NOVELS.
ALL ON THE IRISH SHORE.*
THE paramount duty of a reviewer in dealing with this happily named volume is one of extreme simplicity,—namely, to advise any one who loves wit, humour, horses, and Ireland to procure it without delay. The mere fact that it is by the joint authors of Some Experiences of an Irish .R.32. will doubt- less prove a ready passport to the affections of all who have read and re-read that modern classic, and to whom Flurry and the Slipper, Sally Knox and Philippa, are as real as if they were living members of their circle of acquaintance. For though we are here introduced to a new set of characters, gentle and simple, and the formula adopted is that of the short story or sketch, the quality of the entertainment is as exhilarating, the portraiture as vivid, the turn of phrase as illuminating, as in the earlier book. The peculiar merit of the writers is that they are born story-tellers ; that is, they make you feel exactly as if you were listening to a brilliant and high-spirited raconteur drawing at first hand, and with the spontaneity and unconventionality of first-rate talk, upon his recollection of scenes in which he bad taken an active part. It is all so easy, and apparently effortless, that one is apt to overlook the remarkable skill employed in producing so en- gaging a result. For although it is in their inimitable com- mand of dialogue that Miss Martin and Miss Somerville achieve their greatest triumphs, they are not less admirable in their handling of incident or landscape. Take, for example, this terse yet eloquent account of an English visitor's journey to Ireland, and arrival at the house of a sporting friend in
Munster :—
"The journey lasted for twenty-eight hours, going hard all the time, and during the last three of them there were no footwarmers and the cushions became like stones enveloped in mustard-plasters. Old 'I'rinder had not sent to the station for me, and it was pelting rain, so I had to drive seven miles in a thing that only exists south of the Limerick Junction, and is called a `jingle.' A jingle is a square box of painted canvas with no back to it, because, as was luminously explained to me, you must have some way to get into it, and I had to sit sideways in it, with my portmanteau bucking like a three-year-old on the seat opposite to me. It fell out twice on the road going uphill. After the second fall my hair tonic slowly oozed forth from the seams, and added a fresh ingredient to the smells of the grimy cushions and the damp hay that furnished the machine. My hair tonic costs eight-and-sixpence a bottle. There is probably not in the United Kingdom a worse-planned entrance gate than Robert Trinder's. You come at it obliquely on the side of a crooked hill, squeeze between its low pillars with an inch to spare each side, and im- mediately drop down a yet steeper hill, which lasts for the best part of a quarter of a mile. The jingle went swooping and jerking down into the unknown, till, through the portholes on either side of the driver's legs, I saw Lisangle House. It had looked decidedly better in large red letters at the top of old Robert's notepaper than it did at the top of his lawn, being no more than a square yellow box of a house that had been made a fool of by being promiscuously trimmed with battlements. Just as my jingle tilted me in backwards against the flight of steps, I heard through the open door a loud and piercing yell; following on it came the thunder of many feet, and the next instant a hound bolted down the steps with a large plucked turkey in its mouth. Close in its wake fled a brace of puppies, and behind them, variously armed, pursued what appeared to be the staff of Lisangle House. They went past me in full cry, leaving a general impression of dirty aprons, flying hair, and onions, and I feel sure that there were bare feet in it. My carman leaped from his perch and joined in the chase, and the whole party swept from my astonished gaze round or into a clump of bushes. At this juncture I was not sorry to hear Robert Trinder's voice greeting me as if nothing unusual were occurring."
The turkey, it may be added, though sadly mauled, formed the sole item of the menu of the evening meal. We have quoted the foregoing passage, not only because of its intrinsic vivacity, but because it illustrates that valuable faculty of detachment which enables the authors, in spite of their intimate local know- ledge, to see Ireland through the eyes of the visitor. Hence that rare product,—a picture of Irish life at once entirely racy
• All on the Irish Shier.: Irish Sketches. By B. CE. Somerville and Martin Ross. With Illustrations by E. E. Somerville. London: 1,01301211B and Co. [6a.]
of the soil, and yet presented in such an aspect as appeals to all but the most uncompromising of Sassenachs. Then, again, most of the sketches are written round fox-hunting, a form of sport in which Irish and English have always met on common
ground, und and the humours of which have never been chronicled with greater gusto. Miss Martin and Miss Somerville, it should be noted, write of horses and hounds not only with enthusiasm, but affection. It is not necessary to have followed the hounds to appreciate the delightful passage describing the reception by Johnny Connolly of his mistress's decision to sell the filly he had so carefully trained and nursed :— a But sure ye wouldn't sell her, miss ?' said her faithful nurse, 'and Masther Freddy afther starting the hounds and all !' Fanny Fitz scratched the filly softly under the jawbone, and thought of the document in her pocket—long, and blue, and inscribed with the too familiar notice in red ink : An early settlement will oblige.' 'I must, Johnny,' she said, worse luck !' — Well, indeed, that's too bad, miss,' said Johnny comprehendingly. There was a mare I had one time, and I sold her before I went to America. God knows, afther she went from me, whenever I'd look at her stinkers hanging on the wall I'd have to cry. I never seen a sight of her till three years afther that, afther I coming home. I was coming out o' the fair at Enniscar, an' I was talking to a man an' we coming down Dangan Hill, and what was in it but herself coming up in a cart ! An' I didn't look at her, good nor bad, nor know her, but sorra bit but she knew me talking, an' she turned in to me with the cart. "Ho, ho, ho:" says she, and she stuck her nose into me like she'd be kissing me. Be dam, but I had to cry. An' the world wouldn't stir her out o' that till I'd lead her on meself. As for cow nor dog nor any other thing, there's nothing would rise your heart like a horse !'" All those who aspire to reproduce the Anglo-Irish dialect will do well to note and emulate the reticence of the authors in the matter of phonetic spelling. The turn of the phrase is with them the root of the matter, and in that respect their fidelity
is beyond criticism.
The volume lends itself readily, nay irresistibly, to quota-
tion, but we do not wish to discount the pleasure of the reader by taking further toll of these fascinating pages, in which Miss Martin and Miss Somerville have once more proved their claim, not only to a front rank among living writers of fiction, but to the foremost place among the humourists of their sex.
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