neighbors, who probably amused themselves at our expense with the
greater license, and a more assured sense of impunity, inasmuch as
they knew that we were utterly destitute of a national literature.
Unfortunately the fact could not be disputed. For the last half century,
to come down as far as we can, Ireland, to use a plain metaphor, instead
of producing her native intellect for home consumption, was forced to
subsist upon the scanty supplies which could be procured from the sister
kingdom. This was a reproach which added great strength to the general
prejudice against us.

A nation may produce one man or ten men of eminence, but if they cannot
succeed in impressing their mind upon the spirit and intellect of their
own country, so as to create in her a taste for literature or science,
no matter how highly they may be appreciated by strangers, they have not
reached the exalted purposes of genius. To make this more plain I shall
extend the metaphor a little farther. During some of the years of Irish
famine, such were the unhappy circumstances of the country, that she was
exporting provisions of every description in most prodigal abundance,
which the generosity of England was sending back again for our support.
So was it with literature, our men and women of genius uniformly carried
their talents to the English market, whilst we labored at home under all
the dark privations of a literary famine.

In truth, until within the last ten or twelve years, an Irish author
never thought of publishing in his own country, and the consequence was
that our literary men followed the example of our great landlords; they
became absentees, and drained the country of its intellectual wealth
precisely as the others exhausted it of its rents.

Thus did Ireland stand in the singular anomaly of adding some of her