The poet-critic Stedman, in his book on American poetry, gives a few
lines to what he terms the Irish-American school. His definition is a
little misleading, as some of the poets he cites were more American
than the troop of lesser bards that grace his polished pages. It
is rather a strange notion of American critics that Prof. Boyesen,
having cast aside the language of Norseland to sport in the larger
waters of our English tongue, is metamorphosed into a true American,
while the literary sons and daughters of Irish parents, born and
striking root in American soil, are marked with a foreign brand. It
is the old story of English literary prejudice reproduced by American
critics. American _modistes_ go to Paris for their fashions, American
critics to the Strand for their literary canons. It is pleasant to
know that the bulk of the people stay at home. In this Irish-American
school one meets with the name of Maurice Francis Egan. “A sweet and
true poet” is Stedman’s criticism. Coming from a master in the art
of literary interpretation, it must occupy a place in all coming
estimates of Mr. Egan’s poetry. This criticism is, nevertheless,
short and unsatisfactory, it gives no true idea of the poet’s place
in the letters of his country. It merely, if one is inclined to agree
with Stedman, establishes that Mr. Egan has a place among the bards.
In the hall of Parnassus, however, there are so many stalls that the
ordinary reader prefers to have the particular place assigned to each
bard pointed out. The author of this sketch, while not accredited to
the theatre of Parnassus, may be able to give to those who are not
under the guidance of a uniformed usher some hints whereby Mr. Egan’s
particular place may be discerned; that place is among the minor poets.
The major stalls are all empty, waiting for the coming men, so glibly
prophesied about by the little makers of our every-day literature.
Maurice Francis Egan, poet, essayist, novelist, journalist, and
all-round literary man, was born in Philadelphia, Pa., May 24, 1852.
His first instructors were the Christian Brothers, at their well-known
La Salle College in that city. From La Salle he went to Georgetown
College, as a professor of English. After leaving Georgetown he edited
a short-lived venture, _McGee’s Weekly_. In 1881 he became assistant
editor of the _Freeman’s Journal_, and remained virtually at the head
of that paper until the death of its founder and the passing of the
property to other hands. The founding of the Catholic University, and
the acceptance of its English professorship by Warren Stoddard, made
a vacancy in the faculty of Notre Dame University. This vacancy was
offered to and accepted by Mr. Egan.
There are few places better fitted as a poet’s home than Notre Dame.
Beautiful scenery to fill the eye, brilliant society to spur the
mind, and a spacious library freighted with the riches of the past.
In comparison with the majority of the Catholic writers, the poet’s
journey in life has been comparatively smooth, though far from what it
should have been. He has published the following volumes:—“That Girl of
Mine,” 1879; “Preludes,” 1880; “Song Sonnets,” London, 1885; “Theatre,”
1885; “Stories of Duty,” 1885; “Garden of Roses,” 1886; “Life Around
Us,” 1886; “Novels and Novelists,” 1888; “Patrick Desmond,” 1893;
“Poems,” 1893. To this list must be added innumerable articles in
magazines and weekly journals. Judged by the signed output, it is safe
to write that the English professor of Notre Dame is a very busy man.
The wonder is that a mind so occupied by so many diverse things can
write entertainingly of each.
The poet’s first book, a few sonnets and poems, was for “sweet
charity’s sake,” and had but a limited circulation. It is safe to say
that every first book of a genuine poet, despite its crudities, will
show the seeker signs of things to come. Egan’s book was not without
promises, but in truth these promises are only partly fulfilled in his
latest volume of verse. There may be many reasons adduced for this
disparity between promise and fulfilment. One of them is the haste
with which poetry is published. Horace’s dictum of using the file has
been long since forgotten. The rabble calls for poetry, and, like the
Italian and his lentils, care little for the quality. If the poet
harkens to the calls (and who among the contemporary bards has laughed
it to scorn?) he exchanges perpetuity for the present, notoriety for
fame. Nor will the rabble leave the poet freedom in choosing his
material. He is simply a tradesman, and must use what is placed at his
disposal. Things great and grand must be left unto that day when the
poet, untrammelled by worldly care, shall write his heart’s dream. If
the time ever comes, the poet learns in sorrow that his dreams will
never float into human speech, for the hand has lost its cunning. So
the days of youth and manhood pass, blowing bubbles or decorating
platitudes. Death snatches the poetling, and oblivion is his coverlid.
