ve said enough, I hope, to attract to
the work of these artists, in a mood of true understanding, those who
would like to believe in the existence in Ireland of a genuine art. For
ignored and uncared for as art is, we have some names to be proud of,
and of these Mr. Yeats and Mr. Hone are foremost.

1902

"ULSTER"

AN OPEN LETTER TO MR. RUDYARD KIPLING

I Speak to you, brother, because you have spoken to me, or rather you
have spoken for me. I am a native of Ulster. So far back as I can
trace the faith of my forefathers they held the faith for whose free
observance you are afraid.

I call you brother, for so far as I am known beyond the circle of my
personal friends it is as a poet. We are not a numerous tribe, but the
world has held us in honor, because on the whole in poetry is found
the highest and sincerest utterance of man's spirit. In this manner of
speaking if a man is not sincere his speech betrayeth him, for all
true poetry was written on the Mount of Transfiguration, and there is
revelation in it and the mingling of heaven and earth. I am jealous of
the honor of poetry, and I am jealous of the good name of my country,
and I am impelled by both emotions to speak to you.

You have blood of our race in you, and you may, perhaps, have some
knowledge of Irish sentiment. You have offended against one of our
noblest literary traditions in the manner in which you have published
your thoughts. You begin by quoting Scripture. You preface your verses
on Ulster by words from the mysterious oracles of humanity as if you had
been inflamed and inspired by the prophet of God; and you go on to sing
of faith in peril and patriotism betrayed and the danger of death and
oppression by those who do murder by night, which things, if one truly
feels, he speaks of without consideration of commerce or what it shall
profit him to speak. But you, brother, have withheld your fears for your
country and mine until they could yield you a profit in two continents.
After all this high speech about the Lord and the hour of national
darkness it shocks me to find this following your verses: "Copyrighted
in the United States of America by Rudyard Kipling." You are not in
want. You are the most successful man of letters of your time, and yet
you are not above making profit out of the perils of your country.
You ape the lordly speech of the prophets, and you conclude by warning
everybody not to reprint your words at their peril. In