthy a Gaelic Leaguer. There has been no more disinterested movement than the Gaelic League. It has worked for the sake of the language without hope of reward or praise; and if I were asked why I put my faith in the movement I would answer that to believe that a movement distinguished by so much self sacrifice could fail, would be like believing in the failure of goodness itself.

Since we began our work plays have been written, some in Irish and some in English, and we shall be forgiven if we take a little credit for having helped to awaken intellectual life in Ireland. Many will think I am guilty of exaggeration when I say that The Irish Literary Theatre has done more to awaken intellectual life in Ireland than Trinity College. The Irish Literary Theatre is the centre of a literary movement, and our three years have shown that an endowed theatre may be of more intellectual service to a community than a university or a public library.

GEORGE MOORE.

Footnote 1:

I do not want dramatic blank verse to be chanted, as people understand that word, but I do not want actors to speak as prose what I have taken much trouble to write as verse. Lyrical verse is another matter, and that I hope to hear spoken to musical notes in some theatre some day.--Editor of SAMHAIN.

A Plea for a National Theatre in Ireland.

There are many movements now for the encouragement of Irish manufacture in all its branches and for preventing the scandalous outpouring of Irish money into the pockets of Englishmen and other foreigners. Quite recently a movement has been started to turn the enormous demand for church art from the workshop of the foreign _tradesman_, and to get it supplied by the native Irish _artist_. It is impossible to calculate the sum of money that this will save the country. It will be enormous. Two such able and practical men as Mr. Horace Plunkett, and Mr. T. P. Gill are so convinced of this that they have decided to form a school for teaching the making of stained glass as a branch of the School of Art in Dublin, and have procured a teacher from probably the greatest master of the art in modern times. We shall thus have stained glass of the highest excellence executed by Irishmen in Ireland.

But there is another form of art besides church art in Ireland which needs reform, and for which there is an equally large demand, supplied, as usual, by the foreigner, and, as usual, badly supplied, almost invariably. I refer to the plays supplied to our theatres by strolling English companies of actors. It would be interesting to know how much money yearly those companies take out of Ireland as a reward for Anglicising and corrupting the taste of the Irish people. It must be as enormous even as the sum we pay the foreign purveyor of church art for disfiguring our churches. We have grappled with and, I think, solved the problem of nationalising church art. Is it not time that our dramatic art also should be placed on a national basis? Are we so degenerate that we cannot meet this demand also by a supply of national art? The first requisite is to provide a stock company of native artists because the foreign strollers are too wedded to the debased art of England to fall in with the change. This can only be done by instituting a school for the training of actors and actresses, a most important branch of which should be devoted to teaching them to act plays in the Irish language. Now it is quite legal and feasible to obtain a grant from the Department of Technical Instruction for this purpose which is the same in principle as the teaching of stained glass manufacture. It is a home industry in the best sense, and means a vast economic saving to the country, besides being a most refining educational influence upon the artistic and moral character of the nation. I think it will not be difficult to make the enlightened Vice-President and Secretary of the Department understand this.

With a company of artists such as I have described we might put before the people of Ireland native works, also translations of the dramatic masterworks of all lands, for it is only by accustoming a public to the highest art that it can be led to appreciate art, and that dramatists may be inspired to work in the great art tradition.

EDWARD MARTYN.

The Legend of Diarmuid and Grania.

At the time that Finn MacCumhail was getting to be old, and Oisin his son was a strong grown man, it came into his mind to find another wife, for it was a long time since his wife that was daughter of Maighneis Mac Moirne had died from him. And the one he set his mind on was Grania, daughter of Cormac, King of Tara, the most beautiful of the women of Ireland. Her father was willing to give her, for Finn had a great name in Ireland, and all was settled, and a feast was made ready.

But when Finn, and the chief men of the Fianna, came for the wedding, and Grania saw him, and that he looked to be older than her father, Cormac, with the hardships and the fighting he had gone through, she had no mind to marry him, but she looked around at the men that were with him, and she set her mind there and then upon Diarmuid, grand-son of Duibhne, that was young and comely, and that was called the best lover of woman to be found in the whole world.

