JANE BARLOW : HER WORK AND INFLUENCE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2429, 3 October 1900, Page 68

JANE BARLOW : HER WORK AND INFLUENCE.

By Miss M. Gkaxt, Lmnsden

On very few wiiters have the gods been beneficent enough to bestow the power of endowing commonplace people and events with indescribable lascination and absorbing Inf&ere&t. Such is the gitt which Jane Barlow possesses m its highest degree. She invests "the trivial round, the common task with such vivid charm that one is conscious while reading her -v orks that she, like the Empire poet, sees "naught common" on this earth of ours.

Miss, Barlow is the eldest daughter of the Rev. Dr Barlow, Fellow ot Trinity College, Dublin, and has f-pent the greater part of her hie within a lev, miles of the Irish capital. Clontarf claims the honour ot benig her 'bn ihplace, and there (-lie spent the first eignt \eai.s 01 her life amidst surroundings which tended to develop the dreamy, imaginative side of her temperament. Sim began her literaiy career at the age of five, wnen, being js yet unable to write, she dictated a poem on "Neptune." Her present residence is at ilaheny, w here she lives in an old-fashioned rambling cottage, and revels in a magnificent view of Dublin Bay, with the Wicklow Hills bounding the horizon on Ithe right, while to the left rises the castle-crowned hill of Ilowth.

The fiist seriou* work she did "uas a little poem printed m Hiberma, and by-and-bye .some oi her sketches appeared m the Oornhill Magazine and Whitehall Review under the norn de plume of "Owen Balair." At the earnest wish of her father she signed her own name ':o her first volume ol poetry, "Bogland Studies," and so came under the notice of Dr Robertson Nicoll, who is ever ieady to stretch forth a helping hand to budding genius. Dr Nicoli advised her to write some prose idylls of Irish life after the style of Barries "Window in Thrums."' Mi«s Barlow took his kindly profiered suggestion, and wrote "lush Idylls' ' during tlie summer of 1892. Her next effort was a delightful story of Irish life entitled '"Kenigan's Quality," which was followed by a second series of idylls called "Strangers at Lisconnel."' Her later works are "Maureen's Failing" and "A Creel of Irish Stories," the latter published in 1897. Miss_ Barlow writes in such a- seemingly effortless style that one is quite surprised to learn .she is a slow and painstaking composer, sometimes writing a passage a dozen times, before she is satisfied with it. The immortal Stevenson has testified that he was similarly captious concerning his productions ; he writes, "Be it known to this fluent generation that I, Robert Loins iS'beveuson, in the forty-third year of my age, and the twentieth of my professional life, wrote 24 pages in 21 clays, -n 01 king from 6 to 11, and again in the afternoon from 2 to 4 or so, without fail or interruption." Surely, such a confession from two appareritiy fhient writers should encourage others on the upward path to the Temple of Fame.

Miss Barlow's style is eminently clear, concise, and graphic, affoidiug in its terseness a pleasing contrast to the prolixity of Miss Edge-n orth. Evidently she possesses a "seeing eye"' and an "understanding heart,' for the sorrows of the poor appeal strongly to her sympathetic nature. By "poor" understand not the genteel poor, but those who often experience the pinch of want and know what it is [ to be ravenously hungry. She shows us the pathos of their struggle for bare existence, and the humour which keeps them from giving in and submitting tamely to their fate. The downtrodden peasant has in her a powerful friend and advocate, for i& not the pen mightier than the sword V She is at her best when dealing with famine as the motif of her stories. "Past Praying For" or "The Souper's Widow," one of the versified idylls in "Bogland Studies," will serve as a forcible example. "Souper," she explains, is the name given to the few Irish Catholic peasants Yrho, during famine years, professed Protestantism in order to obtain relief. The widow, who has found an asylum in the dreaded poor-house, narrates her story to the gentle sister who n,mses her on her death-bed: — It was right in the worst o' the famine, the first year the praties wint black, And ourselves had been starved all the whither, the childher, an' Micky, an' me, An' poor Micky's ould mother, till coining on spring not a chance did we see, For there wasn't a house far or near where they'd give ye the black o' your eye, And our praste he was down wid the fever, an' clane rvunated forby. So they were quite delighted when they heard that parson had been intrusted with the distribution of the food sent by the people of London, and made up their minds to go to the town to get a share of the oatmeal and loaves. On the way they met : — Cart loads and cait loads o' grain, That Lord Athmore was sindm' in stirrings to be shipped off from Westport by say.

