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Even if what one defends be true, an attitude of defence, a tinual apology, whatever the cause, makes the mind barren because it kills intellectual innoce; that delight in what is unforeseen, and in the mere spectacle of the world, the mere drifting hither and thither that must e before all true thought aion.A zealous Irishman, especially if he lives much out of Ireland, spends his time in a never?ending argument about Oliver well, the Dahe penal laws, the rebellion of 1798, the famihe Irish peasant, and ends by substituting a traditional casuistry for a try; and if he be a Catholic, yet another casu<q>９9lｉｂ?</q>istry that has professors, sasters, letter?writing priests, and the authors of manuals to make the meshes fine, es between him and English literature, substituting arguments aations for the excitement at the first reading of the great poets which should be a sort of violent imaginative puberty. His hesitations and arguments may have been right, the Catholic philosophy may be more profound than Miltons morality, or Shelleys vehement vision; but he less do we lose life by losing that recklessness Castigliohought necessary even in good manners, and offend our Lady Truth, who would never, had she desire<s></s>d an anxious courtship, have digged a well to be her parlour.
I admired though we were always quarrelling on some matter, J.F. Taylor, the orator, who died just before the first troversy over these plays. It often seemed to me that when he spoke Ireland herself had spoken, o that sense of surprise that es when a man has said what is unforeseen because it is far from the on thought, a obvious because when it has been spoken, the gate of the mind seems suddenly to roll bad reveal fotten sights a loose lost passions. I have never heard him speak except in some Irish literary or political society, but<mark></mark> there at any rate, as in versation, I found a man whose life was a ceaseless reverie over the religious and political history of Ireland. He saw himself pleading for his try before an invisible jury, perhaps of the great dead, against traitors at home and enemies abroad, and a sort of frenzy in his void the moral elevation of his thoughts gave him for the moment style and musie asked oneself again and again, Why is not this man an artist, a man of genius, a creator of some kind? The other day uhe influenemory, I read through his one book, a life of Owen Roe ONeill, and found there eachable from its text because of wisdom or beauty. Everything was argued from a premise; and wisdom, and style, whether in life or letters e from the presence of what is self?evident, from that which requires but statement, from what Blake called naked beauty displayed. The sense of what was unforeseen and obvious, the rolling backward of the gates had goh the living voice, with the nobility of will that made one uand what he saw a in what was now but argument and logic. I found myself in the presence of a mind like some noisy and powerful mae, of thought that was no part of wisdom but the apologetic of a moment, a woven thing, no intricacy of leaf and twig, of words with no more of salt and of savour than those of a Jesuit professor of literature, or of any other who does not know that there is no lasting writing which does not defihe quality, or carry the substance of some pleasure. How one, if ones mind be full of abstras and images created not for their own sake but for the sake of party, even if there were still the need, find words that delight the ear, make pictures to the minds eye, discover thoughts that tighten the muscles, or quiver and tingle in the flesh, and stand like St. Michael with the trumpet that calls the body to resurre?
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