“THE SPIRIT OF IRELAND,” by Lynn Doyle. B. T. Batsford, Ltd., 7/6.
My first experience of Irish life was at a very early age, in an obscure village of County Down, and I have still a memory of the cordiality and remarkable tale-telling powers of the Irish people. That memory is revived in no small degree by the bland felicities of Mr. Lynn Doyle.
Lynn Doyle, one of the most vivid story-tellers of contemporary Ireland, was a perfect choice for a book of this kind. He wanders about, picking up exquisite trifles, but somehow or other they combine to form a living and exceedingly attractive picture. In this he is assisted, of course, by the illustrations which Messrs. Batsford, with their usual good luck and good selection, have been able to secure.
Ireland is still one of the pleasant places of the earth, with its peaceful landscapes, its casual, intelligent and witty population and its intimate association with historical memories, which somehow become transmuted into poetry in recollection and lose a great part of their brutality and their crudity. Dublin, neglected and forgotten, escaped the " beautifying ” touches of the Victorian age, and it is consequently the one really satisfactory town with any pretensions to architectural beauty, and if one adds to that the preoccupation of even the most politically minded Irish jingo with history and drama and, occasionally, even poetry and painting, one finds a force of suggestion in this capital far greater than that which one experiences in a highly publicised beauty spot like Edinburgh.
Lynn Doyle treats Dublin as it should be treated, with sympathy and imagination. He is not an enthusiastic isolationist, but he is not content, on the other hand, with easy parallels and superficial criticism.
The only way to review a book of this quality is by the method of quotation, because one of its best qualities lies in the excellence of its English and the verve of its descriptions. Take the following: —
" Between these two ranges lay the beginnings of that farmer’s paradise, the Golden Vale of Tipperary. I need not attempt to describe those Elysian fields of more than mortal soil, the comely homesteads, the cattle, the flocks, but will use the language of another, an Ulster agricultural labourer who had done chauffeur for his master on such a trip as mine. As I stood at the last bend of the V road that looked down on the Golden Vale and beheld that magic chequerboard of grass and tilth his words came back to me :
“ ‘Man, sir,’ he said, 'I never knowed there was land in the world like thon. I won’t tell my ould father about it when I go back. He would cut his throat.’ ”
or :
“The cinema in Ireland suffers from a Censorship. The institution is to be blamed, not the Censor. It is so hard to say what will promote concupiscence. To one the condensation of a ray or two of light into the semblance of a snowy bosom may prove an incitement to lust, another goes down to Gehenna in pursuit of the wraith of a pair of stockings. But a national purity that so nobly withstands the seductions of our newspaper advertisements and shop-windows might, I think, permit a little more display of underclothing to our film stars, who wear so little else. At present if anything more intimate than a petticoat is sewn with the thread of the story the heroine goes to the devil, or flees from him, through the inscrutable decrees of providence, not by the logic of the events thrown on the screen.”
The book is a mine of excellent jokes, as :
“ 'Have I time for the train? ’ he asked a shopkeeper as he passed.
" ' Plenty of time,’ returned the other; 'but if you don’t hurry up you’ll be late.’ ”
" At a certain famous election in the North, before the struggle for independence had united Nationalism, two or three hundred Claremen armed with camans were brought on the scene to keep order. Unhappily some of the supporters of the then orthodox Nationalist side thought fit to import a strong body of their supporters from Belfast to keep order; with a result on order that might have been, and probably was foreseen. A journalist friend of mine came on the field of one of the battles a little too late. He found a Belfast mill-worker of strong political feelings engaged in nailing a donkey’s shoe to the business end of a captured camán.
"'What are you doing that for, Joe? ’ he asked.
"'Och, Mr. G.,’ returned the man, with the grin of one who knows he will not be misunderstood, 'I’m just doin’ it for luck. — these Claremen may know somethin’ about raisin’ cattle; but when it comes to riotin’ we’ve served our time to it! ”’
"Recess station is idle now that the railway to Clifden has been closed. A Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Engines would never have obtained a conviction against this line. A friend and I ran almost alongside it for some miles, in a seven-year-old car, and if the train hadn’t taken a mean advantage of us at level crossings we’d have beaten it hollow. Most of the Western light railways were conducted with
similar humanity. On one of them, long defunct, a traveller demurred to his companion’s proposal that the pair should alight for a drink.
"'We might lose the train,’ he said.
"'No fear,’ answered his friend. 'We’ll bring the engine-driver and fireman with us.’ ”
"Near by is the Giant’s Causeway, that unique phenomenon of Nature. Nothing but a photograph could convey a just impression of the wonderful octagonal columns of this amazing crystallisation. An English civil engineer visited the Causeway once, but didn’t like it. He said it was too d d scientific. I tried to explain the process of formation of the lava crystals to a farmer and his wife who were sitting before me in the bus.
"‘Just like vegetable-marrow jam,’ said his wife, when I had done.
"The husband was a little dashed by her prosaic image, but rallied gallantly.
"' The wife mayn’t be very poetical,’ he said, ' but, dammit, she can make jam.’ ”
Those examples are enough to prove the quality of a first class book.
H. Q.
“SCOTLAND’S ROAD OF ROMANCE” by Augustus Muir. Methuen & Co., Ltd., 7/6.
Are you a lover of wild and rugged scenery or of quiet simple domestic life? Does a good narrative excite you? Are you fond of travel? Do you dabble in history? If to either one or more of these questions you should answer "Yes,” then Mr. Muir has put at your disposal a book which you will be eager to obtain. Starting from Arisaig on the west coast of Scotland which faces the Island of Rum, the author has assiduously followed in the steps taken by "Bonnie Prince Charlie ” and the Highland army on their historic march in the ’forty-five. From Arisaig the route goes south to Dalilea; then turns north-east along Loch Shiel, through Glenfinnan, Kinlocheil and on to Loch Lochy. Just before Fort Augustus is reached, however, Mr. Muir takes us south-east over the Corrieyairack Pass and on through Dalwhinnie, Drumochter, Glen Garry and Dunkeld to Perth. The road from Perth passes through Blackford, Allan Water, Doune, Bannockburn, Falkirk and Kirkliston to end finally at Holyrood House, Edinburgh.
Throughout the author has given us in a very gifted manner, a vividly descriptive account of a tramp by heather track, mountain pass and broad high-way. A tramp, made by a man who is obviously a passionate lover of Scotland, by one who has made a very detailed study of the local history, and furthermore by one who can introduce detail into the narrative in a way which is not in the least dull or uninteresting. At the end of each day’s trek, difficulties have to be overcome, such as finding a place to sleep, where to obtain food or how to dry one’s soaking clothes. Small things which may be regarded as unimportant, but which are rightly treated as all part of the adventure, have been described and dealt with in a delightful and entertaining fashion.
It is a relief to read descriptions of scenery told in a way which does not leave a sickly taste on the palate; a fault of which so many authors are guilty. The traveller makes many friends on the road and he does not forget to introduce them to the reader in a way which leaves no doubt as to their character. It should be mentioned that there are several well-produced double-page photographs of typical Highland scenery, such as only Scotland can provide. Taken as a whole the book is one which should be of interest to most people, whether they be Celt or Saxon or neither.