An' the people stood watelim' thmi pass like as

if 'twas a coipse on its way, An' sez Mick, whin we met thim, "Look, No-

rah," ses he, "that's not aisy to stand — It's the lives o' our childher the ould naygur's a' cartin' ofi out o' the land." But at parson's all they got -was "the .smell o' the soup that was throng in the hall," for parson explained that the relief was only for those who went regularly to church, where he had never seen any of them. So we wint back the way that we came, Bi\t, oclione! it scorned double the len'th, An' it's never a word Micky said. An' the ould empty bag on me arm was that light it felt heavy as lead.

Finally Mick went to church, and thereupon got the relief, but, alas ! he never reached home. He was found stark and stiff on the lonely road in the midall of a dreary bog. At the end of her story the widow pathetically asks Sister Frances "if there's a chance for him yet?" and, taking the blame of his apostacy on her own shoulders, avers "he would never have done it if she only had held her tongue." Qns of >he saddest of all pur autlioresg's

sad stories is "Ihe Ould Master," the first poem in "Bogland Studies." Pat Connor, an old retainer of th.3 O'Neih, of Jnish Fay, tells how his young master, Deius O'jN'eil, went to Aus.ii alia to make his fortune, intending to return to his father's home in the course of a year or two. For some time he wrote regularly, hi% at last his letters suddenly ceased. The squire would watch Widdy Doyle at the office sorting the letters on the arrival "of every foreign mail, "but always the same answer came, '"fcjorra a tlrng "for your honour."' As the years went by, ths w atching and waiting (told on the squire, whitened his hair, and bent his shoulders. Then came the famine, when the loyal tenants had haul work to conceal their sufferings from the old master, who "kept close "in the house all the vs hile, " 'cai>_e he said he'd the gout in his knee tho' 'twas liker the grief at his 'heart." Aithough it was with difficulty they got enough Sound praties io seive wid his dinner, they'd my that Lut seldom afoie Such a ciofi had been dug ou the Lush, an' certm that he was no more Than the truth, for 'twas worse than the

