Irritably American
Sir: Mr Geoffrey Wheatcroft, an amusing and Committed Writer, in his meditations on Ireland and the `unchicness' of Ulster (`Seeing red at Orange', 18 February), notes that I said on television that my mother's family, the Gores, were 'what we call Scotch-Irish'. (Surely, I said `Scots'.) `Then he paused for a moment as if discon- certed and added, "I guess you'd say Anglo- Irish. " ' To which Mr W. snaps, 'No, we wouldn't.' To which I must respond, if fami- ly tradition and various biographers have got it right (always moot), 'Yes, we are.' In the late Sixties, thanks to the Vietnam war (and Charley Haughey's new tax laws), I contemplated taking Irish nationality. Since our family had been established in Co. Donegal since the 16th century (the founder fought under Essex) and we are all proud of the lady whose statue is in St Stephen's Green, I applied to my 'cousin' Bogfie (Earl of Arran that was and Bad- ger's saint that was and will forever be), and though neither of us had the slightest interest in genealogy he wrote me a letter outlining our 'relationship', ending, cheeri- ly, with: 'Of course we don't have a drop of Irish blood as we never married the ser- vants.' This was not a useful letter. In any case, for quite other reasons, I have remained irritably American.
I should note that Mr W. is under some kind of insular delusion if he thinks that the Protestant Irish in the United States are ashamed of their Ulster heritage. Since most have been established in North Amer- ica for two or three centuries, island coun- ties of origin are long since lost in time's fog. Interest in the Troubles only began with the arrival of the Roman Catholic Irish (in 1848 we were blessed with the first Kennedy, who turns out, on examination, to have been mostly Danish). Scots-Irish was a generic term invented by the likes of my grandfather to make sure that in the intolerant Protestant Bible belt they would not be mistaken for Roman Catholic Irish. Mr W. imagines a `momentary move of horror on Mr Vidal's elegant features at the idea that anyone might think that he was of the same stock as Ian Paisley'. Although I'm one of the few non-Green Irish Americans to have heard of Paisley (we have a different press and other villains) I would hardly deny a 'heritage' that includes nine, I believe, United States presi- dents. I will say that my blood cousin, Albert Jr, now that he is literally growing in the vice- presidential chair, does, from some angles, resemble that turbulent divine.
Finally, a biographer now tells me that our claim to be 'silver fork' Gores could be simply swank as new research suggests that we are descended from a family of yeoper- sonages in . . . in . . . (my forefinger falters over the Smith-Corona) . . . in Nether Wallop. If so, Mr Wheatcroft, go boil your head. We're English.
Gore Vidal
Ravello, Italy
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