Newspaper Page Text
immense majority of her people adopt some special
trade. As a consequence, not only in England do they monopolize trade, but they run the workshops of the world to a large extent. Go into all the foundries, collieries, railroad shops, and other factories, in the United States, and ten to one but the foremen and many of the directors of most of these are English or Scotch. Ireland, on the other hand, bankrupt and plundered as she is, with an aristocracy proud as they are poor— and heaven knows that is as forcible an illustration of poverty as we can give—looks with sublime contempt on trade. Not only is this the feeling of the aristocracy, but of nine-tenths of the people. Squires, bailiffs, rack rented farmers, and along down to the hucksters who sell cockles in the streets of Dublin, all have a super stitious dread of trade. Anything but send their sons to learn a trade. The great boast of many of the old families, who have become reduced to beggary, is, “ thank God, though we may beg, the honor of the family has never been disgraced by having a tradesman.” Add to this that trade does not flourish*in Ireland—as how could it?—and we can easily account for the terrible evils that have resulted to our people when compelled to emigrate in large numbers. This will partly explain why we are the hewers of wood and the drawers of water to others. "Why we carry the hod, instead of laying the brick. Why we dig the sewers and lay the railroad tracks, while others do the bossing. Why we do all the bone and muscle work, while others do the brain work only. We are sorry to say that our people, to a certain extent, persist in wrapping themselves up in so many of their old prejudices, even in this “ country of labor,” and in sending their sons to any sort of business rather than lower their family standard by sending them to trades. As long as they continue in this criminal course of training, so long will they be rewarded by having their tradeless sons grow up into fashionable loafers, confidence men, pickpockets, etc., ending their lives in States prisons. We call our readers’ attention to the following scrap from the history of one of the leading men of America. It is the advice of Horace Greely, who went to New York city at the age of nineteen with ten dollars in his pocket. But he had a trade—that was the open sesame that brought him to what he is. The Best Education.—They say that apprenticeship is distasteful to and out of fashion with the boys of our days ; if so, I regret it for their sakes. To the youth who asks, “ How shall I obtain an education ?” I would answer, “ Learn a trade of a good master.” I hold firmly that boys may thus better acquire the knowledge they need than by spend ing four years in college.—Autobiography of Horace Greeley. If our people only consulted their children’s welfare, instead of their own prejudices, they would see at once that this is the advice of a benefactor. How much money is spent in pushing young men through the various colleges to graduate in the end as bookkeepers, at ten or fifteen hundred dollars a year, and to a life of silent, tiresome drudgery? Should they be rewarded by seeing Tom or Dick hang out a lawyer’s or doctor’s sign, they begin to hold up their heads. But in nine cases out of ten they have to pay the lawyer’s and doctor’s board for the first ten years. Our advice to fathers and mothers is, the moment your sons become seven years of age send them to the public schools. To no other, under any consideration. In the public schools they meet the children of all na tions and sects, and coming in contact with these will brighten their intellects and make them grow up free and liberal citizens. Besides, they will receive a more practical education in the public schools. This word practical is the most important part of education. It fits them for the world. We know of hundreds of‘men who are first-rate classical scholars, understanding all the dead languages, who are working on the railroads of America. Their parents forgot to give them a practical education, and though they can read the stars, they have to dig mud and live the railroad laborers’ life in America. When your sons come to the proper age, send them to some good trade. You can notice their inclinations, and what they show a turn for send them to it, if it is honorable. Remember, when the glitter of some celebrated names of lawyers, doctors, merchants and politicians, dazzles your lively imagination, that all men cannot become O’Connors, Rushes, Stewarts, and Douglasses, and that where they succeeded ninety-nine others out of the one hundred failed. We never see the names of the am bitious youths who were overwhelmed by the elements, and who perished, “ unheard, unhonored and unsung.” No. We only see the hero who has come out victorious, and we fall in love with war, never thinking of the dead. Merchants fail, lawyers starve, doctors lose their patience when they have no patients, but a trade is an estate that never fails. It is no incumbrance. You can lay it up in the corner of your brain, and fall back on it whenever you please. It does not bar you from learning. Some of the greatest minds of the nation have been developed after the labors of the day were over. We desire to improve the position of our people. We wish to see them independent and happy. While they are the drudges to the nation they will be neither happy nor respected. Send your children to schools, and then bind them to trades. Let no poverty, short of actual starvation, force you to send them out peddling matches, papers, etc., or blacking boots. These are the schools of crime. They learn to become pickpockets, gamblers and sports on the streets. In a word, give them good trades, and you give them riches that none can take away, and a business that never fails. REVIEW OF BOOKS. “Una’s” Poems. All who have read “Una’s” spirited and patriotic poems in The Irish Republic will thank us for drawing their attention to “Una’s Poems” in book form. There are many of our countrymen in America who “ strike the lyre to Erin’s glory,” figuratively speaking. How much glory is added to Erin’s crown of “ green and blood” by the strikers it is not for us to say. "We have only to take the will— which is no doubt good—for the deed. We believe “ Una” is the only Irishwoman in America who has sung successfully the “ wild songs of her dear native plains.” Such being the case, this “ lone singing bird” should