They themselves cooked weeds off the rocks to satisfy the cravings of hunger, and found them "quare ugly thr-tf-h. ' At last, one morning in October, came a letter from Denis O'Xtil explaining his long silence : Some people straight irom Connaught had it old him his father wa.s dead, and he, not caiing much what became of him, had joined a paity exploring in the interior. There lie was fortuu \io boyoncl his di earns, and returned to civilisation a wealthy man. By chance he heard that the news of his father \ death was all a mistake, and took iDa^sas^e by the nex'L steamer Home. The later, which was written from Dublin, announced that he intended to arrive at Ini-h Fay ou ihe following day. The morning of that day was calm and misty, not a breath of -v md' ruffling the shining surface of .the lough, but towards evening a sudden squall sprang up, and the boat conveying the young master capsizad within a .short dihlanrc of the landing-place. He and his men, however, managed after a severe struggle to reach the shore in safety. Just as they gained the be^ch a big wave swept Widely Hullivau's 'imp of a boy" off his feet, and wa* rapidly- hearing him seav, arcl when Denis nolic^? his danger, and plunged in after him. A mighty wave caught them, and . . . tossed thino, the both o' thim, Och ! an' the little &palpeen ifi&ther Denis liacl gripl bo the collar; He pumped up the first thing we seen, While young master lay still — not a stir — He was stunned wid a crack 0:1 the head — Just a flutter o' life at hi? hcait — But it's tilt he was — kilt on 113 dead. There was- no need to break the tragic news to the old matter, for he died almost at the same moment that his son so nobly sacrificed life itself to save the widow's boy. "By Ithe Bog-hole," a tale of love and jealousy, ends in a similarly tragic fashion. The sorrowful hero, speaking of the time before the serpent entered his Eden, wes the following expression, beautiful in its strength and simplicity : — Maybe four months from now . . . Bvit it seems to me faehn's a world's breadth away and a life's lenth ago. Soliloquising concerning the rivalry between himself and 'Felix M'Gtath, he An' I'd think 'twixt us both Nell might fare like a little white lose on a thorn, That two childer '11 be scufihn' an' tusslin' to grab, 'cause it's pur'ty and sweet, Till its laves is shook off in a shower, an' trod down in ilae dust at their feet. A very vivid description of the miserable condition of the Irish peasan'b and his surroundings occurs in the poem entitled -Walled Out": — An' thin the whither began, on a suddint it seenied, for ths trees Were flamin' like fire m the wood whiii it tuk to perish an' freeze ; An' thro" your bones like a knife wint the win' that comes keenin' around, An' alter that wid the pours of lain we were fairly dhrowned; For the wather'd be lunnin' in sthrames beneath the step at the door, An' t' ould thatch that's thick wid holes let it drip iii pools 0:1 the floor, T'ill'sorra the fire 'ud burn, wid the peat-sods no betther than mud, Since the stacks themselves outside seenied meltin' away in the flood. Can those who are responsible for such a condition of affairs reod these words without one thrill of pity and remorse? However, in spite of all his troubles Pat must be a philosophical fellow, for he thus communes with himself concerning the world to come : — For the blacker this ould world looks, an' the more ye're bothered pnd vexed, The more yell be cravm' an' longin' for soniethm' elss in the next ; While whinever there's little that ails ye, an' all goes slither as grease, Ye doa't so much as considher, bedad, if there's e'er such a place. Finally, he comes to the satisfactory conclusion that There's light on t'other side of the dark, as the day comes after the night. One more beautiful idea in the same train of thought I cannot resist quoting : — Sleep, that's the chink for a glimpse, bui death, that's the door set wide. Many of the metaphors used by our authoress are literolly perfect. For instance, the 3'oung moon is spoken of as "the ghost of a little white sail," while Diana, in her full beauty is called "a bubble o' silvei." Those commonplace flowers, dandelions, are not usually considered a suitable subject for the Muses, but Miss Barlow poetically describes them as "mock suns." Her similes are likewise exceedingly effective. Take, for example : — On summer evenm's, whin soft as silk was every breath that wint; or the following :— ■ In the could heart o' March, "vvlim the win' keeps a keen like a dog gone as'thray, An' the sun' ll let on to be shinin' wid no taste 1 of heat in it yet, An' the world seems swep' empty an' wsutin' I %>r sqniethin' it never 'ill gels.

