When Ireland desires to sup the sweeter drops out of the cup of sorrow, she has a way of babbling about exiles from Erin, and that kind of thing. That her population has been greatly reduced by emigration cannot be denied; neither can one get away from the fact that the true-blooded Irishman has a peculiar affection for the soil on which he was born, and that the pains of expatriation have for him a special and almost intolerable poignancy. But excepting as it bears upon the peace of mind of individuals, on the breaking-up of homes, and the wrenching of family ties, I do not think that the emigration which it is the fashion so to deplore has been at all a bad thing for Ireland. It is clear that if the country is incapable of supporting adequately the mass of the people now resident in it, the persons who have left it for fresh woods and pastures new are on the whole to be congratulated. If it be contended that it is shameful that a man should be compelled to leave his native country because that country does not offer sufficient scope for his energies, and fails to provide for him the means of rational human subsistence, I should say that Ireland is by no means singular in such failure. The Scotch emigrate, and boast about it. “Scotland is a stony country,” they say, “there are plenty of mouths and little wherewith to fill them; lo, we will go forth into the undiscovered places of the world, and seek food and fortune where they are most likely to be found.” The Irish, on the other hand, weep and wail, and keen about it. “We are leaving the ould counthry, ochone, wirra, wirra, and wirras-thrue! I’ll sit at the top of Vinegar Hill, and there I’ll weep till I’ve wept my fill, and every tear would turn a mill; for, bedad, it’s acrost the say I’ll be afther goin’, and, glory knows, when I’ll be afther comin’ back again. Good-by, Terence, and Bryan, and Pathrick, and Judy, and Kathleen, and all the rest of yez. It’s me that’s got to leave yez, and may all the leading fiends assail the dhirthy Government!” And so on and so forth. Tears and howls are the Irish emigrant’s stock-in-trade. I do not deny that this is wrong, but it seems possible that a great deal too much capital has been made out of it, both by the poets and by the politicians. Excepting at the immediate hour of embarkation, the Irish emigrant makes a very good emigrant indeed. If his emigration takes him only so far as England, he becomes at once an industrious, and not infrequently a fairly prosperous, member of the community. If his emigration takes him to America the same thing happens to him, and he has been known to blossom out into millionairedom. Why weep for him, why recite touching poetry about him, and why call the Government names on his behoof? It is the people who are left at home who should be cried over, and recited over, and whose condition should provoke the obsecration of the Government. Of course, the real truth about the Irish emigrant is that when he gets into a new country, he is compelled to fall into line with a scheme of existence which is far in advance of anything which has been considered possible in his own country. The great stumbling-blocks of his life, namely, the potato patch and the pig, pass forthwith out of his purview. In England he must live like a civilized being, in a house erected and maintained on lines which conform to the requirements of County Councils and sanitary authorities; very naturally, too, he drops into the English view as to diet, clothing, recreations, and the like, and to secure these things he is compelled to work, maybe twelve, or it may be fourteen hours a day. If the work be hard, it is more or less regular, and the pay is sure, and, from the Irish standpoint, princely. In America, with anything like luck, the Irish emigrant finds himself even more favorably conditioned, and if he possesses an ounce of sense—and he usually does—there are chances for him which lead to prosperity.

At home, in Ireland, the Irishman of the poorer class, and even of the middle class, is absolutely without opportunity. He must take things as they are, and if he ever thinks about such matters at all, resign himself to the mean, and uninspiring facts. There is nothing in Ireland that a man who wishes to get along in life may do; the fact being that the country is exhausted, and devoid of the elements which are necessary to activity. And it seems more than likely that this state of affairs will continue for many years to come. Capital that is not backed up by arrant greed has become extremely rare of late. There is little hope for Ireland in the modern sense, unless she be exploited, and for some reason or other, exploitation is nowadays attempted only by persons without bowels, who, with all their exploiting, succeed only in enriching themselves, and degrading the persons who toil for them. I have said before that Ireland’s true regeneration must come from within. When she took to emigration she began practically this work. For years it has been the only way for her; it will go on just as long as it is necessary and good for her. Meanwhile the people at home must be roused from their apathy. If the gentlemen who periodically stump the country with a miscellaneous selection of political and religious shibboleths would direct some of their energy and oratory to the social and intimate life of the Irish people, they might yet accomplish for Ireland a work that would be of real benefit to her. There is far too much complacency, even in the ranks of Ireland’s best wishers. It is taken for granted that the main body of the people of Ireland are peasants; everybody speaks of them as peasants, and everybody talks of them as peasants. When Goldsmith wrote about “a bold peasantry, their country’s pride,” he did not mean peasantry in the same way that the glib writers and talkers of our own day mean it. The word “peasant,” like many another good word, has had its ups and downs, and for the last half-century, if not for a longer period, “peasant,” as applied to an Irishman, has amounted really to a condemnation and an excuse. “Ah, my dear sir,” cry the wise, “you do not know the Irish peasant!” If one is to believe all that one hears, the Irish peasant is a sort of inferior, inhuman creation. Anything is good enough for him, and, like the dog in the adage, the less you give him and the more you kick him, the better he will like you. One never hears the slackest politician of them all talking or writing about “the English peasant.” It is “the sturdy men of Kent,” “the hardy men of Yorkshire,” and “comrades,” and “fellow-workers,” all the time. These men eat bacon and cheese, and as much beef as they can lay tooth upon; also they drink beer in and out of season and by the bucketful; also their children are reasonably well-fed and reasonably well-clad. There’s not the smallest boy in England but travels in his shoes. Hence the English peasantry retain those qualities of boldness and masterfulness and independence, without which a peasantry cannot thrive. And nobody dare call them “peasants,” nor offer them the treatment which peasants are commonly supposed to delight in. The Irish need to be taught that they are a race of men, and not merely dreamers, and martyrs, and kickable persons. And the first thing for a proper man to do is to make sure that himself and his family live like human beings and compass the food and shelter and decencies which are nowadays considered necessary to human beings. The Irish politicians have helped Ireland to something in the nature of reasonable government; they might now conveniently lay themselves out to help her into something that resembles reasonable living. At the forthcoming General Election, we are told, great political and party play is to be made with that ancient and bedraggled question, Home Rule. The friends of Ireland, and the friends of England, fancy that they see in it something which is going to be very good for Ireland. In point of fact it is a matter of which next to nothing would have been heard, had not Mr. Balfour stood in sore need of a red herring to drag across the idiot noses of the electorate. From Mr. Balfour’s point of view, no doubt, the resurrection of the Home Rule bogy is a singularly adroit move. It will confuse the fiscal tariff-mongers; it will placate the dunder-headed Liberal party, and it will tickle the Irish to death. But any man who believes for one moment that it will be of the smallest benefit to Ireland is just a fool. England made up her mind long ago that Home Rule for Ireland was a sheer impossibility; and what is more to the point, Ireland proper, and in the mass, is of the same opinion. If she desires to take advantage of the opportunities which a General Election is bound to provide for her, she will let Home Rule severely alone, and base her demands on less political, but considerably more urgent and vital things.

THE END