Edward Marsh 1872-1953
(Full name Edward Howard Marsh) English editor, translator, poet, and memoirist.
Marsh was a founding member of the Georgians, a group of early-twentieth-century English poets who composed verse about life in the English countryside. Today he is recognized for his influential Georgian Poetry collection, a series of five anthologies that featured the verse of British poets such as A. E. Housman, Rupert Brooke, Edmund Blunden, John Drinkwater, and D. H. Lawrence.
Born November 18, 1872, Marsh was raised in London. His father was a former Master of Downing College. Marsh was educated at Westminster School and later attended Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1896 he took a position as a clerk in the Colonial Office; after several years, he became the private secretary to Winston Churchill. He remained in that job for twenty-three years, working with Churchill at the Board of Trade, the Home Office, the Admiralty, the War Office, and the Treasury. He became acquainted with many of the important political figures of the time, including Churchill, Neville Chamberlain, and J. H. Thomas. In 1937 he retired from the civil service and was knighted for his service to England. With the publication of his Georgian Poetry anthology, he proved an influential editor and patron of poetry, and with the money he received from the series, he provided financial assistance to several struggling poets and artists. He died in 1953.
Published in five volumes during a ten-year period, Georgian Poetry promoted the work of many lesser-known English poets, particularly Rupert Brooke, John Drinkwater, John Masefield, and A. E. Housman. These poets became known as the Georgians, and their poetic style dominated the early years of the twentieth century. Their work often focused on the wonders of nature and was heavily influenced by the poetry of William Wordsworth. Although the Georgians were eventually eclipsed by modernists such as T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, and Ezra Pound, Marsh's role as a proponent of Georgian poets is considered his major accomplishment.
Marsh is remembered as an influential editor of early-twentieth-century English poetry. Now considered classic, Georgian Poetry has been praised by reviewers for its inclusion of many important English poets. By the last few volumes, however, Marsh's focus on the Georgians and rejection of modernist poets such as T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound was viewed as outdated and shortsighted. His autobiographical work, A Number of People, is noted for its entertaining reminiscences about important political and literary figures of the day. Critics also praise his fine translation of Fables of Jean De La Fontaine, Odes of Horace, and Eugene Fromentin's novel Dominique.
Georgian Poetry.5 vols. [editor] (poetry) 1912-1922
Rupert Brooke: A Memoir (memoirs) 1918
The Fables of Jean De La Fontaine. 2 vols. [translator] (fables) 1931
A Number of People (memoir) 1939
Odes of Horace [translator] (poetry) 1941
Minima (poetry) 1947
Dominique [translator] 1948
The Sphinx of Bagatelle [translator] (fiction) 1951
Ambrosia and Beer: The Record of a Correspondence between Edward Marsh and Christopher Hassall (letters) 1965
SOURCE: “English Poetry, 1919,” in Poets, Critics, Mystics: A Selection of Criticisms Written Between 1919 and 1955, edited by Richard Rees, Southern Illinois University Press, 1970, pp. 59-66.
[In the following essay, initially published in the Athenaeum on December 5, 1919, Murry contrasts Marsh's Georgian Poetry anthology with other collections of English poetry.]
Shall we, or shall we not, be serious? To be serious nowadays is to be ill-mannered, and what, murmurs the cynic, does it matter? We have our opinion; we know that there is a good deal of good poetry in the Georgian book, a little in Wheels. We know that there is much bad poetry in the Georgian book, and less in Wheels. We know that there is one poem in Wheels beside the intense and sombre imagination of which even the good poetry of the Georgian book pales for a moment. We think we know more than this. What does it matter? Pick out the good things, and let the rest go.
And yet, somehow, this question of modern English poetry has become important for us, as important as the war, important in the same way as the war. We can even analogise. Georgian Poetry is like the Coalition Government; Wheels is like the Radical opposition. Out of the one there issues an indefinable odour of complacent sanctity, an unctuous redolence of union sacrée; out of the other, some acidulation of perversity. In the coalition poets we find the larger number of good men, and the larger number of bad ones; in the opposition poets we find no bad ones with the coalition badness, no good ones with the coalition goodness, but in a single case a touch of the apocalyptic, intransigent, passionate honesty that is the mark of the martyr of art or life.
On both sides we have the corporate and the individual flavour; on both sides we have those individuals-by-courtesy whose flavour is almost wholly corporate; on both sides the corporate flavour is one that we find intensely disagreeable. In the coalition we find it noxious, in the opposition no worse than irritating. No doubt this is because we recognise a tendency to take the coalition seriously, while the opposition is held to be ridiculous. But both the coalition and the opposition—we use both terms in their corporate sense—are unmistakably the product of the present age. In that sense they are truly representative and complementary each to the other; they are a fair sample of the goodness and badness of the literary epoch in which we live; they are still more remarkable as an index of the complete confusion of aesthetic values that prevails to-day.