Yet another simile in Tihich the Irish humour rings true : — I'm corue, like the winther's woist day, afte* lavm' mejjcttlieis behind. Li'sconnel, whidi serves as a setting for the series of sketches entitled "lii-.h Idylls," is no particular place, 'but simply a Lvpical 'n est-counlry village. The scenery is laid around the shores of Clew Bay in Gonnaught, and it was while on a visit to some friends in *that neighbourhood that Miss Bin-low picked up her ideas of dialect. A tribute to her genius is afforded by the iudi that she has received letters from people who assured her they knew the Widow ivl'Gurk quite well, but, unfortunately for their perspicacity, all the characters in the book merely represent types, not leal personalities. One benevolently-dis-posed bay wrote asking -*haL kind of clothing would be of moat benefit* to the poor people at Ir.-sconnel, and' much astonished to learn that there was no such, place in existence. The most finely-con-ceived character in the whole book is, in my opinion, Alis Kilfoyle, avjio, in her younger days, figured as the pretty Bessie Joyce. The Joyces hold at one time been ni S ni 7 prosperous in the rich southern countr- "with its me«dow,s where the grass stood higher than the tallest rushes oafc" on the bog yonder, and Us potato and barley fields you could scarcely see ironu. one end to tjie other of, they were that .sixeabie ; w here there were cows audcalves and firkins of butter, let alone l-uiliins aud lavins of skim milk and whey, and where a 'big potful ot oatmeal stirabout, was set down for the breakfast every morning, and as often as not there would be a 'bit of bacon frying for the dinner on Bundiy." Andy Joyce was a born farmer, and had carried out some wonderful improvements on his fcmall holding in County Claie, building some line cattle shads, and dunning a swampy corner of the river-fisld. His i"u-»\cird was that on the next quarterday die Joyces received notice to quit— "Andy, in tact, had done his best to improve himself off the face of the eprth." I'iesently he a-. id his family established themselves in a mud-walled, rush-roofed cabxii «Mvyy at fctony -Lif-connel. One day, not long alter their" migration. Andy went; to the fair at Uuii'clane, and when half through his plate of stirabout at supper that night, lie s-.iid to his wife: "I seen a couple of boys from home to-day." "Whethen now, to think of thai:," said Mrs Joyce, with mournful interest. '"Which of them wirf it?" "The one of them Avas Terence Kihoyle," said Andy. Mrs Joyce's interest flagged, for young Kiiioyle was merely a good-looking lad, with the name of being rather wild. "Ah, sure, hs might as well be in one place as another," she: said, indifferently. ''Bessy, honey . . . just throw (the scraps to the white hin where she's sittin'. He r^z he's thinkin' to fcettle heivaboutV' &a<id Andy, '" . . . And I met J*nrv jhunie too. 1 ' '"Och, and did you, indeed?" said Mrs Joyce, kindling into c.";;ei> a^nij, io: Jerry Dnrme had been a suitor of Jessie's (although not a favoured ono, as far as Bessie was concerned) 211 more opulent circumstances. "And Jerry hid mo tell you,'' continued Andy, "thaL he might be .steppin' up here to see you io-moira or next day."' "'Deed, then, he'll be very welcome/ replied Mrs Joyce, and next morning &he hurried tliiougli her work, and donned her best clothes in honour of 'her jsoEsible visitor. "The 'black earth flooring at her threshold gritted hatefully under her feet, and the gusts whistling 'through the many chinks of her rough walls seemed to skirl derisively, 'but she resolved to put the best possible face upon the .situation." "Well, Mrs Joyce, ma'am, and hotf-'s yourself this long while," said Jerry Dunne on his arrival. "Bedad, I'm glad to see you so finely, and it's an ilegant place you've got up here." Je-rry, I may remark, carried a huge basket, "fro to hou.cl a young turf stack," which suggested all sorts of possibilities to Mrs Joyce's active brain, for the basket must contain something, and its contents were likely to prove mosb acceptable in a household where the "pitatjr sack grew light with such alarming rapidity, and the little heard of corn dwindled, and the childers' appetites seemed to wax lai'ger day by day."' After a further interchange of civilities., Jerry, "reflectively ruffling up his flaxen Lair with both hands," and seemingly rather ill at ease, came to the point by asking for the big white "hin" he had give Bewsie some time before. Ha explained that he was going to be married to Sally Coghlan, and that she had

expressed an ardent -\visli to become the owner of a Avliite lien. Mrs Joyce's pride enabled her to conceal the disappointment .she felt on hearing the-e items of news, so hhe and Kitty, her second dangLJter, quickly secured the hen, and deposited her safely in the basket. "After this every'bedy said good-bye with much politeness and affability, though withal a certain air of despatch as if they "vvere conscious of handling rather perishable goods." That same afternoon Terence Kilfoyle put in an appearance, 'togethei- vr'uh a couple of pounds of butter and a dnz<*n eggs, and as Bessie afterwards became Mrs Terence Kilfoyle, "\ve may presume she was not inconsolable over the lof-s of the "white lion. In the evening of her life she is described as a "little old woman, witfo white hair like carded bog-cotton, aud a sweet, 'high-piping voice like a small chicken's." The neighbours said she '"had a way wid her," and when lowering clouds gathered on the social horizon of Li&connel she exercised her taOfc and resource so effectively that storms were usually averted. Her nature had been ripened and sweetened by affliction, foi one never to-be-forgotten day her j r oungest son, Thady, was brought home to her with ihe life knocked out of him by a kick f"om a vicious cart-horse. An an instance of her kindly 'thoughtfulness we are told that when f-he wanted to do a good turn to the Widow M'Giirk, whose pride was even greater than her poverty, she resorted to the stratagem of borrowing a jug, although she had jugs of all shapes and sizes at 'home. When on the point of leaving on the completion of her ostensible errand, she would appear to be struck by, a sudden thought., and the following dialogue frequently took place :. "WelL I muefc

