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 all the joys pointing to life that always glistens with the pain of destiny; in its telling of visions and numberless dreams, I see the passionate flame burning to Eternity and deathlessness, its wit and humour (Oh, that famous Irish characteristic} make me think that laughter or smile is certainly older, at least wiser than tears. How often I wonder at its insular energy objecting to the literary encroachment of a different clement, oh, what a pure, proud, lonely, defiant spirit! I know that such a literary strength was gained perhaps at the heavy cost of the political sacrifice of the country; is it a piece of cynicism when we thank the English solidarity which had a great hand in the formation of the so-called Irish literature?

It was, I confess, the very beauty of Yeats’ work of poetry, “The Rose” with that song on the “Lake Isle of Innisfree,” “The Wind Among the Reeds“ with the simple fiddler of Dooney who set the people to “dance like a wave of the sea,” that I wholly gave up, some eight years ago when I was in London, my plan to go to Ireland for my study of the Celtic Rh