Travel in an Irish-speaking district and hail one of its old people in
English, and you get in response a dull "Good-day, Sir." Salute him in
Irish and you touch a secret spring. The dull eyes light up, the face
is all animation, the body alert, and for a dull "good-day," you get
warm benedictions, lively sallies, and after you, as you pass on your
road, a flood of rich and racy Irish comes pouring down the wind. That
is the secret power of the language. It makes the old men proud of their
youth and gives to the young quickened faculties, an awakened
imagination and a world to conquer. This is no exaggeration. It is not
always obvious, because we do not touch the secret spring nor wander
near the magic. But the truth is there to find for him who cares to
search. You discover behind the dullness of a provincial town a bright
centre of interest, and when you study the circle you know that here is
some wonderful thing: priests, doctors, lawyers, teachers, tradesmen,
clerks--all drawn together, young and old, both sexes, all enthusiasts.
Sometimes a priest is teaching a smith, sometimes the smith is teaching
the priest: for a moment at least we have unconsciously levelled
barriers and there is jubilation in the natural life re-born. Out of
that quickened life and consciousness rises a vivid imagination with a
rush of thought and a power of expression that gives the nation a new
literature.
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