be 'sliankin' off wid meself, Mrs M'Gurk, and thank you kindly, ma'am. Sure, it's trou'bliu' you I am too often." "Xot at all, ndt at all," from Mrs M'Gurk, whose gaunt head rose two inches higher v. ith the consciousness of confemng a favoiu — "don't think to be mentioning it, Mrs Kilfoyle; you're a.s -welcome a; the light o' day to any s>tickr> of things I've got." Mrs Kilfoyle would then reply, "I suppose now, ma'am, you couldn't 'be Utkin' a. couple o' stone o" praties oil' of us? Ours do be keepin' ith.it badly, we can't n&e them quick enough, and you could be pay in' us back ■when the nev\ ones, come in, aecorcLa' as was convanient. If you would, I'd send one o' the childer up wid them as soon a.s I git home. Sorra the trouble in it at all, and thank you kindly, Mrs M'Gurk, and good evenin' to you, ma'am." Although Widow M'Gurk was as "couthrary as the two inds of a rapm' hook," this delicate transaction was never known to give her offence. Mrs Kilfoyle's cheery optimism "was certainly not warranted by her circumstances, and it was seldom that she could indulge her weakness for a, good cup of tea, as tea was "ten prices" 50 years ago. Hovv- ' ever, Brian Kilioyle was hicky enough one mid-summer to dispose of his pig at a reasonable iprice, and. .straightway?'*" made up his mind to buy his mother a pound of tea when he went next week xo the fair In the town. The morning of the fair , dawned behind "lattices of fretted snowsheen, which melted with ever-widening interspaces far up and away into faint lines and filmy streaks like the clouding on an agate, until, while the green sward underneath was yet all beaded with prisms of dew, the lapis-luzuli cup overhead curved down without a fleck from brim to brim." Such a perfect morning was followed by a perfect noon. Listen to the description : "Xhe noontide was indeed going to an accompaniment of elfin c.icking and creaking and whirring, kept up uniiiterniitterJtly on the glowing sward with its tenant grasshoppers and beetles and 'blue and red"Winged flies, and oveifoorne by a droning boom a 9 often as a dustj- bee backed Gut of one freckled foxglove's purple-shaded cell, and went murmuring to toil and swing in another. Butterflies cruised idly nowhere in particular oa white sails, or freaked wiin orange and scarlet, and mailed dragon flies poised and darted in vivid, jewelled gleam?. There was scarcely 'breeze enough stirring to whisk the fuzzy while wings off the seeded dandelions, and up on the ridge of hill the hot air quivered against the rocks like a curtain about to rise.' What a picture of noontide, of tranquillity. tLes^e words tiring before the mental vision. When Brian came home from the fair he presented to his mother the precious packet of fragrant ten, but she was not destined to enjoy it. She stepped indoors to put tha kettle on the fire, and 'there they foiuid her dead, sitting with the teapot on her ■ lap, and the parcel lying open beside her. Two wayfarers beneath the shining stars that night were overheard to say : "Sure she. was a wonderful great age entirely 'this long way back. The life was ready to flutther away out of her like the bit of down sittin' on a thistle in a waft of wind. . . . We'll do well enough, plaze ,God, if to be we've the tuck to slip off as aisy when we come co quitting." (To be continued.)