NOTES

New Zealand Tablet, 18 November 1920, Page 26

NOTES

“ The Glamor of Cork” Some time ago Ave introduced our readers to a delightful little book called The Glamor of Dublin. A companion volume, by the same author, now makes its bow to the readers of the Tablet, who will all buy it if they are wise. Those who have read the earlier volume—and they are many in New Zealand—were enchanted with its beautiful word-pictures of Dublin—pictures that are like fine etchings illustrating the story, the romance, and the tragedy of Ireland. To readers of The Glamor of Cork Ave guarantee the rare pleasure of another literary treat of a high quality. All that Mr. Kelleher did for Dublin in his first book he has done for lovely, langourous, . dreaming Cork in his second. Perhaps only those who know the two Irish cities of which he writes can taste the full flavor of his work ; but for all who are able to appreciate fine imaginative prose both books ought to be a boon and a blessing. We hope the author will pardon us for saying that Ave hope that in subsequent editions of The lam or of Cork he will omit the opening reveries about prehistoric Cork. De r/ustibu* non est d isputa/ulnm, of course; but to us they are no more pleasing than would be a barbed-wire fence through which one has to crawl into a garden. The Pictures Between the covers’of this little book what a wonderful picture gallery we have ! Swift, Mitchel, Parnell, Father Matthew, O'Connell, Tom Moore, Sarsfield, Lord Edward, Elizabeth O'Neill, Mary Aitkenhead—brave men and fair women of great name in Ireland—walk with the visitor who sees Cork with Mr. Kelleher’s book in hand. At every page there is a temptation to quote. As Ave cannot quote as much as we would, Ave limit ourselves to a few random passages which will be to our readers a promise of the fine quality of what is left for them to read for themselves : . . Look at him there, a pilgrim dragging himself on to the Italian gates of the Alps. A young man, 37 or so, but broken of all things save of God. Night is falling as he reaches Ivrea and enters the cathedral. lie prays for strength to persevere, for now his heart lifts with an agonising hope. There, up in the valleys of Aosta, opens out the fan of snows about the great St. Bernard, from whose heightsOh, God, if only he can reach them ! —the hills will be visible rolling down to the West and Ireland that he craves for. So he is shaken and exalted by the thousand thoughts and the folly of his adventure, the anguish for home, the phantoms that begin to rise of kinsmen clustering round him at the gates of Cork. ‘ Welcome, av come back .’ But look ! How white he turns ! The night grows harder with nipping cold, his blood congeals, his skin tingles and is stung, the nails of the coffin riveting in—so his mind wandering begins to vision it. He staggers to a gate —it is a mile beyond Ivrea on the Aosta road—the hospice of Sant Antonio—they admit him ; another rover ; pilgrims are not always to be trusted. He flounders to a bed in the common ward: neglected, scorned maybe. Vespers ring out. The Brother's are at prayer: the. pilgrim

gives a little gasp on the floor. Suddenly the mountains topple down, the torrents run living gold, lapis-lazuli, and silver reef across the peaks, avalanches leap and clash like cymbals-. An old feeble fellow stretched nearby cries out for help : , ‘ That one there—the stranger! He is all on fire And the bell clangs the brethren round, , and ! they fall on their knees, breathless and humbled, till the phosphorescence passes from the face and hair of the departed. Oh, Mary and Joseph ! A saint and of noble birth! For look what is here and they,, searching his coarse pilgrim’s clothes! A bishop’s ring and, the scrip of the Pope himself! And the poor man so holy and so good, and he walking and begging his way from Rome! Fling wide your gates, O Cork, and bid his body enter. For this Thaddeus of the royal McCarthys is such a light of humility and faith as must outshine us all!’.’ Father Prout No.man climbs (o Shandon, high above the Lee, without thinking of Father Prout and murmuring, maybe unconsciously, a verse of the well-known song. So, when we look to Mr. Keilcher for a picture of that strange Irish genius, Francis Mahony, we are not disappointed. Mere it is; “Dying in Paris he is now, the c gay old spark.’ He will not set Tommy Moore’s 'nerves on edge any more by counterfeiting his songs, nor yap at Daniel O’Connell in that foolish and persistent puppy-dog way. And God be with him all the time! For he has left us a ringing tame in those ‘ Bells of Shandon ’ be first wrote on the wall-paper over his head while he lay sick in the early twenties in the college at Rome. And even though he did leave his native Cork when he was only twelve, and ! never cast, an eve on his birth-place near the Sand Quay again’ but went singing and jeering across Europe— . even so, who will complain? For he had the Cork flavor all through. Franc's Mahony, • Father Prout,' that bitter, sparkling, proud, mercurial fellow, dust himself with the dead by Shandon Steeple now ’ whose bells he cast to gold.’ ” The Future Cork All fine things end quickly,-and too soon we come to the last page ol Ihe Glamor of ('orl\ We have been through a panorama of Irish history. We have walked and talked with the dead whose names are immortal in Erin. We have read a real book of the love of Ireland, and we are poor indeed if it has not left us ter. Now, in a last passage, Mr. Kelleher takes leave of ns on the note —“Farewell and Remember” : “So through the little silver of a summer evening the last picture shines —the new Cork of the shafts and the factories challenging the dying day to life again. The old riverside plumed with steam and light as the silver dims,, fires roaring in the forges of the wonderful motor-mills, Finbarr and Fursey and Thaddeus himself looking down with curious eyes upon it all : curious and longing now again that through the smoke and the flame and the great fires of progress that shall rage, the high gold of inspiration they gave may be purified and shaped to new use in the golden town.” We congratulate Mr. Kelleher on what he has done for Ireland in those two books. May we hope that he will not long leave the other cities envious of Dublin and Cork. Think of the books that might be written of Galway, of Limerick, or Derry, of Kilkennv, Wexford, and Waterford. What a. stimulating series such books would be, and what a welcome there would be for them at home and abroad.