A few weeks ago I bought book pages. Neither had practical purposes they might just as well have been printed in Norwich or Birmingham. At the same time I received several American reviews that were full of material that would fascinate the sort of people who read my articles in this newspaper. If one draws the appropriate sad conclusion, Irish literature, Irish scholarship and Irish art have more news value abroad than at home. This week, there are four books about Ireland that I think readers should know of. Miss Barbara Whelpton's "Unknown Ireland" is the slightest of them, but it contains a useful survey, from the point of view of an artist, of the churches I have discussed here; and makes the point—obvious to a foreigner, though not, it seems, to ourselves—that ruins, no matter how fascinating, are no substitute for buildings in proper repair. So far as the Sleeping Beauties of the Board of Works are concerned, her words might be better addressed to one of the African states, where I believe they have flourishing National Monuments Councils. Robin Bryan's "Ulster" (Faber and Faber. 30/-) is by the Ulster writer who is better known as Robert Harbison, and if you have enjoyed "Song of Erne" you will want to read this. If you haven't enjoyed "Song of Erne" because you never heard of it, this new book will make you want to read it. Both as Bryan and Harbison, its author writes beautifully. Fellow Crank In point of plain importance it may have to give place to "Munster and the City of Cork (Phoenix House, 63/-) the fifth of the remarkable series of guides by Richard Hayward. I call them remarkable, because I buy them, which is the biggest compliment a professional writer can pay to another. Spelling bee Mr. Hayward is an even bigger crank than I am and affects to know far more than I—or indeed, any living man—pretends to know. He parades Irish place-names in a Gaelic dress, and in that miserable Gothic lettering which is miscalled "Irish" and gets them brilliantly wrong. Even "Rath Luire" for "Charleville" turns up again, though, after a discussion in these pages. Professor Binchy finally took it to the vet's. Mr. Hayward has the presumption to spell my name "O Connor" and gives reasons for doing so which are as absurd as the spelling. On the basis of those reasons, Mr. Hayward probably spells the names of two Irish dramatists well known to my readers as "Lennox Robin's Son and "Sam Tom's Son." And finally, shrilly, let me proclaim that the epitaph on the grave of the Tailor of Gugan Barra, Tim Buckley—"A star danced and under that was I born"—is not by my friend, Eric Cross. Private war But, of course. arguing with Richard Hay Ward (to give his name its proper spelling) is half the fun, because you cotton on to the man in a couple of pages. He has a tremendous gusto that can stand an enormous amount of contradiction, a profound knowledge and admiration of Irish architecture and sculpture, and an Ulster common-sense that is both shocking and exhilarating—exhilarating when he agrees with you, shocking when he doesn't. He has waged his own private war on Irish County Councils and Mr. O'Malley's Sleeping Beauties, and complains bitterly of the dilapidation of Glenfahan, in Kerry, and of the fact that nobody in authority has visited it in the last ten years. I can beat that, because correspondents who visited Inchbofin in Lough Ree recently tell me that not only has the church become practically inaccessible, but that the Board of Works sign is of pre-1922 vintage. How's that umpire? Mr. Hayward will forgive me for saying that the most remarkable thing about his new book is Raymond Piper's superb series of illustrations. (Why shouldn't he, since he forced Mr. Piper on our attention?) A gift book Either Mr. Hayward has at last got hold of a publisher who will print these drawings as they should be printed or Mr. Piper's technique—always good—has developed beyond recognition. If he could persuade the Sleeping Beauties to sell prints of these drawings in places like Cashel, Mr. Piper could live on the proceeds. And, incidentally, how about an exhibition of them in Dublin at which, as Onlie Begetter, I should have first choice? At three guineas, this is the book you would like to give to the one you love best. Odd names The fourth book, "The Irish Saints," by Daphne D. C. Pochin Mould (Clonmore and Reynolds, 42/-), is a highly useful reference book that will not, I hope, leave my shelves. I never can distinguish between the Irish saints, who were a messy lot, though I prefer Mr. Hayward's casual method of dealing with them to Miss Pochin Mould's. She can quote authority for her rendering of "Reefert," in Glendalough, as _Righfheart, which has now been imposed on us by Bord Failte signs, but it is as impossible as "Rath Luire." (Righfheart would have given "Reeart" in English and nothing else.) She has even better authority for describing the extraordinary names adopted by early Irish saints as "pet-names," but this seems to me equally impossible. First, the monk's personal name was abbreviated; then it frequently had a British termination "oc" affixed, which turned it into an adjective, then it was introduced by the mysterious "Mo" or "To," which I can't understand at all, and then, to complete the picture, was regarded as being in the vocative case. "Ernene," for Instance, was first turned into "Ern," then into "Ernoc," and finally into "Mo Ernoc," the form we find in "Portmarnock." I think this is not a "pet-name," but a name In religion. Perhaps Miss Pochin Mould would refer me to an Irish "pet-name" which wasn't that of a monk or nun? Caution needed I know this sounds like nagging, but it isn't, because neglect of the ordinary precautions regarding these names has led me into trouble, and Miss Pochin Mould walks into it in exactly the same way. "One of Mochaoi's own students," she tells us, "is said to have been Colman of Dromore; late under Abbot Caylan, Finian of Moville is said to have spent some time at Nenddrum." Fair enough; but remember what I've told you about how Irish saints' names are sonstructed. The alleged "Abbot Caylan" is Coelnn; Coelan's name in religion was Mo Choc, which is the name Miss Pochin Mould is trying to get at when she writes "Mochaoi." Colour complex Her calm exclusion from the record of everything scandalous, obscene and ridiculous in the early "Lives" does not persuade me that St. Ceran of Clonmacnols had three brothers called Cronan, Odran and Donnan. I am not sum that St. Ceran — under that name—ever existed. I am perfectly certain that his mother, even if she were the organiser of a 5th-century Living Art Exhibition, would not have sons "Blackie." "Yellowy," "Sallowy" and "Brownie." Mothers, in every generation, are alike. Still, this is a book you will probably need one day. Sunday Independent, 1964-09-20, p.22