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in English translation. One man could do this excellently, Dr. Douglas Hyde, whose "Love Songs of Connaught" is a book so dear to every lover of the Celtic muse, and selections from which are among the most delightful contents in Mr. Stopford Brooke's and Mr. Rolleston's anthology. Well done, and in a rhythmic prose as nearly literal as practicable rather than in verse (or, if Dr. Hyde were the translator, both in a near prose and a metrical version), a volume such as suggested would indeed be a treasure-trove.

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I confess that I made one mistake when I took up the "Treasury of Irish Poetry." That was to read much in it. before I read the Introduction to the volume by Mr. Stopford Brooke. The reader should not do likewise. For Mr. Brooke exposes both what were the editorial aims and what are the admitted restrictions of this anthology, and, too accomplished a critic to allow national predilection to control judgment and taste, admits frankly, in effect, that here we have rather the material and promise of great art than great art itself. think he sums up admirably what so many have variously said, and all concerned do in one way or the other strongly feel, on the question of the linguistic vehicle for Irish thought and Irish emotion and the Irish genius. "England naturally wished to get rid of the Irish tongue and was naturally careless of its literature; Ireland itself, and that was a pity, did not care enough about her own tongue to preserve it as a vehicle for literature; and, finally, her poets and thinkers were steadily driven to use the English language. Much has been lost by this distinction of a literary language, but much also been gained. If Irish can again be used as a vehicle for literature, so much the better. few are now making that endeavor, and all intelligent persons will wish them

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good luck and success. It is no disadvantage to a man or a country to be bilingual, and the teaching and use of the Irish tongue will throw light upon the ancient form of it, enable scholars to understand it better, and increase our knowledge of its treasures. Moreover, there are many realms of imaginative feeling in Ireland which cannot be justly put into poetic form except in the tongue of the country itself. No other vehicle can express them so well. On the other hand, the gain to Irishmen of speaking and writing in English is very great. It enables them to put their national aspirations, and the thoughts and passions which are best expressed in poetry, into a language which is fast becoming universal. It enables them to tell the world of literature of the ancient myths, legends, and stories of Ireland, and to represent them, in a modern dress, by means of a language which is read and understood by millions of folk in every part of the world. These considerations lie at the root of the matter, and if Irish writers do not deviate into an imitation of English literature, but cling close to the spirit of their native. land, they will do well for their country when they use the English tongue."

That is wisely put, and great good would come both to the Irish writer and the English critic of Anglo-Gaelic literature if it were adequately understood by each. Each stands in a false position till he sees clearly that "Irish poetry, if it is to be a power in literature, must be as Irish as English poetry is English."

Nowhere in social energy is provincialism so wearisome as in the domain of the mind, and no literary species could be more swiftly fugitive than a Scoto-Gaelic or Irish-Gaelic literature whose central effort was "to be English." I have written elsewhere (and having thought much on the subject,

and written carefully out of that thought, naturally been misunderstood and misrepresented by those who have not that habit of the mind which permits intellectual patience) that there can be no English literature but what conforms to the genius of the English language. Nothing can survive that is not of the central stream. The whole effort of art, as an intellectual energy, is to achieve the centre. If Irish or Scottish or Welsh or Canadian or American poets cannot accept the logic of an inevitable law, let them write in Gaelic or the Scots dialect, or in Irish or Welsh, or create a new Canadian or a new American speech. But if they would achieve in beauty in English, they must conform to the tradition of English, to the genius of the English language. When the mysterious signal is. come, all the salmon in the inland streams move towards the sea, to quench in its deep founts their ancestral thirst for the unknown. The wise seek the centre of their sweeping currents, and are borne from the river courses to the vast eternal flood. What of the unwise? Those who escape the common foe of man or bird or otter, their bodies are in the sedges, or they are trapped in a slow death in narrow backwaters, or are caught in pools sunken too far for the most desperate leap.

But to write for the centre-that is, to compel the wisely reluctant genius of a matured language to yield the secret of its power to charm, and to be content with nothing short of this compulsion or with no lesser company than the company of those who have striven and won-is not, in the instance of those we have in mind, the same thing as to be English, or to imitate what is English, or to cease to be Irish or Scottish or Welsh. No one can hold with more eager and deep conviction that the

Irish writer must be Irish in heart and mind and spirit, and the Highland or Island Gael be Gaelic in heart and mind and spirit, and the Welsh writer be Welsh in heart and mind and spirit. But we have all to write in English, or choose to do so; and, the moment we have made that choice, we have to be on guard against the fatal intellectual provincialism which deprecates the essential and vital genius in the very goal which it is its effort to reach. "The very language is hateful to me," an Irishman whom I know is reported to have exclaimed but he has no ambition greater than to achieve in that language, whose lesser use is also his bread, and the knowledge of which is his sole means of expression. It were better, I think, to learn some other tongue.

