Last night I went to a wide place on the Kiltartan road to listen to some Irish songs.  While I waited for the singers an old man sang about that country beauty who died so many years ago, and spoke of a singer he had known who sang so beautifully that no horse would pass him, but must turn its head and cock its ears to listen.  Presently a score of men and boys and girls, with shawls over their beads, gathered under the trees to listen.  Somebody sang Sa Muirnin Diles, and then somebody else Jimmy Mo Milestor, mournful songs of separation, of death, and of exile.  Then some of the men stood up and began to dance, while another lilted the measure they danced to, and then somebody sang Eiblin a Ruin, that glad song of meeting which has always moved me more than other songs, because the lover who made it sang it to his sweetheart under the shadow of a mountain I looked at every day through my childhood.  The voices melted into the twilight and were mixed into the trees, and when I thought of the words they too melted away, and were mixed with the generations of men.  Now it was a phrase, now it was an attitude of mind, an emotional form, that had carried my memory to older verses, or even to forgotten mythologies.  I was carried so far that it was as though I came to one of the four rivers, and followed it under the wall of Paradise to the roots of the trees of knowledge and of life.  There is no song or story handed down among the cottages that has not words and thoughts to carry one as far, for though one can know but a little of their ascent, one knows that they ascend like medieval genealogies through unbroken dignities to the beginning of the world.  Folk art is, indeed, the oldest of the aristocracies of thought, and because it refuses what is passing and trivial, the merely clever and pretty, as certainly as the vulgar and insincere, and because it has gathered into itself the simplest and most unforgetable thoughts of the generations, it is the soil where all great art is rooted.  Wherever it is spoken by the fireside, or sung by the roadside, or carved upon the lintel, appreciation of the arts that a single mind gives unity and design to, spreads quickly when its hour is come.

In a society that has cast out imaginative tradition, only a few people—­three or four thousand out of millions—­favoured by their own characters and by happy circumstance, and only then after much labour, have understanding of imaginative things, and yet “the imagination is the man himself.”  The churches in the Middle Age won all the arts into their service because men understood that when imagination is impoverished, a principal voice—­some would say the only voice—­for the awakening of wise hope and durable faith, and understanding charity, can speak but in broken words, if it does not fall silent.  And so it has always seemed to me that we, who would re-awaken imaginative tradition by making old songs live again, or by gathering old stories into books, take part in the quarrel of Galilee.  Those who are Irish and would spread foreign ways, which, for all but a few, are ways of spiritual poverty, take part also.  Their part is with those who were of Jewry, and yet cried out, “If thou let this man go thou art not Caesar’s friend.”