So she called for a vessel of ale, and she put an enchantment of sleep in the ale, and then she gave a drink of it to Finn, and to the most of the men that were there, and they had no sooner tasted it than a deep sleep came upon them.

But she gave none of the ale to Diarmuid, but she bade him to bring her away out of the house before Finn and her father would awake. And he was not willing at first to meddle with a woman that was promised to Finn MacCumhail, but in the end he brought her away, and all in the house lying in their sleep, but only Oisin and Caoilte and Oscar.

When Finn awoke from his sleep there was great anger on him, and he sent his men to follow the tracks of Diarmuid and Grania, and it is what he told them, that if they did not come up with them at the first ford, he would hang them from each side of it. And this was the beginning of the hunting of Diarmuid and Grania by Finn all through Ireland, that lasted seven years. And all through that time they had many hardships and many escapes, and it is a wonder how they went through all they did, but there were some that helped them.

One time they were at Doire dha Bhoth, and Finn came very near them and was pressing on; but Oisin sent a warning to them through Finn’s own hound, Bran, that had as great a love for Diarmuid as he had for his own master. And the hound found them in their sleep in an enclosed place they had made, with seven doors to it, and he thrust his head into Diarmuid’s bosom and awaked him. But it would have gone hard with them even then, but Angus Og, son of the Dagda, that knew of their danger, came and brought Grania away with him to Dos da Shoileach under the cover of his cloak. And as for Diarmuid, he took his sword, and stood up like a straight pillar in the enclosed place. And Finn put a man at every one of the seven doors to guard it, and Diarmuid would not go out by any door but the one Finn himself was guarding, for the other men of the Fianna were some of them his dear friends, and he would not bring Finn’s anger on them by escaping through the door they had in their charge. But he took the shaft of his spear in his hand, and gave a very high light leap over the door where Finn was, and slipped away beyond him and his people, and then he looked back and called out to them that he had passed them, and he slung his shield upon his back, and followed Grania westwards.

And then they two went on by themselves, and it was the advice Angus gave them, not to go into a cave that had but one opening, or into an island that had but one harbour, and wherever they would cook their food, not to eat it there, and wherever they would eat, not to sleep in that place, for all the time Finn would be following after them.

And after that they went along the Siona to the marshy bog of Finnliath, and there they met with a young man, and he said his name was Muadhan, and that he would serve them by day and watch for them by night. And that evening he made a bed of soft rushes and birch tops for them in a cave, and then he broke off a straight rod from a quicken tree, and he put a hair on it and a fork, and a berry on the fork, and went and stood by a stream, and with the three berries he dropped in the stream, he brought up three fishes. And he cooked the three fishes on a spit, and he gave the biggest to Diarmuid and the second biggest to Grania, and the one that was smallest he kept for himself. And after a while Muadhan left them, and they travelled on to Slieve Echtge, and Grania began to be tired out, but Diarmuid made a hut in the very heart of the wood, and killed a deer, and he and Grania eat and drank their fill of meat and of pure water. And Diarmuid went to the Searbhan Lochlannach, the surly one of Lochlinn, that kept the wood, and got leave from him to hunt and kill deer, so long as he would not meddle with the berries, that grew on the quicken-tree of Dubhros. That was a tree that had grown from a berry that was dropped by the Tuatha De Danaan one time when they were playing a game of hurling with the Fianna, and whoever eat these berries was free from all sickness after, and felt like as if he had been drinking wine. But the Tuatha De Danaan had sent the Searbhan Lochlannach to guard over the tree, and he slept in its top by night and stopped at its foot by day, and no one dared come near it. But when Grania heard of these berries a great desire and longing came on her, and she said she would never lie down on a bed again, but would lose her life, if she could not get some of them, to taste them.

