THE CANDLE OF DERISION

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLVI, Issue 18, 1 May 1919, Page 33

THE CANDLE OF DERISION

(By Ernest A. Boyd, iu New Irdwnd.)

■_.;.- The book of the Sage dropped 'on my lap, and I lay back in the chair dreaming of what I had read. By the act of concentration, it seemed, I, too, might project myself into that plane of being where vision and imagination would establish a contact with supernature. A fascinating thought! I have but to fix my attention upon a point and . . . the candle upon my forehead would be. lighted. ... Just then I found myself in total darkness, but for the red glow of the fire. The candle of tallow had flickered out'; I must .find the candle of vision. So I thought of a white lozenge, and, as my gaze concentrated upon this mental object, a phantasmagoria of strange images flocked into my brain. I saw an old politician in his North Dublin Georgian house, and he reclined upon the soft couch of Party journalism. Sunk election returns, when a chance advertisement on the book page of a Saturday issue flamed before his eyes, and the volume, as it were symbolically revealed to him, was entitled ominously, THE LOST LEADER. Horror-stricken the old man stared at this writing upon the walls of his last citadel, and faded from my consciousness. Soon I became aware of another scene, this time in a prison cell, and there I could see a dark lithe young figure, turning over the pages of a book. My instincts as a bibliophile were aroused by what I recognised as the brown and chocolate-colored binding of a Synge first edition, and as I wondered which of the two possible works it might be, the picture came close up, in the convenient cinematographic manner. I could discern many details, the first of which to arrest me was the name of the volume: The Playboys of the Western Powers. Then I noticed, as. the pages were turned, that the frontispiece was a reproduction of the Sargent portrait, whose merciless delineation of meanness and hypocrisy is not to deprive our National Gallery of the ■original"' canvas. And I thanked the gods who endowed the trustees responsible for the acquisition of this treasure with a greater sense of politics than of aesthetics. There were other books lying on the floor, and these also bore strange though familiar titles: Shredding the News by Lord Desees: John P.Muhoofy. or the Ass in Ireland a new volume in the series of "Irishmen of to-day." A Shortt Way with Dissenters, by a Cabinet Minister.

. Without any transition I discovered myself once again in a Georgian house, on the south side of Dublin, this time. The drawing-room was filled with the usual anonymous collection of social climbers. Arts Club intellectuals, and “enlightened” members of the Garrison. They are grouped about the Poet, who, having talked of the dis-in-terest-ed con-tem-plation of lifet is now introducing them to a marvellous New Game As I watched, it looked at first like a species of metaphysical musical chairs. Clearly the participants were endeavoring to place themselves, before the talkiim stopped, on one of the 28 chairs set out in a circle! A difficult game, demanding a good memory and some intellectual agility. I was not surprised that a number of people failed to secure places. Finally, indeed, the number of unplaced people, living and dead, was so great, and the task of finding room for them in the circle became,so- hard, that the Poet abandoned it. His onlookers were invited to propose the persons ho should be placed in the circle, and at this point a transformation occurred. It then appeared that the real difficulty was to find out the Poet’s Idea, and the game developed into a series of wild attempts to spot a metaphysical pea under a symbolistic thimble. Needless to say, only the confederates, carefully scattered amongst the audience according to racecourse tradition, succeeded from time to time j thereby encouraging the others. ; q & ° I hurried away, and in a,near-by. street, paused, amazed, before The School of Irish Learning. What had happened? It was now called “The School of