Emerson might have written his essays in Choctaw, or Poe his lyrics in Seminole, or Mr. Yeats his poetry in Sligo Gaelic: but they did not: and the sole concern we have with what they have offered us is as to the quality of the mental or spiritual emotion within the poem or essay, and as to the fashioning in English (their birth-raiment, their life-raiment, and, if so to be, their raiment for immortality) of the "embroidered cloths" in which they have come out to us from the House of the Spirit. If Emerson had not been Emerson, but another, or many masquerading under that name, or if Poe had not been Poe, but another, or many masquerading under that name, they would not be of the centre, but be provincial and forgotten. But the one was a great writer and the other a great poet because they were national at the springs of genius; because each was individual in his own eccentric quest and achievement for the rainbow that somewhere awaits every word; and because each was universal in the final expression the

one gave to his thought and the other to his emotion, and univesal by a ceaseless expense in effort and a constant economy in result in order to achieve that tradition of the centre, English Literature-a tradition as real and imperative for them, writers in English though born of another nation, as for Goldsmith or Swift or Walter Scott. No Irishman could be more truly a nationalist, in the best sense, than Walter Scott was a Scot: but the genius of this provincial squire led him straight to the core of the one speech common to us all, and to the recognition that mastery of it could be attained only by acceptance of the inevitable laws of its central tradition. To this day he is so essentially Scottish that he stands for Scotland, bat in his genius he comprises many lands, and utters the supreme and universal tongue which is of no land. In some sort, this must be the ideal of every artist using words as his means of expression, the still words quickened into the shape and color whic.. make living English.

and every one with the real interest of Anglo-Gaelic literature at heart, lays so imperative insistence on the element of nationality. Those English critics who would see Ireland, Scotland and Wales denationalized, in the domain of lettersas in the domain of politics, are foolish as well as unjust, for they do but sap the strong sea-walls built to keep back the floods. English Letters has to-day, with its ever-rising waste of worthlessfiction and incompetent comment, enough to do without urging the Celtic contingents to work in the same grooves, and with the same outworn conventions! As for those of us, whether north of the Highland line or west of the Manx Sea, who do not recognize this, or fail in eager and proud observance of this most precious heritage, no more need be said than this, that in ceasing to be national such be-come provincial only. It is in this sense. that London is so overwhelming provincial, because it is the centre towards. which the provincial mind gravitates and where it finds its most congenial conditions. By permission of the Editor of the North American Review. (To be Continued.)

That is why Mr. Stopford Brooke,

The White Man's Book

By Mrs. Caswell-Broad.

One hundred years ago, the President of these United States, Thomas Jefferson, sent out two brave young men to explore the vast wilderness that stretched from the mouth of the Missouri River near St. Louis, to the mouth of the Columbia River in the unexplored Oregon Country of the northwest. The names of these two men are quite familiar to you, especially o at this time, (Meriwether Lewis and Captain William Clark).

One incident during the expedition throws a sidelight upon the strength and resourcefulness of these two men, especially Captain Clark.

At one time they found themselves, with a depleted company, and scant provisions, surrounded by a band of warlike savages, who had planned a treacherous massacre. Captain Clark decided to call a council of these Indians. They came, but they came fully armed, which looked suspicious.

At the long council table, Captain Clark sat at one end, and the haughty chief at the other. The air and manner of the chief convinced the white men that they were doomed. He was sullen and silent a long time. At length, he drew from beneath his blanket a rattlesnake skin, stuffed with powder and ball and threw it towards Captain Clark. This was a declaration of war; and every white man expected at any moment to hear the blood curling war whoop and to see the deadly tomahawk over his head. The Indians only awaited a signal from their chief to begin their bloody work.

Captain Clark held in his hand a whip-stick with which he deliberately turned the snake skin over and over, drawing it slowly to himself. All was still as death. His own life, and the lives of his men hung on some deed of daring at that moment.

After a while, he succeeded in coiling the snake skin around his whip-stick, when, with a sudden moeion, he flirted it back to the haughty chief and said with dignity and boldness: "If the Indians want war-the Indians can have war!"

This prompt acceptance of the challenge led the Indians to suspect that recruits were at hand to protect their vicims, and quietly and silently, one by one, they withdrew from the council table and disappeared in the wilderness.