So Diarmuid went to the fierce giant, the Searbhan, that had made a desert of the place about him, and asked some of the berries, but he would not give them. And Diarmuid would not do treachery on him, but he attacked him then and there, and they fought fair, and the Searbhan gave him great strokes with his club, but Diarmuid killed him in the end.

Then Grania came to the tree, and he plucked berries from the branches and he gave them to her. And then they went up into the top of the tree where the Searbhan had made his bed, and the berries below were but bitter berries beside those that were above in the tree.

And Finn was following close after them, and he came to the foot of the tree, and he and his men eat their fill of the berries, and they sat down to rest through the heat of the day. And Finn asked for a chessboard, and himself and Oisin sat down to play. And after they had played awhile, Finn had come near to win, and there was only one move for Oisin to make, and he did not see it. Then Diarmuid, from the top of the tree, took aim with a berry at the man that should be moved, and hit it; and Oisin moved that man and turned the game against Finn. And the same thing happened a second and a third time, and then Diarmuid struck the third berry on the man that would win the game, and Oisin moved it, and all the Fianna let out a great shout. Then Diarmuid stood up in the top of the tree, and caught Grania to him and gave her three kisses, and the seven battalions of the Fianna standing around. And great anger and jealousy and a great weakness came on Finn when he saw that, and he called out to Diarmuid that he would lose his life for those three kisses.

And he would have made an end of him then and there, but Angus came to their help again, and he took Diarmuid’s shape and appearance on him, and came to the foot of the tree, so that Finn’s men attacked him, and Diarmuid gave a light leap from the tree and went away from them. And then Angus took Grania under his druid mantle, and brought her away to the Brugh na Buinne, and Diarmuid followed them there. And while they were there, Finn sent an old hag that was his foster-mother, and that had knowledge of witchcraft, to try could she make an end of Diarmuid. And he chanced to be out by himself, hunting. And the hag took a drowned leaf, and rose on it in a blast of cold wind, and came near Diarmuid, and began to strike at him from above, so that he was never in such great danger before, but at the last he made a cast of his spear that reached to the hag through the leaf, so that she fell dead on the spot.

But after that, Angus made a peace between Diarmuid and Grania on the one side, and Finn on the other side. And the place they settled in was Rath Grania in Ben Bulben, and the people used to be saying there was no man in Ireland richer in sheep and cattle and gold and silver than Diarmuid was at that time.

But after a while Grania said it was a shame that the two best men in Ireland, her father Cormac and Finn Mac Cumhail, had never come to her house. And she made a great feast and brought them there.

Now it had been foretold that it was by a wild boar Diarmuid would get his death, and he was put under bonds never to join in the hunting of one. But one day he was hunting with Finn, and they came on the track of a boar, and Diarmuid left Finn and followed after the boar by himself, and it stopped and faced him. And Diarmuid made a cast of his spear at it, but it did not so much as give it a wound or a scratch. But at the last he killed it with the hilt of his sword, for the sword itself was broken, but before he did that, the boar had given him a deadly wound.

It was at this time Finn came up with him, and looked at him, and it is what he said, that he was glad to see his beauty turned to ugliness, and that he would like all the women of Ireland to be looking at him now. And Diarmuid asked him for a drink from the palms of his hands, that might cure him. And Finn was bringing him the water, but when the thought of Grania came upon him, he let it spill through his fingers, and the life went out from Diarmuid. When Grania heard of that, she made a great mourning and a great keening. And she gave it out that she was making all ready to bring a great vengeance on Finn, and to get satisfaction for Diarmuid’s death.

But after a while, Finn went secretly to the place where she was and got to see her, in spite of all her high words. And whatever she said to him or he said to her, when he came back to the seven battalions of the Fianna that were waiting for him, there was Grania coming with him, like any new wife with her husband. And when the Fianna saw that, they gave three great shouts of laughter and mockery. And some said the change had come on her because the mind of every woman changes like the water in a running stream; but some said it was Finn that had put enchantment on her.

A. G.

CASADH an tSUGÁIN.

DRAMA AON-GHNÍMH.

