The Press. SATURDAY, MARCH 2, 1912. A NEW IRISH WRITER.

Press, Volume LXVIII, Issue 14293, 2 March 1912, Page 8

The Press. SATURDAY, MARCH 2, 1912. A NEW IRISH WRITER.

.The world owes a debt of gratitudo to the. men who caij make it laugh, and if In the process they add to its stock of knowledge, and incidentally suggest" fresh points of view, tho dobt " is not diminished. How many peoplo nowadays, wo wonder, really know Dean Ramsay's "Reminiscences of Scottish Lifo- and Character," apart, that is, from thoso numerous writers of fiction who in recent years have levied such heavy toll upon it? Very fow, we suspect, yet it might be plausibly maintained that such knowledgo is essential to a right understanding of tho North Briton. But Scottish humours are after all comparatively obvious, and not even tho most ultrapatriotic Scot would wish to claim for his fellow-countrymen that chameleonlike elusivcness which renders tho Irishman at onco 60 attractive and so exasperating—at least to thoso who rule their lives by logic. No one but an Irishman can really understand tho workings of tho Irish mind, and oven an Irishman is, generally speaking, incapable of sharing his insight with the rest of the world. William Carleton undoubtedly possessed that power in a high degree, but Carleton is hopelesly old fashioned. Tho world ho described passed away in the famine years of tho nineteenth century. The same holds iifcrue of Maria Edgeworth,. and even of

Lever and Lover, thon_h Lever in his rollicking Peninsula novels, and Lover in his ever delightful "Handy Andy" aro still largely responsible for the widespread belief that the Irishman, qua'lrishman, is a whimsical illogical person, brimming over with lighthoartcrlne?s. and perpetually ready for a fight or a frolic. And this is a view which tho works of those accomplished Indies who have created the literature of the "Irish R. M." tend to confirm, though hero and hero they lift a corner of the curtain and give us a fugitive glimpse of a life far greyer.

But no writer of our time, and wo neither forget nor fail to appreciate .Miss Emily Lawless, Miss Jane Barlow, Carion Shoehan, Allen of "Green Glasses" fame (Edmund Downey), or Mr Stephen Gwynnc, has handled the subject of Irish iifo from so many sides, or depicted it with greater literary skill than tho West Country rector

who writes under the pen-name of Oeorge Birmingham. Tho curious may find a list of his theological writings in the pages of Crockford's Clerical Directory, if they look for them under tho name of J. 0. Hannay. But such works," we suspect, will bo " caviare to the general," and wo should advise all who have hitherto failed to make the acquaintance of this delightful writer to lo'. no time in reading "Spanish Gold." Onco they have fallen under the spell of " J.J.." that prince of curates, they are sure to go further and sample "The Simpkin's Plot," "Tho Major's Niece," "The Search Party," and "Lalase'.. Lovers." But even then they will only know one side of Georgo Birmingham, for whimicial humourist as he always is, he has a graver and soberer side. We do not know any novels of modern Irish lifo that better repay reading than 'The ' Seething Pot" and "Hyacinth," in which ho brings his almost uncanny skill in analysis and portraiture to bear on tho actual Ireland, tho Ireland of tho peasant, tho priest, the parson, and tho politician. In these books, to tho mere Sassenach, Mr Birmingham will appear typically Irish. For in them he contrives to combine an attitude of critical aloofness with a penetrating sympathy, nnd an intense, and at times even passionate, love for Ireland and all that Ireland stands for. At ono and the same moment, paradoxical as it. appears, ho plays the doubio rolo of ideal spectator and actor in tho drama. And it is this .insular quality of mind which lends such peculiar valuo to his latest work, the volume of essays on 'The Lighter Side of Irish, Lifo." This is a book conceived in tho vein of "Dean Ramsay's Reminiscences," to which wo havo referred above, and no ono who desires to gain an intimate view of contemporary Irish lifo can afford to neglect reading it. It is a storehouse of fresh anecdote. It is full of protest, paradox, and pleading, nnd with all its inimitable lightness cf touch; i.s a serious contribution to tho eternal Irish question. We have nover seen a wittier or moro illuminative apologue than that on the forgotten game of "Spoil Five," with which tho book closes. Ono quotation we must allow ourselves tho pleasure of making. "No one except an Irishman ," could ever havo played ' Spoil Five' "really well; for no one else lived " the lifo which 'Spoil Five' " expressed as in a parable. The value " of tho cards was gloriously confusing "to the beginner. The highest in a " red suit took the trick, the lowest in " a black. The humble deuce of spades "triumphed unexpectedly over an opu- " lent ten; but the ten of diamonds ".lorded it in the familiar way over "subservient threes and fours. Just "so in actual life. Values in Ireland " wore, bewildoringly uncertain to the "strangers within our gates." Yet when all is said and dono, wo are bound to admit that George Birmingham's writings are not for all tastes. We have heard of an Irish barrister of parts who oven professed to find him dull. But it is worth recording that after ho had made that damaging statement, ho added with a reflective smile the truly Hibernian comment, "I " bought three of his books, you know, " and read them tho same evening. It "was past two o'clock before I got to "bed!" - ■