The folk of Furry Farm

It is the duty of the writer of an introduction, as I understand his position, to provide what Mr. Bernard Shaw calls “First Aid to Critics.” That is to say, it is my business to explain the position which Miss Purdon holds in modern Irish literature and to say why her work is interesting and in what respects it is good. I do not feel in the least inclined to point out the weaknesses of her writing. For one thing, there are plenty of reviewers in the world who will do that, and apparently take pleasure in doing it. For another, although like all human works this book is imperfect, I have enjoyed reading it and have been too much interested in what I read to be impressed by the faults which must, no doubt, exist. I shall, therefore, provide aid only to the kinder sort of critic, to him who is sufficiently wise to appreciate Miss Purdon’s work. I shall save him a lot of trouble, for, if he reads this introduction, he will be able to allow himself to enjoy Miss Purdon’s writing without bothering himself about what he is to say in his review. I shall tell him that.

The first point about The Folk of Furry Farm to which I wish to draw attention is that it is written in prose. This may seem to be a commonplace and obvious kind of fact, but in reality it has a certain importance which might very well be overlooked. Miss Purdon belongs to the Irish Literary Movement, and it has, as yet, produced very little prose and less prose fiction. At the beginning the movement was inspired by the hero tales of ancient Ireland and the mysticism in which they are enveloped. These tales came down from the days of paganism, and paganism, as everybody who appreciates the Irish Literary Movement knows, was a wonderful and romantic thing, far superior to the dowdy materialism of Christianity. Also, our literary movement fed a good deal upon fairies. Who could write in ordinary prose about subjects so fascinating as folk-lore and fairies? Mr. Yeats and his followers could not. They wrote mystic and, as time went on, rather incomprehensible verse. With them were a number of what we may call politically patriotic poets like “Ethna Carbery” and Miss Milligan. They were easier to understand, but were still a long way from the commonplace things of ordinary life. Then came another band of writers, headed by Mr. Padraic Colm, who gave us splendid poems about ploughers and drovers, but still felt it necessary to drag in Dana and Wotan occasionally. Mr. James Stephens, in his verse, went a step beyond them, for his is the genius which can make the back street beautiful. Poetry can get no nearer to realism than James Stephens and Joseph Campbell.

Meanwhile the Abbey Theatre had been founded and the energies of many young Irish writers were absorbed in composing plays for it. It developed in much the same way as the poetry did. At first the drama was almost as mystic and far-away as the early lyrics. Then came Synge, the greatest of all the Abbey Theatre writers, who put a gorgeous language into the mouths of rather squalid but intensely human peasants. The tendency of his followers had been to emphasise the squalidness but to leave out the poetry and a good deal of the human nature. The lines written by Max Beerbohm about Mr. Masefield might very well be applied to some of them:

In verse and drama alike the mystic has given way to the materialist, high poetry to realism. But as yet the Irish Literary Revival has produced very little ordinary prose literature and hardly any fiction. Apart from Lady Gregory’s poetic “Kiltartan” prose, the best that has been produced has generally been of a journalistic kind. I do not mean that it has been journalese, but that it has appeared in newspapers and periodicals, and has been concerned primarily with questions of the day. To mention only two examples, no modern work of its kind has been more brilliant than the articles in The Homestead written by “AE.,” while Mr. Arthur Griffith’s editorials for The United Irishman and Sinn Féin are often worthy of comparison with the best that came from the pen of Mitchel. Of a more permanent kind were the critical articles of “John Eglinton,” many of them published originally in the now defunct Dana.

There have been, of course, a number of Irish novelists and essayists who have made great names for themselves, but they have not drawn their inspiration from the movement which produced the poets. Mr. George Moore has viewed the Irish Literary Revival as a spectator. His original inspiration was not from Ireland. Miss Somerville and Miss Ross are the successors of Lever. No corner of the mantle of Mr. Standish O’Grady has fallen upon them. They would have written just the same if there had been no Gaelic League, no fairies, and no ancient Irish heroes. For Oscar Wilde and Bernard Shaw Ireland can claim just the same sort of credit, and no more, as she can claim for Sheridan and Goldsmith. Standish O’Grady, the father of the whole movement, wove historical romances out of incidents in Irish history. He has had few or no followers.

There are signs now that the literary movement, having worked from the highest to the most materialistic in prose and drama, is going to follow the natural course of development and express itself in prose fiction. Mr. James Stephens, one of the most brilliant of our poets, has deserted verse and taken, quite suddenly, to novel-writing. Already he has earned fame and an assured position. I am inclined to think that he is typical of a wide change of which Miss Purdon is another example. If she had published a book ten or fifteen years ago it would probably have been verse. Happily this is to-day, and she has found a scope for her abilities more suitable to them than poetry.

I hope that Miss Purdon will not resent being called part of a movement. When she has written a few more books and read reviews of them she will become quite accustomed to this particular kind of insult. In reality she holds a position a little apart from other Irish authors. Her distinction is that she has chosen a new part of the country to write about. I do not know exactly where the Furry Farm is, but I am inclined to place it somewhere in the western part of Leinster, in Meath or Kildare, on the great plain which fattens cattle for the market. Other Irish writers, whether they wanted humour, romance, or mysticism, have gone to the maritime counties for their material. Galway, Cork, and Wicklow provide scenes for most of the plays which are acted in the Abbey Theatre. Some poets write about Donegal, others prefer North-East Ulster, and a few brave spirits have ventured into the streets and suburbs of Dublin. But I cannot remember that any plays or poems of importance have been written about the people of the central plain. They are regarded, for some reason obscure to me, as unworthy of a place in literature. They have, so one would gather, lost the virtues of Gaeldom without acquiring the sentimental regard for them which rescues Dublin from the reproach of “seoninism.” The accepted view of literary Ireland is that the people of Meath are as uninteresting as the bullocks which they herd.

Miss Purdon comes to us to prove the contrary. A great merit of her work is the fidelity with which she reproduces the dialect of the peasants about whom she writes. I do not know the western Leinster speech myself, but I am certain that Miss Purdon deals with it faithfully. She could not—no single person could—have invented all the phrases and expressions which she has put into the mouths of the characters of her stories. We have in her book the living tongue spoken by a neglected class of Irishmen. I do not say that the people of Meath and Kildare have the magic glamour of Celtic mysticism. I am no judge of such things. I have seldom succeeded in recognising it even in places where I know that it must be. But Miss Purdon’s people have imagination. How else would they say of a lonely place, “There wasn’t a neighbour within the bawl of an ass of it”? If they had not humour, they would not think of saying, “His pockets would be like sideboards, the way he’d have them stuck out with meat and eggs and so on.” The men who use expressions like these cannot possibly be stupid, and Miss Purdon makes them very real. They are, as their speech shows, of a type different from that of the peasantry of the Atlantic coast. Perhaps they have no appeal to make to poets; but they must certainly be capable of providing material for many plays and novels. Miss Purdon has discovered a new country, found a fresh subject for the pens of Irish writers.

G. A. B.