The corporate flavour of the coalition is a false simplicity. Of the nineteen poets who compose it there are certain individuals whom we except absolutely from this condemnation, Mr. de la Mare, Mr. Davies, and Mr. Lawrence; there are others who are more or less exempt from it, Mr. Abercrombie, Mr. Sassoon, Mrs. Shove, and Mr. Nichols; and among the rest there are varying degrees of saturation. This false simplicity can be quite subtle. It is compounded of worship of trees and birds and contemporary poets in about equal proportions; it is sicklied over at times with a quite perceptible varnish of modernity, and at other times with what looks to be technical skill, but generally proves to be a fairly clumsy reminiscence of somebody else's technical skill. The negative qualities of this simplesse are, however, the most obvious; the poems imbued with it are devoid of any emotional significance whatever. If they have an idea it leaves you with the queer feeling that it is not an idea at all, that it has been defaced, worn smooth by the rippling of innumerable minds. Then, spread in a luminous haze over these compounded elements, is a fundamental right-mindedness; you feel, somehow, that they might have been very wicked, and yet they are very good. There is nothing disturbing about them; ils peuvent être mis dans toutes les mains; they are kind, generous, even noble. They sympathise with animate and inanimate nature. They have shining foreheads with big bumps of benevolence, like Flora Casby's father, and one inclines to believe that their eyes must be frequently filmed with an honest tear, if only because their vision is blurred. They are fond of lists of names which never suggest things; they are sparing of similes. If they use them they are careful to see they are not too definite, for a definite simile makes havoc of their constructions, by applying to them a certain test of reality.
But it is impossible to be serious about them. The more stupid of them supply the matter for a good laugh; the more clever the stuff of a more recondite amazement. What is one to do when Mr. Monro apostrophises the force of Gravity in such words as these?
By leave of you man places stone on stone; He scatters seed: you are at once the prop Among the long roots of his fragile crop You manufacture for him, and insure House, harvest, implement, and furniture And hold them all secure.
We are not surprised to learn further that
I rest my body on your grass, And let my brain repose in you.
All that remains to be said is that Mr. Monro is fond of dogs (‘Can you smell the rose?’ he says to Dog: ‘ah, no!’) and inclined to fish—both of which are Georgian inclinations.
Then there is Mr. Drinkwater with the enthusiasm of the just man for moonlit apples—‘moon-washed apples of wonder’—and the righteous man's sense of robust rhythm in this chorus from ‘Lincoln’:
You who know the tenderness Of old men at eve-tide, Coming from the hedgerows, Coming from the plough, And the wandering caress Of winds upon the woodside, When the crying yaffle goes Underneath the bough.
Mr. Drinkwater, though he cannot write good...
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SOURCE: “Sir Edward Marsh's Translation of Dominique,” in Essays by Divers Hands, edited by Sir George Rostrevor Hamilton, Oxford University Press, 1955, pp. 1-20.
[In the following essay, initially given as a lecture on November 20, 1952, Gibbon lauds Marsh's abilities as a translator, in particular his subtle and skillful translation of Eugene Fromentin's Dominique.]
The aim of every art is perfection, and the problem of every art is the means whereby that perfection can become possible. One can appreciate achievement with only a very slight knowledge of technicalities, or with no knowledge at all; but in spite of...
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SOURCE: “Eddie Marsh,” in The Spectator, No. 6490, November 14, 1952, pp. 623-24.
[In the following essay, Pope-Hennessy praises Marsh's career achievements, contending that his name “is amongst the most eminent that his generation can boast.”]
The name of Sir Edward Marsh, whose eightieth birthday falls within the coming week, is not one to conjure with in the newspapers. It may never “make the headlines.” But in the more secluded sphere of English art and letters it is amongst the most eminent that his generation can boast. He has won for himself a position of great distinction in the eyes of his contemporaries, and we may safely conjecture that his...
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SOURCE: “Eddie Marsh: The Complete Edwardian,” in The Saturday Book, edited by John Hadfield, Hutchinson & Company, 1955, pp. 57-64.
[In the following essay, Sieveking reminisces about his friendship with Marsh.]
It was in April, 1915, that I saw Eddie Marsh for the first time. Some months earlier, at the age of eighteen, I had joined the Artists' Rifles as a private, for no better reason than that every young man I knew was doing the same thing. I was nearly six feet six high, and had the mind of a fairly bright child of twelve.
I shared a small round tent with eleven other men. One was a painter named Paul Nash, with whom I became great...
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SOURCE: “Man of Letters,” in The Spectator, No. 6833, June 12, 1959, p. 861.
[In the following essay, Wilson provides a quick overview of Marsh's accomplishments.]
I knew Sir Edward Marsh only at the very end of his life. He was by this time an impoverished, rather lonely old man whose memory was failing. Yet it was not at all difficult to see the man he had been, for he was one of the old, who, believing only in this life, treated each new moment with all the vitality and interest at his command; and this interest was always so complete and genuine that there could be no patronage of him as ‘plucky’ or ‘gallant’—although he undoubtedly was both—far...
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