Anglo-Irish Learning,” and as I wondered, the interior became visible. A class was present, and, - listening to the instruction, I was able to understand the new function of the institution. Its purpose was to teach our returned natives how to speak English like Irishmen. Ihe teacher explained how desirable it was that repatriated Irishmen should divest themselves, as quickly and as scientifically as possible, of all traces of Cockney English. He emphasises the disadvantages of the repatriate who tried to make a bid for popular favor, while retaining the solecisms of exile in London. He illustrated his meaning by pronouncing such words as Armar,” “Mariar,” “idear,” and giving their Anglo-Irish equivalents. He pointed out the necessity in this country of sounding “r” where it properly exists, and of avoiding its introduction into words where the letter does not belong. He also warned his students of the equally reprehensible error of giving an exaggerated Gaelic turn to Irish words, while speaking English. This pitfall was fatal to many returned exiles, who imagined that such devices were the signmanual of Irishry. whereas no native of the country would dream of giving a Gaelic pronunciation to proper names which had been fully incorporated into Anglolush speech. In order to avoid these gross errors and to modify the inordinate tendency to incorporate nijspi enounced Irish phrases into Anglo-Irish conversation the returned emigrant should take a course of instruction in Anglo-Irish. In any case, that step woidd help the subsequent study of Irish, whose sounds .ere threatened by serious Oxfordisation. Thu grimly realistic picture faded, and I found myself in what seemed to be a cave, inhabited by le-s and feet. I was surrounded by legs, and above my head was a solid roof. When I had become accustomed o my strange surroundings, I discovered that I was eiuath a table, around which men were sitting in so.einn conference. The portions of their clothiim vis1, e * to me showed that- the owners of the immaculate mots and well-creased trousers were members of the governing classes. It was evident that all were not of the same nationality,, a fact betrayed by the cut of the trousers the shape of the boots, and occasional glimpses of diverse uniforms. The presence of Americans I detected by the resplendent mirror-like shine of boots washed and varnished by the skilled technicians of Transatlantic “shoe-shining parlors.” Gradually the ‘ words being spoken above my head became and comprehensible: “Left Bank of the ff” 11 .I®’ 1 ®’ “Czecho-Slovakia,” “Gott strafe Trotsky,” Self-determination,” “Safe for Democracy.” These phrases impinged upon the ear. blurred in a confused murmur of concession-hunting. Then I realised that 1 was watching the Peace Conference delegates from the knees downwards, and as I noticed the pressure of Allied feet, the kicks and nudges, corresponding, no doubt, to significant glances across the table, I began to grasp the complications of Open Diplomacy. Suddenly a nasal voice boomed out in what seemed to be an allusion which must bring the speaker to the case ot Ireland. But he had scarcely touched the opening chords of his Democratic Symphony, when a violent commotion took place amongst the feet. Such nudging and kicking, and even violent knocking of obviously Teutonic shins ! An aristocratic British-looking foot, mothed in a white spat, firmly pressed the brilliant American toe-cap of the speaker—a gentle, tactful, and prolonged pressure, which scarcely dulled the glossy surface of the boot. Its effect was wonderful, for the speech, which threatened to cover certain awkward “domestic questions,” burbled to a mellifluous close without any reference nearer to Ireland than Schles-wig-Holstein. I had witnessed an act of subterreno warfare ! - . ~e; -v

Whether because of association of. ideas or not the scene had set me thinking of Irish newspaper correspondents and this lost opportunity l found myself face to face with a, friend of the species. A Manganesque figure sauntered characteristically before me,l as 1 found myself again in a Dublin street. This was he whose, enigmatic notes were so constant a feature .of

the ,weekly organ, of English Statistical, Socialism. Their invariable prelude, "An Irish correspondent writes," Had' conferred upon him a sort ['. of anonymous fame. I expected "-, him to mention this incident, of the Peace Conference, but, of course, he had never witnessed, it, and was intent, instead, upon an exotic booklet of such limited circulation that, . L as I- ; glanced at, the ri back r .of the title-page, I ; saw the note: Edition limited to three copies,;one reserved to the author, the others, lettered J. and P. respectively. I understood that the Philosopher' had issued his imaginary book solely for the edification of his two disciples. The booklet was a sort of literary sensitive-plant, which shrank when touched by unappreciative hands. So, lest it should once again fade into the nothingness in which it had so long existed, I handed it to its trembling possessor, asking him to give me some proof of all the good things he promised of the writer. The latter only once in my hearing had been provoked into animated speech, and that when Das eiuig Weibliche had drawn conversation to' its own fleshly level. I was, therefore, not a little taken aback when the following lines were read : DIMINUTIVUS ULULANS. (To John Dillon.) Wailing, diminished by me, be still ; Oh, why not spare us that resentful groan, Of sorrows political waxing shrill, O you of politicians most alone ! John, do you thus reproach us and make moan Because on Sinn Fein chariots we did fly And a vote recorded that is yet unknown, . Calling your atoms out to be an I ? Should I have let you in Westminster lie, Disintegrate another thirty years ? Then use the vote to teach you how to die And pass again beyond the reach of cheers. Some day you may be glad. I dragged you thence, Perhaps forgive our vast impenitence. "Surely that was not written by the Philosopher?" I cried : he could not speak with that political conviction, preferring Cafe Royalisni to Irish democracy. Had I been mistaken, was this Francis the Silent the avatar glimpsed in a vision so finely described by the Sage? The thought brought me back with a- shock to his book on my lap, and I found that my candle of vision had never been lighted. I had merely dropped asleep from the sheer monotony of concentration upon the white lozenge, and had had a Sinn Fein nightmare. On looking into Mr. Padric Gregory's anthology of "Modern Anglo-Irish Verse" I subsequently discovered the original poem, of which the revised version had been revealed to me. No doubt there is a basis in fact for some of the other fragments of my dream.