The songs he sang died with the rabble. The new generation asked for
a poet that could drill into the human heart and bring forth its
secrets—a listener to nature, her interpreter to man. To such a one the
vocabulary of a minor bard is useless. Another reason, more applicable
to our author, is that he has been unfortunate to be a pioneer in
Catholic American literature. His poems, appealing, as they do, to
a distinct class, and that far from being a book-buying one, will
fail to attract the lynx-eyed critic who cares only for the general
literary purveyor. From such a source, the poet’s chance of corrective
criticism has been slight. The class to which Mr. Egan belongs has
no criticism to offer its literary food givers. If an author’s book
sells, his name is blazoned forth in half a hundred headless petty
journals. His most glaring defects become through their glasses mystic
beauty spots. He is invited to lecture on all kinds of subjects. A
clique grows around him, whose duty it is to puff the master. The
reasons, frankly adduced, have limited the scope and dwarfed the really
fine genius of Maurice Egan. His latest volume, while containing many
poems that reveal hidden powers, has much of the crudity and faults of
earlier work. These poems speak of better things that will be fulfilled
by the poet if he will consecrate himself wholly to his art, shutting
his mind to the rabble shout and eulogious criticism. Then may he hear
the rhythms and cadences of that music whose orchestra comprises all
things from the shells to the stars, all beings from the worm to man,
all sounds from the voice of the little bird to the voice of the great
ocean. To these translations men will cling to the last, and in their
clinging is the poet’s fame. In his shorter poems, and notably in his
sonnets, Mr. Egan is at his best. Here his scope is broader, his touch
is firmer. The mastery of musical expression, lacking in his longer
poems, is here to be met with in the fulness of its beauty. As a writer
of sonnets, Mr. Egan has had great success. In this line of writing
he is easily at the head of the younger American school of poets. “A
Night in June” is a charming piece of word painting, full of beauty
and power. The reader of this exquisite sonnet will feel how deftly
the poet has put in words the silent magic of such a night, when air
and earth have songs to sing. In the sonnet to the old lyric master
Theocritus, the poet’s graceful interpretative touch is equally felt.
Daphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain,
And mourning mingles with their fountain’s song;
Shepherds contend no more, as all day long
They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprus plain:
The master-voice is silent, songs are vain;
Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong
Done by the gods, when gods and men were strong,
Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain.
O sweetest singer of the olden days,
In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead;
The gods are gone, but poets never die;
Though men may turn their ears to newer lays,
Sicilian nightingales enrapturéd
Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky.
The sonnet “Of Flowers” gives a happy setting to a beautiful thought:
There were no roses till the first child died,
No violets, no balmy-breathed heartsease,—
No heliotrope, nor buds so dear to bees,
The honey-hearted suckle, no gold-eyed
And lowly dandelion, nor, stretching wide
Clover and cowslip cups, like rival seas,
Meeting and parting, as the young spring breeze
Runs giddy races, playing seek and hide.
For all Flowers died when Eve left Paradise,
And all the world was flowerless awhile,
Until a little child was laid in earth.
Then, from its grave grew violets for its eyes,
And from its lips rose-petals for its smile;
And so all flowers from that child’s death took birth.
To those who have lovingly lingered over the pages of Maurice de
Guerin, pages that breathe the old Greek world of thought, the
following sonnet, that paints that modern Grecian with a few masterly
strokes, will be keenly relished. It is the fine implications of these
lines that is the life of our hope for the poet and the future.