find many admirers. That her song is sweet, and her themes grand, we conscien tiously aver. Yet, on opening her beautiful book of poems, sent to us by a friend in Cincinnati for our “ Irish library,” we find the date of publication to be 1803. Four years ago, and not out of print yet. Well, Tom Moore said, when starved out of Ireland, and petted in England, “ Ireland is fond of sweet singing, but she will not feed her singing birds.” Had “Una” been an American, or an Englishwoman, and wrote for either of those two great nations, her book of poems would be in every “library.” Being of our race, however, and clinging to that glittering hope that her country some day will arise from the dust, and singing for “slaves,” she is not appreciated. Of course her harp is sorrowful. Who that has lived in Ireland and seen her beauty and desolation, read of her olden glory and beheld her present degradation, can sing of joy ? Not those with souls such as we know “ Una” must possess. Slaves will dance in their chains, but souls that yearn for liberty can only weep—or strike. It sickens us to go into Irish houses, and find them well stocked with everything but books. “Lord, it is not fashion able you know, Mrs. O’Doyle !” A large “ bible,” kept on the table for shoiv, and probably a pack of cards in that same table drawer, in nine cases out of ten constitute the reading matter. If there is an Irish book, it is sure to be the “ Irish singer’s own comic socialist.” The contents are “ Lanigan’s Ball,” “ Finnegan’s Wake,” “ Smigging Maglural,” and such base counterfeits, coined by some Cockney to please a Lunnun audience of roughs, and taken up and patronized afterwards by our own people! We trust there is a new era dawning, and that the rising generation of young Irishmen will reform this thing alto gether. The starting of libraries will draw the intelligence of our race together as surely as a dog fight, or prize fight, draws the ruffians now. It is time that the decent men should speak out as the representatives of Ireland, for the ward politicians, the uncultivated roughs, and the uncivilized herd who have disgraced our country, have had it too long their way. lo all who love true patriotic, ringing verses, this book of poems by “ Una” will be a new delight. We are sorry our space will not allow us to give more than a few extracts, which will only show the spirit of the writer. The first is especially appropriate at this time, and we trust our readers will take its sermon to heart. discord our nation’s curse. Again the voice of Erin cornea In sorrow o’er the main, Telling a tale of want and woe, Of bitterness and pain— How long, O Lord, shall human hearts Thus in the dtist be trod ? How long shall men bow down like slaves, And fear a tyrant’s nod ? Too long ye’ve crawled with fettered limbs, ’Tis time for ye to rise When Erin’s voice of anguish seems To pierce the listening skies 5 Too long ye’ve hoped for time to break Or loose vour heavy chains ; That hope has faded out, and now But one resource remains. God of our country and the right! We know our cause is just; Then for that country’s sake unite, And put in Him your trust. No more like cravens tamely crouch, But let your tyrants feel That when they give you iron laws, You’ll pay them back with steel. Let ancient feuds and petty strifes Like midnight gloom depart; Discord or hate can never dwell In a true patriot’s heart; The really great and noble soul Thinks not of self alone— True to himself, the patriot makes His country’s wrongs his own. Our land lies crushed and desolate Beneath the power of might, Because her sons, though brave and true, For her will not unite; And though with anguish deep and strong They brood upon her woes, With all their soirow for her wrongs, They are themselves her foes. Oh, must we see our own loved land, The country of our birth, Year after year a suppliant ’rnong The nations of the earth ? And feel, although our bitter wrongs To tyranny we trace, That discord is the heaviest curse That rests upon our race ? Oh, brothers, friends, no more apart Like foes or strangers stand ; Join in a noble brotherhood To raise our trampled land. No longer let the shameful taunt Upon our race be thrown: “ Ye fight the stranger’s battles well, But cannot fight your own.” Cement the bonds of union now, And time new strength will bring; ’Tis by degrees the acorn grows To be the forest king; Prepare the way by patient toil, And if, when great and strong, Ye seek a fitting time to strike, Ye shall not want it long. Hope not that time will loose the chains Around our nation cast— By force they bound her, and by force They must be burst at last; And if ye would have Freedom bless Our Island of the West, ’ Tis on the rock of unity Her temple walls must rest. THE EXILE’S DBEAM. My heart forever fondly turns to thee, my native land, And oft again in happy dreams upon thy shore I stand; I sit beneath the hawthorn boughs, upon the daisied sod, Or roam the old, familiar paths my childish footsteps trod. I see the hoary towers that rise to tell thee of thy youth, The lakes that rest upon thy breast, clear as the light of truth; The splendid wrecks of lordly halls, that tell of glory gone, Thy holy graves, where heroes sleep, while slaves must still live on. Thy beauty, oh, my native land, can never pass away ; Fair as thou wert when great and free, thou art in chains to-day! But ’tis a beauty, oh ! so sad! it makes the tears to start— Sad as the smile that wreaths the lips when Death has chilled the heart. But once, my native land, I dreamed a glorious dream of thee, That thou once more wert throned a Queen upon the subject sea ; In stern defiance proudly rose tliy towers and castles tall, While, fanned by Freedom, floated out the Green Flag over all. The thunder-shout of victory that rose from hill and glen, Might make thy old, heroic dead leap back to life again; As Liberty’s grand prean rose above the ocean’s roar. By millions ’twas re-echoed back from many a far-ofi snore. No more the pallid brow of woe bent over famine graves. No longer freights of human hearts were borne across tiie No more was felt the crushing weight of foreign tyrant s But hearts and cheerful homes smiled over all the Then ’mid the nations Erin sat, a nation blest and free, Her sunburst floated, as of yore, afar o’er land and sea, And peace and plenty, hand in hand, her hills and valleys trod, For man no longer dared to curse a land so blessed by God.