NA DAOINE:--

TOMÁS O h-ANNRACHÁIN, _file Connachtach atá ar seachrán_. MÁIRE NÍ RÍOGÁIN, _bean an tighe_. ÚNA, _inghean Mháire_. SÉAMUS O h-IARAINN, _atá luaidhte le Úna_. SÍGHLE, _cómharsa do Mháire_.

_Píobaire, cómharsanna agus daoine eile._

ÁIT:--

_Teach feilméir i gCúige Múmhan céad bliadhan ó shoin. Tá fir agus mná ag dul tríd a chéile in san tigh, no ’na seasamh cois na mballa, amhail agus dá mbeith damhsa críochnuighthe aca. Tá Tomás O h-Annracháin ag caint le Úna i bhfíor-thosach na stáide. Tá an píobaire ag fásgadh a phíobaidh air, le tosughadh ar sheinm arís, acht do bheir Séamas O h-Iarainn deoch chuige, agus stadann sé. Tagann fear óg go h-Úna le n-a tabhairt amach ar an urlár chum damhsa, acht diúltann sí dhó._

ÚNA--Ná bí m’bhodhrughadh anois. Nach bhfeiceann tú go bhfuil mé ag éisteacht le n-a bhfuil seisean d’á rádh liom. [_Leis an h-Annrachánach_]: Lean leat, cad é sin do bhí tú ’rádh ar ball?

TOMÁS O h-ANNRACHÁIN--Cad é do bhí an bodach sin d’á iarraidh ort?

ÚNA--Ag iarraidh damhsa orm, do bhí sé, acht ní thiúbhrainn dó é.

MAC UI h-ANN.--Is cinnte nach dtiubhrá. Is dóigh, ní mheasann tú go leigfinn-se do dhuine ar bith damhsa leat, chomh fhad agus tá mise ann so. A! a Úna, ní raibh sólás ná sócamhail agam le fada go dtáinig mé ann so anocht agus go bhfacaidh mé thusa!

ÚNA--Cad é an sólás duit mise?

MAC UI h-ANN.--Nuair a bhfuil maide leath-dhóighte in san teine, nach bhfághann sé sólás nuair dóirtear uisge air?

ÚNA--Is dóigh, ní’l tusa leath-dhóighte.

MAC UI h-ANN.--Tá mé, agus tá trí ceathramhna de mo chroidhe, dóighte agus loisgthe agus caithte, ag troid leis an saoghal, agus an saoghal ag troid liom-sa.

ÚNA--Ní fhéachann tú chomh dona sin!

MAC UI h-ANN.--Uch! a Úna ní Ríogáin, ní’l aon eólas agad-sa ar bheatha an bháird bhoicht, atágan teach gan téagar gan tíoghbhas, acht é ag imtheacht agus ag síor-imtheacht le fán ar fud an tsaoghail mhóir, gan duine ar bith leis acht é féin. Ní’l maidin in san tseachtmhain nuair éirighim suas nach n-abraim liom féin go mb’fheárr dham an uaigh ’ná an seachrán. Ní’l aon rud ag seasamh dh’am acht an bronntanus do fuair mé ó Dhia--mo chuid abhrán. Nuair thosaighim orra sin, imthigheann mo bhrón agus mo bhuaidhreadh dhíom, agus ní chuimhnighim níos mó ar mo ghéar-chrádh agus ar mo mhí-ádh. Agus anois, ó chonnaic mé thusa, a Úna, chím go bhfuil rud eile ann, níos binne ’ná na h-abhráin féin!

ÚNA--Is iongantach an bronntanus ó Dhia an bhárduigheacht. Chomh fada agus tá sin agad nach bhfuil tú níos saidhbhre na lucht stuic agus stóir, lucht bó agus eallaigh.

