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 to be able nearly entirely to agree with the two last paragraphs of "Historicus;" in fact I substantially said the same things myself the other day in Cork. And now I shall close, at least for the present, with a few general remarks, I have lather "discussed and amended" (at least I think so) "Historicus," as he desired, than given my own notions about the beat books. This I did in a manner in my Cork lecture, "Historicus" is quite in his role in giving an undue inning to history, and as Ireland is not strong in histories proper, however rich she is in materials for history (many of the books mentioned by "Historicus" being merely this), his list makes a for poorer show than if he had swept impartially over the whole wide held of Irish literature. Why, for instance, is there no word about our charming Goldsmiths and Steeles, and our perhaps uncharming, but certainly eminently amusing, Congreves and Farquhars? No word either about either of the De Veres, Ferguson, Joyce, or any of our other masters of song, save such as were incidentally spoken of in connection with the Young Ireland movement and certain collections of poetry—a class of books, by the way, with which "Historicus," naturally enough perhaps, seems very imperfectly acquainted.

I had meant to have given the names of Petrie Montalembert, and Bagwell: but I see from your first batch of correspondence, which I have had only time to glance over as yet, that Mr. Lecky has anticipated me. There are two O'Connors besides the one mentioned by "Historicus," who are quite in his line, and must have been left out by mistake—I mean Charles O'Connor, of Ballynegar, and Dr O'Connor, the Librarian, of St Omer's. Then, perhaps,! might as well end this lengthy communication with the name of a most un-Dryasdustian sort of man, the celebrated apostle of sweetness and light. There are very good things in Mr, Matthew Arnold's essay on "Celtic Literature," as in many other papers of his on Ireland and things Irish; he is always more or less suggestive and mostly very sympathetic, if occasionally, as is almost invariably the case with his countrymen, more than a little patronising. I had meant to try and include Mr. Butt and some others and to add on many names; but time and patience fail me, and, after all, when all is said, the list must be allowed to be eminently suggestive, and when discussed and amended will give us, if not the hundred absolutely best books on Ireland, at least a hundred very good books.—Yours truly, 1em



20 Cheyne Gardens, Chelsea, March 26. Dear Sir—I have been reading with much interest the letters in your columns about the best hundred Irish books. I confess that, for myself, I should rather ask what are the best hundred books written by Irishmen or women than what are the best hundred books written about Ireland by any authors of no matter what country. "Historicus" seems to me, even on his own chosen line, to be somewhat unsatisfactory. Some of the very best books written about Ireland are German; some of the most sympathetic poems written about Ireland are German. "Historicus" does not mention any of these. That is intelligible enough. He was evidently thinking mainly of books about Ireland written in the English language.

One fact in the controversy surprises me beyond measure. That fact is the little account that is taken of the writings and speeches of Burke. I had to look carefully over the correspondence in order to assure myself that the name of Edmund Burke was mention of even once. I hope I shall not horrify any of my countrymen if I venture to express the opinion that Burke is the one only front-rank man whom Ireland has yet contributed to the literature of the world. Swift was a great man, but I cannot regard Swift as an Irishman. Sheridan was a marvel of versatility; but the "School for Scandal" is not on a level with Aristophanes or even with Ben Jonson or Moliere. But in Burke we have a man who in his sphere of political and philosophical literature was never surpassed. His fame grows day by day. He thought out the principles of political economy before Adam Smith, and suggested the Darwinian theory before Darwin, and even before Goethe.

The best books about Ireland are, I think, after all, the Irish legends. Any man who wants to understand the country must study them. The hundred best books either about Ireland or by Irish authors have yet to be written. Irish genius has for the last two centuries had to employ itself in producing what painters call "pot boilers" for the English market. When our country is quickened by a new national life I hope we shall see the springs of her genius soon breaking into flow. For hundreds of years she has had no chance. Her condition has been in a certain sense curiously like and curiously unlike that of Greece. For many centuries Greece was absolutely silent in literature. Her Turkish masters did not want any such stuff for themselves and would not allow it for the Greeks. Now in the freedom of Greece her literature begins to breathe again. With England and Ireland the case is different. Englishmen loved literature and wanted the best that Irishmen could contribute—but wanted it for their own purposes and their own market. The genius of Greece was therefore absolutely voiceless for generations, the genius of Ireland found tongue for the English public.—Faithfully yours, 1em



Upper Fitzwilliam street, 29th March. Sir—When "Historicus" speaks of the best hundred Irish books he means the best hundred books, not necessarily by Irishmen, but on Ireland, irrespective of the nationality of the authors. This is shown as well by what he includes as by what he excludes. His very title implies that there are other books on the same subject, but books which he does not rank amongst the foremost hundred. Therefore the only legitimate criticism on his catalogue is to say that some of the books mentioned by him ought to be replaced by others. On this idea I would name some which possibly may, unobserved by me, have been already mentioned by your correspondents, and first "Geraldus Cambrensis." The Welsh priest, Gerald Barry, clever and learned but conceited, and what we term a prig by nature, come