THE ARCHBISHOP OF CASHEL.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE FREEMAN.
The Palace, Thurles, April 4.
My Dear Sir—I had fully determined, from the post, and for very valid and obvious reasons, not to take any part in the discussion so opportunely raised by “Historicus” about the best hundred Irish books. Your courteous importunity obliges me to break that resolution. The fact is that I have always had, and still have, very odd and, possibly, very unorthodox views about books. I do not see, for instance, much need of, or any great good that can come from, most of our modern publications, excepting always those of a purely scientific, statistical, or matter-of fact character. To these I may add the biographies of really great men, which, if well written and veracious, cannot fail to afford pleasure and bo profitable. But the mountain of dissertation, speeches, rhymes, reviews, essays, romances, and soforth that have seen the light since 1 became of an age to read them, are not, as a rule, of much value in my eyes. Modern works on divinity, too, save in so far as they give us the more recent decisions of the Holy See, are little better, I believe, than feeble transcripts of the great past masters in that truly wonderful science. Even this small measure of commendation cannot, I fear, bo extended to the greater part of such Sunday, Lenten, and other discourses as have been printed and put into circulation within this century. Ascetic works. Church histories, whether local or universal, and even modern liturgical publications, with a few well-known exceptions, and subject, moreover, to the qualification already advanced in respect of books generally, have little to specially recommend them, and are no great improvement, if any, on their predecessors. Irish history since the English invasion I cannot bear to read, and never could. Making all allowance for some brilliant pages, it is to we a cheerless chronicle of disaster, disappointment, and defeat. One good work, anyhow, on any subject, or branch of a subject, is quite enough for an ordinary man to possess and master; just as one really good dish at table, if slowly and temperately partaken of, will be found to be far wholesomer, and in every way more nutritious, than would be a dozen dainty courses hurriedly and copiously consumed.
I know, to be sure, that if a man is not more or less up in the literature of the day, and able to say something about the leading publications that are issuing hourly from the press, he will straightway be set down as a noodle or a nobody, and that even the stupidest and silliest of his drawing-room or other acquaintances must appear to advantage in comparison with him. But drawing-room and social critics generally should be held of small account in this matter. They are the swallows of literature. They touch many things just with the tip of their wing, skimming fleetly over the surface of books, but rarely picking up any useful nutriment from them; and they end, for the most part, after long years of miscellaneous and desultory reading, by being the merest retailers of other people’s wares utterly incapable of manufacturing anything saleable or serviceable themselves.
I do not, however, deny that at times, and under certain circumstances, it would be well for one to be able to talk with ease and confidence about book-makers and books. I can give a case in point.
I happened, some time ago, to form one of a rather respectable dinner party. The host alone was personally known to me. The repast duly over, and the tongues of the company (say twelve in number) being fairly let loose under the genial influence of a full blown festivity, an aspiring young barrister present, who, I regret, but am not surprised to hear, has never been burdened with briefs, started, as if casually, Quite a learned discussion, but which I have now reason to know was all arranged beforehand, about the dates, chief characteristics, and relative merits of Shakespeare’s plays. I had read Shakespeare of course, years ago, and had forgotten all about it. But as 1 have a natural horror of appearing to be what I am not, and possess but little of the critical faculty, I thought it prudent to hold my tongue altogether, and so held it until the discussion had come to a close. I manifested, meanwhile, no doubt, in a very high degree, what Carlyle rather comically calls the “silence of stupidity;" and, doubtless, when I retired, as I soon afterwards did, the learned litterateurs that I left behind me must have piqued themselves greatly on their superior knowledge and capabilities.
Under the above circumstances, I suppose it would have been a decided advantage to me to be more bookish than I was; but, after all, what benefit could I otherwise have derived from the fact that I held at my fingers’ ends the dates of Shakespeare’s plays, and could fix with minutest precision the literary value of each?
What I desire, then, to convey is this, that we prate too much about books and ponder too little on them; that one ounce of practical "common sense"—that is, the equilibrium of the faculties-applied to the ordinary business of this life, and even of the next, is worth ten hundred weight of learned, and especially antiquated, lore; that a thorough knowledge of one good history of Ireland (say Magee’s), supplemented, if you will, by a few such works as Duffy’s "Young Ireland,” “Four Years of Irish History,” and T P O’Connor’s “Parnell Movement,” is quite enough of Irish History for any ordinary Irishman; that the “Ballad poetry of Ireland ” and certain speeches delivered from the dock by Irish patriots are far more inspiring and useful reading for the masses of our people than Ware or Harris; that Mitchel’s “Jail Journal” affords us more appropriate food for thought than does Macaulay’s History of England; that Michael Davitt’s plain prose and practical philanthropy are more to be admired than Lecky’s flowing periods and vacillating policy; and that it is infinitely better to make history, even in a small way, than to read, or write, folios about it.—I remain, my dear sir, your very faithful servant,
✠ T W Croke, Archbishop of Cashel.
MR. WM. OBRIEN, M.P.
TO THE EDITOR OP THE FREEMAN.
House of Commons, April 3rd.
Dear Sir—I have been obliged to put off my answer to your kind invitation so long that I am glad to find that whatever additions I would have suggested to the catalogue of “Historicus” have been suggested already, and a great many other books on historical materials have been brought
