Gentle visitors, the Pipes & Cigars mailer came in a month or two ago, and the cover so inspired your humble Contributor that he has been anxious to comment on it ever since, though delayed by the press of work and family responsibilities, etc.
On one level, it is, of course, an advertisement of sale for Peterson of Dublin pipes, established 1865; but, this is only the surface -- the truth of it goes far deeper. The photo, as they say, speaks a thousand words -- we will keep it, in summary, to three hundred.
The two men -- one young, one old -- look past the craggy coast and the crashing surf toward the broad, shimmering sea. The young man sees clearly on the horizon seemingly infinite opportunity and adventure; the old man sees somewhat more dimly the crests and troughs of the past and, as for the future, his gaze suggests not so much resignation as tempered assessment. The younger's vibrant shock of hair is contrasted with the elder's covered head and presumably balding pate.
Unseen is the elder's forearm tattoo -- something vaguely oriental like a winged, twisting dragon of some sort -- that, together with his wizened features and gray beard, reveal a life of hard work, perhaps hardship, and some stevedoring. (The two men's choice of pipe stock also hint at their relative difference in vigor, but we will leave that unexamined.)
The pipes, of course, are the unifying principle in these differences: they are vehicles of reflection brought on by thoughtful puffing, the smoke rising as a kind of prayer and and drifting as a kind of conversation with the ether and other unseen mysteries. And, whether in youthful exuberance or aged temperance, both men display hope and an almost preternatural calm that only a good briar pipe can bring, Peterson's being one option.
It helps that these are two men of Ireland -- an island that has brought the world great thinkers and saints, and -- well, to be honest -- great drinkers and sinners as well, so that the Irish not grow too proud in their giftedness. The aspiration is always toward the good, the noble, and the poetic, even if the execution is wanting in some respects.
Which puts us in mind of a letter to the editor that appeared on November 21st, 1959 in The Tablet , an London paper with an on-again off-again sympathy to the Irish cause. (For a few years, The Tablet was published in Dublin, about the time that Mr. Peterson was fashioning his first pipe.) Fifty-eight years ago today, someone carefully clipped and later copied the letter, and thirty some years ago a Killarney man, if memory serves, possibly of the O'Reilly clan, passed it along to us.
The letter, written by Eugene Watters, who went on to become an Irish writer of some note under his Gaelic name, Eoghan Ó Tuairisc, addresses articles concerning the Irish migration to England in those days. Here it is.
November 21st 1959
EMIGRATION FROM IRELAND
DEAR SIR,—The intermixing of moral judgments with statistics in your articles on Irish migration calls for some protest from a mere native, of the peripheral isle. The second article, for instance, asserts that my countrymen are going east simply because they really prefer the hedonism of materialist Britain to the puritanism of their native country." This allocation of the isms is plainly daft.
The typical Englishman is a mechanic. He will tinker all day with the inside of an engine, taking time off to construct a glasshouse and cultivate tomatoes. He falls in love in his early twenties, saves for a few years, begs, borrows or builds a house, marries, and with the national genius for limited objectives propagates a boy and a girl. Then he slaves, saves, slogs at the home-work, lives like a monk on small beer and shores his fragments against the day of the eleven-plus. Later in life, he may so far fall from grace as to win a darts championship at the Nag's Head.
The typical Irishman is the eldest son of a small farmer. He farms just sufficiently to keep himself in home-cured bacon, roast duck, the best Indian tea, Virginian tobacco, Guinness Double-X, and potato-cakes done on the griddle and saturated in melted butter. He spends his summer evenings at the cross-roads arguing politics or in prudent dalliance with the [other] sex. His life is long, lingering, leisurely: hurling and Gaelic football at the proper seasons, poaching often,dancing and card playing at the the neighbour's house, bathing in a state of nature among the bulrushes of the bog-pools, dog-racing, the bookie's office, election meeting after Mass, relaxing after the Sunday dinner with the English papers, in which he reads with grave relish of the horrible things that happen the sinful cities of the Saxon plain.
Reluctantly,at the average age of fifty, he advertises in the Standard for a wife: "Mature; non-smoker, non-drinker, nurse preferred; also a farm or a little capital; must be a practising Catholic." If children are begotten at all it is in the dogged determination that young brother Patrick, who works with a dance-band in Leeds, will not fall in to the place. He dies at ninety and a half-barrel of Guinness is broached at the wake.
Look well upon this picture and on this. Which is the puritan, which the hedonist? And what is the meaning of materialism?
Yours Sincerely,
Eugene Watters
Cappagh Crossroads,Finglas, Co. Dublin
Point taken. But I wasn't sure how the Englishman "shores his fragments against the day of the eleven-plus," since presumably, wouldn't he would have already taken the exam as a youngster? Or have I misunderstood the figure of speech?
In any case, with a little luck, Peterson might just be underwriting Hereunder hereafter. Watch that space!
Posted by: Blue Clinkers | Friday, November 24, 2017 at 05:16 PM