observation, and all to some overflowing of himself, or to some mere
necessity of dramatic construction. I had thought the violent quarrels of
'The Well of the Saints' came from his love of bitter condiments, but
here is a couple that quarrel all day long amid neighbours who gather as
for a play. I had defended the burning of Christy Mahon's leg on the
ground that an artist need but make his characters self-consistent, and
yet, that too was observation, for 'although these people are kindly
towards each other and their children, they have no sympathy for the
suffering of animals, and little sympathy for pain when the person who
feels it is not in danger.' I had thought it was in the wantonness of
fancy Martin Dhoul accused the smith of plucking his living ducks, but a
few lines further on, in this book where moral indignation is unknown, I
read, 'Sometimes when I go into a cottage, I find all the women of the
place down on their knees plucking the feathers from live ducks and
geese.'

He loves all that has edge, all that is salt in the mouth, all that is
rough to the hand, all that heightens the emotions by contest, all that
stings into life the sense of tragedy; and in this book, unlike the plays
where nearness to his audience moves him to mischief, he shows it without
thought of other taste than his. It is so constant, it is all set out so
simply, so naturally, that it suggests a correspondence between a lasting
mood of the soul and this life that shares the harshness of rocks and
wind. The food of the spiritual-minded is sweet, an Indian scripture
says, but passionate minds love bitter food. Yet he is no indifferent
observer, but is certainly kind and sympathetic to all about him. When an
old and ailing man, dreading the coming winter, cries at his leaving, not
thinking to see him again; and he notices that the old man's mitten has a
hole in it where the palm is accustomed to the stick, one knows that it
is with eyes full of interested affection as befits a simple man and not