Lewis and Clark became much inerested in the various tribes of Indians encountered on the expedition. Captain Clark had a special fancy for the Mandans, Nez Perces and Flat Heads, and gained a powerful influence over them.

The Flat Head Indians were a simple harmless people, with fewer vices than any other tribe in the country. One day while holding a religious ceremony,

a stranger sat among them. At the close he said:

"Your mode of worshipping the Supreme Being is wrong. Instead of pleasing Him, you are displeasing Him. The white people toward the rising sun. have a book giving the true method of worship. If you follow the directions given in that book-you will, when you die, go to the country where the Supreme Being lives, and be forever with Him."

Having received this information, the Flat Heads called a council and decided if these words were true, they ought to have that book. Their Great Father, Captain Clark, would know, and would tell them the whole truth. Certain of their number should go to St. Louis and ask him about the wonderful book. They apointed four chiefs, two old and two young men, to go to St. Louis, and present this matter to their Great Faher, Captain Clark.

These four chiefs walked 3,000 miles across the continent through thick forests, over extensive plains, and climbing almost impassable mountains.

Arriving at St. Louis, they presented themselves to Captain Clark with their message of inquiry about the book of the white man. "The words of the stranger are true," said Captain Clark. "There is such a book." Their next step was to see the wonderful book, and take a copy to their waiting people.

These Indians remained in St. Louis a long time. They were well cared for, supplied with food, clothing, and shelter. They were feasted, blanketed and ornamented, for St. Louis has always been kind to the Indians. They were taken to the theatre, and other places of amusement-but no one helped them find the book.

St. Louis was then a Roamn Catholic City, and the Bible was not allowed in the hands of the people. In this Papa

City, their mission was a failure. That for which they had walked 3,000 miles was withheld from them.

Three of their number, through exposure, died. The survivor, a brokenhearted man, prepared to return to his people. His farewell address to Captain Clark has been preserved. I will give you a brief extract from it:

"I came to you," he said, "over a trail of many moons from the setting sun. I came with one eye partly opened for more light for my people in darkness. I go back with both eyes closed. I go back blind, to my blind people."

"My people sent me to you to get the white man's Book of Heaven. You took me where you allow your women to dance, as we do not ours, and the Book was not there. You took me where they worship the Great Spirit with candles, and the Book was not there."

"As I go back over the long, sad trail to my people of the dark land, you make my feet heavy with gifts, but the Book is not among them."

"When I tell my poor blind people in the Council that I did not bring the Book, no word will be spoken. One by one they will rise up and go out in silence."

"My people will die in darkness, and go on the long path to other hunting grounds. No white man's Book will make the way plain to the Great Spirit. I have no more words."

This pathetic message was published and touched the heart of the land.

The Methodist Missionary Board sent Revs. Jason and Daniel Lee out to these Indians with the Gospel message, but they were not pleased with the country of the Flat Heads, and settled seventy-five miles away from them in the beautiful Willamette Valley, and did good work there.

A year later, in 1835, our American

Board sent out Marcus Whitman and Samuel Parker, who went directly to the Flat Heads. The Flat Heads and Nez Perces, together gave them a warm welcome.

They had a big council and made elo

quent speeches. quent speeches. Nearly every speech closed with these significant words: "We now see what we never saw before -a man near to God."

In 1836, Marcus Whitman returned to New York for his lovely Narcissa. and for more missionaries. Securing Rev. Henry Spalding and bride, the little company made rapid preparations for the long, difficult, dangerous journey across the continent.

On the last evening, the church held a farewell service with these missionaries. The pastor gave out the old familiar hymn:

"Yes, my native land, I love thee;

All thy scenes I love them well; Friends, connections, happy Country, Can I bid you all farewell."

At first the whole congregation joined heartily in the singing, then one by one they ceased, and sobs were heard in all parts of the house. The last stanza was sung by the sweet voice of Narcissa Whitman alone-clear, musical, unwavering:

"In the desert let me labor,

On the mountains let me tell
How He died, our blessed Saviour,
To redeem a world from hell;
Let me hasten-let me hasten,

In that pagan land to dwell."

The next morning, the bridal party started for the Oregon wilderness to carry the blessed light to "the people sitting in darkness" in our Christian land.

During a recent visit to the great Northwest, we could but contrast our comfortable journey with that taken by these fair missionary brides-nearly seventy ears ago--a wedding tour of 3,500 miles. No railroads, not even a wagon road, and no ferry-boats to take them across the streams.

Dr. Whitman was a young physician, strong, resolute, with fire in his deep blue eyes, and courage in his heart.

Henry Spalding was a long, lank

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