unt of the battle of clontarf with the sober norse account） is the unbroken character of irish genius。 in modern days this genius has delighted in mischievous extravagance； like that of the gaelic poets curse upon his children； there are three things that i hate； the devil that is waiting for my soul； the worms that are waiting for my body； my children； who are waiting for my wealth and care neither for my body nor my soul： oh； christ hang all in the same noose！ i think those words were spoken with a delight in their vehemence that took out of anger half the bitterness with all the gloom。 an old man on the aran islands told me the very tale on which the playboy is founded； beginning with the words； if any gentleman has done a crime well hide him。 there was a gentleman that killed his father； & i had him in my own house six months till he got away to america。 despite the solemnity of his slow speech his eyes shone as the eyes must have shone in that trinity college branch of the gaelic league； which began every meeting with prayers for the death of an old fellow of college who disliked their movement； or as they certainly do when patriots are telling how short a time the prayers took to the killing of him。 i have seen a crowd； when certain dublin papers had wrought themselves into an imaginary loyalty； so possessed by what seemed the very genius of satiric fantasy； that one all but looked to find some feathered heel among the cobble stones。 part of the delight of crowd or individual is always that somebody will be angry； somebody take the sport for gloomy earnest。 we are mocking at his solemnity； let us therefore so hide our malice that he may be more solemn still； and the laugh run higher yet。 why should we speak his language and so wake him from a dream of all those emotions which men feel because they should； and not because they must？ our minds； being sufficient to themselves； do not wish for victory but are content to elaborate our extravagance； if fortune aid； into wit or lyric beauty； and as for the rest there are nights when a king like conchobar would spit upon his arm？ring and queens will stick out their tongues at the rising moon。
this habit of the mind has made oscar wilde and mr。 bernard shaw the most celebrated makers of edy to our time； and if it has sounded plainer still in the conversation of the one； and in some few speeches of the other； that is but because they have not been able to turn out of their plays an alien trick of zeal picked up in struggling youth。 yet； in synges plays also； fantasy gives the form and not the thought； for the core is always as in all great art； an over？powering vision of certain virtues； and our capacity for sharing in that vision is the measure of our delight。 great art chills us at first by its coldness or its strangeness； by what seems capricious； and yet it is from these qualities it has authority； as though it had fed on locust and wild honey。 the imaginative writer shows us the world as a painter does his picture； reversed in a looking？glass that we may see it； not as it seems to eyes habit has made dull； but as we were adam and this the first morning； and when the new image bees as little strange as the old we shall stay with him； because he has； beside the strangeness； not strange to him； that made us share his vision； sincerity that makes us share his feeling。
to speak of ones emotions without fear or moral ambition； to e out from under the shadow of other mens minds； to forget their needs； to be utterly oneself； that is all the muses care for。 villon； pander； thief； and man？slayer； is as immortal in their eyes； and illustrates in the cry of his ruin as great a truth as dante in abstract ecstasy； and touches our passion more。 all art is the disengaging of a soul from place and history； its suspension in a beautiful or terrible light； to await the judgement； and yet； because all its days were a last day； judged already。 it may show the crimes of italy as dante did； or greek mythology like keats； or kerry and galway villages； and so vividly that ever after i shall look at all with like eyes； and yet i know that cino da pistoia thought dante unjust； that keats knew no greek； that those country men and women are neither so lovable nor so lawless as mine author sung it me； that i have added to my being； not my knowledge。
。。
Synge And The Ireland Of His TimeXV
（／／小｜//说//网）
i wrote the most of these thoughts in my diary on the coast of normandy； and as i finished came upon mont saint michel； and thereupon doubted for a day the foundation of my school。 here i saw the places of assembly； those cloisters on the rocks summit； the church； the great halls where monks； or knights； or men at arms sat at meals； beautiful from ornament or proportion。 i remembered ordinances of the popes forbidding drinking？ cups with stems of gold to these monks who had but a bare dormitory to sleep in。 even when imagining； the individual had taken more from his fellows and his fathers than he gave； one man finishing what another had begun； and all that majestic fantasy； seeming more of egypt than of christendom； spoke nothing to the solitary soul； but seemed to announce whether past or yet to e an heroic temper of social men； a bondage of adventure and of wisdom。 then i thought more patiently and i saw that what had made these but as one and given them for a thousand years the miracles of their shrine and temporal rule by land and sea； was not a condescension to knave or dolt； an impoverishment of the mon thought to make it serviceable and easy； but a dead language and a munion in whatever； even to the greatest saint； is of incredible difficulty。 only by the substantiation of the soul i thought； whether in literature or in sanctity； can we e upon those agreements； those separations from all else that fasten men together lastingly； for while a popular and picturesque burns and scott can but create a province； and our irish cries and grammars serve some passing need； homer； shakespeare； dante； goethe and all who travel in their road with however poor a stride； define races and create everlasting loyalties。 synge； like all of the great kin； sought for the race； not through the eyes or in history； or even in the future； but where those monks found god； in the depths of the mind； and in all art like his； although it does not mand？？indeed because it does not？？may lie the roots of far？branching events。 only that which does not teach； which does not cry out； which does not persuade； which does not condescend； which does not explain is irresistible。 it is made by men who expressed themselves to the full； and it works through the best minds； whereas the external and picturesque and declamatory writers； that they may create kilts and bagpipes and newspapers and guide？books； leave the best minds empty； and in ireland and scotland england runs into the hole。 it has no array of arguments and maxims； because the great and the simple （and the muses have never known which of the two most pleases them） need their deliberate thought for the days work； and yet will do it worse if they have not grown into or found about them； most perhaps in the minds of women； the nobleness of emotion； associated with the scenery and events of their country； by those great poets； who have dreamed it in solitude； and who to this day in europe are creating indestructible spiritual races； like those religion has created in the east。
w。 b。 yeats。
september 14th。 1910。
？？
WITH SYNGE IN CONNEMARA
（／小｜说｜网）
i had often spent a day walking with john synge； but a year or two ago i travelled for a month alone through the west of ireland with him。 he was the best panion for a roadway any one could have； always ready and always the same； a bold walker； up hill and down dale； in the hot sun and the pelting rain。 i remember a deluge on the erris peninsula； where we lay among the sand hills and at his suggestion heaped sand upon ourselves to try and keep dry。
when we started on our journey； as the train steamed out of dublin； synge said： now the elder of us two should be in mand on this trip。 so we pared notes and i found that he was two months older than myself。 so he was boss and whenever it was a question whether we should take the road to the west or the road to the south； it was synge who finally decided。
synge was fond of little children and animals。 i remember how glad he was to stop and lean on a wall in gorumna and watch a woman in afield shearing a sheep。 it was an old sheep and must have often been sheared before by the same hand； for the woman hardly held it； she just knelt beside it and snipped away。 i remember the sheep raised its lean old head to look at the stranger； and the woman just put her hand on its cheek and gently pressed its head down on the grass again。
synge was delighted with the narrow paths made of sods of grass alongside the newly？metalled roads； because he thought they had been put there to make soft going for the bare feet of little children。 children knew； i think； that he wished them well。 in bellmullet on saint johns eve； when we stood in the market square watching the fire？play； flaming sods of turf soaked in paraffine； hurled to the sky and caught and skied again； a