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July, 1923

SOMETIMES think that it is very nice of American readers to be interested in Irish literature. The volume of that literature is not great, especially when we do not reckon some big-selling Irish authors as contributors to it. If mingled with a group of the writers of other nations, Irish writers would not at once be recognized by their towering stature and noble appearance. Nevertheless, Mr Yeats, A. E., Mr James Stephens, Mr Colum, even Mr Joyce, and some others, if their countenances be closely scrutinized, betray a certain proud consciousness of belonging to a secret order, with incommunicable beliefs and traditions. A general air of distinction may be claimed for Irish literature, so consciously maintained that when any of its writers, however fresh and vigorous, shows signs of popularity on railway book-stalls, he begins to lose caste and ceases to be spoken of in that inner circle from which proceeds his true reward of recognition. An Irish R. L. Stevenson, for example, or Sir James Barrie, would have been of little account in Ireland. And the strong point of Irish literature has hitherto been that this distinction was not due to the jealousy of a small clique, such as is found in other literary centres, but to the exacting requirement of the Irish public itself that Irish authors should be true and disinterested interpreters of Irish nationality. But this was perhaps only while literature was the outlet to which Irish nationality was restricted for its manifestation. O fortunati nimium, sua si bona norint! What would the poets and artists of other lands not give to belong to a country in which literature and art are the instrument of national expression? It is true that this privileged status of the poet in Ireland rested on the supposition of a grievous political wrong, namely the subordination of the political interests of Ireland to those of Great Britain; just as the awful dignity of the Hebrew prophets and poets rested on the fact of expatriation and oppression. But this was in itself a powerful advantage, inasmuch as the very squalors of Irish politics were redeemed under the strong light—one might almost say the lime-light—of idealism