We were
more Irish truly in the heroic ages. We would not then have taken, as
we do today, the huckster or the publican and make them our
representative men, and allow them to corrupt the national soul. Did
not the whole vulgar mob of our politicians lately unite to declare to
the world that Irish nationality was impossible except it was floated on
a sea of liquor? The image of Kathleen ni Houlihan anciently was beauty
in the hearts of poets and dreamers. We often thought her unwise, but
never did we find her ignoble; never was she without a flame of
idealism in her eyes, until this ignoble crew declared alcohol to be the
only possible basis of Irish nationality.
In the remote past we find the national instincts of our people fully
manifested. We find in this early literature a love for the truth-
teller and for the hero. Indeed they did not choose as chieftains of
their clans men whom the bards could not sing. They reverenced wisdom,
whether in king, bard, or ollav, and at the same time there was a
communal basis for economic life. This heroic literature is, as our
Standish O'Grady declared, rather prophecy than history.
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