An Irish Essayist

The Observer, 4 November 1917, page 3, 1,229 words

Anglo-Irish Essays. By John Eglinton.

(Dublin: The Talbot Press. London: Fisher Unwin. 3s. 6d. net.)

(Reviewed by George Moore.)

John Eglinton is one of the people of “Hail and Farewell,” and some of the readers of this trilogy will remember him as a shy, pessimistic, silent man, trying always to escape from friends who worry him with praise of his style and urge him to enter the arena of public letters. He is represented as somewhat gnarled, given to self-depreciation, and whosoever would verify the accuracy of this portrait has only to read the first lines of the present volume: —

“The essays here reprinted, at the suggestion of some friends, have been taken chiefly from various defunct Irish magazines and newspapers and from a booklet, of which the remaining copies contributed their little flame to the conflagrations in Dublin during the Easter week of 1916.”

It was like John Eglinton, altogether like John Eglinton, to call attention to the fact that the essays under consideration had appeared in defunct Irish magazines, and to mention that his little booklet had contributed to the flames of the conflagrations in the Easter week, the inference of course being that his little booklet had not sold. A vanity it is to put oneself forward as an unsuccessful author, quite as much a vanity as to put oneself forward as a successful one. We do not escape from vanity any more by flying from publicity than from courting it. Vanity is our moral lot. All is vanity, and yet these essays have not seemed to us unnecessary. The theme is Ireland, it is true, but this time the theme is not the Ireland of effusive legend and worn traditions, shadowy heroes that in the imagination of the mere Irish walk about covered with gold ornaments, accompanied by Druids. John Eglinto writes of the Ireland that fought England’s battles and won them, governed England’s colonies, and contributed, by the way, many splendid pages of prose to English literature, a serious, silent Ireland, accomplishing much and little given to gabbing.

In dwelling on this Ireland to which he belongs himself, he often asks us to look back, and the glimpses he gives us of ancient Ireland illuminate and instruct us regarding modern Ireland. It must be understood that it is no part of his intention to set forth the descendants of the Elizabethan settlers (the Anglo-Irish) as the only Irish: his claim is that Ireland has grown out of many settlements, that every one of these is as truly Irish as another. The Anglo-Irishman, he contends, is intensely himself and much farther apart from the average Englishman than he is from the mere Irishman; and if we take John Eglinton as typical of the Anglo-Irishman, we shall find ourselves obliged to admit that the Anglo-Irish are in deeper sympathy with Ireland’s past than the mere Irishman who goes about singing of Brian Boroimbe.

The glimpses this volume gives of the ancient Ireland, out of which we all have come, directly or indirectly, are among the most beautiful things in Anglo-Irish literature; and the present volume contains a sentence that we remember having read in the little book that contributed to the conflagrations of Dublin during Easter week of 1916. It has lingered in our memory ever since we read it in 1904, and we read it to-day with the same pleasure as we read it thirteen years ago: —

“Ireland, at the close of the seventh century, when Christianity lay brooding here in a sort of halcyon calm and a gentler temper fell upon it bards and heroes; that Ireland into which the poem of Prince Alfrid of Northumbria gives us a glimpse, ‘Inisfail the Fair’ — that inoffensive, pensive Ireland, where all things were going well, on which Fate, without a particle of provocation, suddenly let loose her yelling dogs of destruction, her Danes and Saxons — if it could only have continued! Those, indeed, were Ireland’s palmy days, and let no ruthless historian destroy her belief in them.”

We think it would be hard to find in the literature of the mere Irish a more intense realisation of ancient Ireland. It is true that we should remember the past and cherish our memories; we can do that without trying to return to the past, which is impossible, and if we must extract a moral from John Eglinton’s pages, it is that the destiny of Ireland is joined with that of England for the next five hundred years, and that she can remain England’s ally and friend without losing anything of herself.

We are almost disposed to cancel the last lines lest they might suggest to anyone that John Eglinton has supplied or tried to supply an answer to the enigma — “What is to be done with Ireland?” To look into his pages with a view to finding out whether Mr. Duke’s government is good or bad will be labour in vain. John Eglinton is too pure an artist to drop into politics, to advocate remedies, and none will be found in his pages. No faintest suggestion of one. The book is literature, and one of the many differences between literature and writing is that literature does not try to influence directly. Literature exercises a powerful influence as long as it remains within its own province — to set a light to a train of feeling. No one will rise from John Eglinton’s pages and begin to think of another book. He will meditate on what he has read, and he will remember what he read; more than that, if the reader be a writer himself he will be led to consider that it is still possible to write English prose beautifully, and he will find himself attracted to the somewhat gaunt, gnarled masculine prose that John Eglinton writes, and this prose will reveal to him the man himself, for indirectly John Eglintons prose describes himself; the old aphorism comes up in our minds, “Le style est l’homme,” and we are more convinced of its truth than ever.

The reader’s thoughts will, if we may continue in the prophetic vein a little longer, seek out in English literature an analogy for somebody who wrote English prose as John Eglinton writes it, and his thoughts presently will turn to Charles Lamb. John Eglinton wins the reader in much the same way as Charles Lamb does. The twain are brothers in literature and in celibacy; and other traits of similarity rise up in our minds: both are public servants!

There is a difference, however: Charles wrote more than John. John’s harvest is despairingly small: it is true that the scanty harvest is cherished longer than the abundant. Mallarmé lives upon a few pages of prose and verse. Mrs. Meynell’s output is scanty, too, but she will be remembered when many others are forgotten. All the same, we would wish that John's harvest was not quite so scanty. May he collect a few more examples of his odorous bark-like prose! Let him bring in a few more pages; they will be welcomed. We appeal to the friends who have succeeded in pushing him this far into the arena of public letters to push him a little farther, not into the middle combat, perhaps, but a few steps nearer to it.