MAC UI h-ANN.--A! a Úna, is mór an bheannacht acht is mór an mhallacht, leis, do dhuine é do bheith ’na bhárd. Feuch mise! bhfuil caraid agam ar an saoghal so? Bhfuil fear beó ar mhaith leis mé? Bhfuil grádh ag duine ar bith orm? Bím ag imtheacht, mo chadhan bocht aonránach, ar fud an tsaoghail, mar Oisín andiaigh na Féinne. Bíonn fuath ag h-uile dhuine orm, ní’l fuath agad-sa orm, a Úna?

ÚNA--Ná h-abair rud mar sin, ní féidir go bhfuil fuath ag duine ar bith ort-sa.

MAC UI h-ANN.--Tar liom agus suidhfimid i gcúinne an tighe le chéile agus déarfaidh mé dhuit an t-abhrán do rinne mé dhuit. Is ort-sa rinneas é.

[_Imthigheann siad go dtí an coirneull is faide ón stáid, agus suidheann siad anaice le chéile_].

[_Tig Síghle asteach_].

SÍGHLE--Tháinig mé chugad chomh luath agus d’fheud mé.

MÁIRE--Céad fáilte rómhad.

SÍGHLE--Cad tá ar siúbhal agad anois?

MÁIRE--Ag tosughadh atámuid. Bhí aon phort amháin againn, agus anois tá an píobaire ag ól dighe. Tosóchaidh an damhsa arís nuair bhéidheas an píobaire réidh.

SÍGHLE--Tá na daoine ag bailiughadh asteach go maith, béidh damhsa breágh againn.

MÁIRE--Béidh a Shíghle, acht tá fear aca ann agus b’fhearr liom amuigh ná astigh é! Feuch é.

SÍGHLE--Is ar an bhfear fada donn atá tú ag caint, nach eadh? An fear sin atá ag cómhrádh chomh dlúth sin le Úna in san gcoirneull anois. Cá’r b’as é, no cia h-é féin?

MÁIRE--Sin é an sgraiste is mó tháinig i n-Éirinn ariamh. Tomás O h-Annracháin thugann siad air, acht Tomás Rógaire budh chóir do bhaisteadh air, i gceart. Óra! nach raibh an mí-ádh orm, é do theacht asteach chugainn, chor ar bith, anocht!

SÍGHLE--Cia ’n sórt duine é? Nach fear déanta abhrán as Chonnachtaibh é? Chualaidh mé caint air, cheana, agus deir siad nach bhfuil damhsóir eile i n-Éirinn chomh maith leis: budh mhaith liom a fheicsint ag damhsa.

MÁIRE--Gráin go deó ar an mbitheamhnach! Tá’s agam-sa go ró mhaith cia ’n cineál atá ann, mar bhí sórt carthanais idir é féin agus an chéad-fhear do bhí agam-sa, agus is minic chualaidh mé ó Dhiarmuid bocht (go ndéanaidh Dia trócaire air!) cia ’n sórt duine bhí ann. Bhí sé ’na mháighistir sgoile, shíos i gConnachtaibh, acht bhíodh h-uile chleas aige budh mheasa ná a chéile. Ag síor-dheanamh abhrán do bhíodh sé, agus ag ól uisge beatha, agus ag cur imris ar bonn ameasg na gcómharsan le n-a chuid cainte. Deir siad nach bhfuil bean in sna cúig cúigibh nach meallfadh sé. Is measa é ná Dómhnall na Gréine fad ó. Acht budh é deireadh an sgéil gur ruaig an sagart amach as an bparráiste é ar fad. Fuair sé áit eile ann sin, acht lean sé do na cleasannaibh céadna, gur ruaigeadh amach arís é, agus arís eile, leis. Agus anois ní’l áit ná teach ná dadaidh aige acht é bheith ag gabhail na tíre, ag déanamh abhrán agus ag fághail lóistín na h-oidhche ó na daoinibh. Ní dhiúltóchaidh duine ar bith é, mar tá faitcheas orra roimhe. Is mór an file é, agus b’éidir go ndéanfadh sé rann ort do ghreamóchadh go deó dhuit, dá gcuirfeá fearg air.

SÍGHLE--Go bhfóiridh Dia orrainn. Acht créad do thug asteach anocht é?