The folk of Furry Farm

The Romance of an Irish Village
By K. F. Purdon
With an Introduction by George A. Birmingham
G. P. Putnam’s Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1914
Copyright, 1914 BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS The Knickerbocker Press, New York
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.