[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 reputation will prove more lasting than that of some of the ephemerally famous political chiefs whom he punctiliously served during forty-odd years of Civil Service life. How many—or more correctly how few?—among present-day English writers and painters do not owe some original encouragement, some welcome support, to the affectionate, attentive kindness, and the never-failing, always courteous interest in their work, of Eddie Marsh?

Born on November 18th, 1872, the son of a former Master of Downing College, Edward Howard Marsh is through his mother a great-grandson of the assassinated Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval. As Sir Edward tells us in his entertaining book of memories, A Number of People, published in 1939, his maternal grandfather was an Irvingite Angel, with the special assignment of converting the Italian peninsula to the faith of Gordon Square. Although Mr. Perceval's religious convictions did not affect his daughter, Mrs. Howard Marsh must have inherited his originality of character, for this high-minded, indeed saintly, lady chose, like Miss Nightingale, to run counter to the prejudices of her class by working as a nurse in a hospital. Her influence on her son was pervasive, and to her we may attribute his grounding in that wide knowledge of English and French literature which makes him one of the best-read Englishmen alive today.

Educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge, Sir Edward entered the Colonial Office in 1897, and began a career of responsibility, during most of which he served as Private Secretary to successive Secretaries of State, and was in this way brought into close relationship with some of the most prominent political figures of this century—Asquith, Austen Chamberlain, Churchill and J. H. Thomas among them. In reading his modest, anecdotal records of his service one is constantly impressed by Sir Edward's charming capacity for appreciation. Indeed a gift for fervent admiration is basic to his character. He has admired the genius of Mr. Churchill, the brilliance of Maurice Baring, the beauty of Lady Diana Manners, the shimmer of Ivor Novello, the high talents and pure soul of Rupert Brooke. Coupled with this appreciative quality goes a complete lack of envy and an endearing modesty. His refusal to be put up for a K.C.M.G. because he thought someone else might want it more than he did is altogether typical of Eddie Marsh.

An honourable career of public service forms only one aspect of Sir Edward Marsh's life. He makes no bones about admitting that, in the glittering London of his youth, he adored Society and dining out. But quite soon other and more durable interests appeared. Through his friend Neville Lytton he became as a young man interested in modern pictures, and from being someone to whom, on entering a gallery, “it no more occurred to buy a picture than it occurred to me to buy a monkey if I went to the Zoo” he became the passionate collector he remains to this day, when every inch of space on the walls of rooms and staircase in his house is, so to speak, papered with picture-frames. This assiduous collecting on slender means (sometimes for reasons of pure benevolence and always ahead of public taste), and his constant attendance at galleries and exhibitions, have earned him the very considerable knowledge of modern painting for which he is well known, and which is recognised in his present position as chairman of the Contemporary Arts Society.

Along with his interest in contemporary painting, there came a coeval interest in contemporary verse, inspired by a friendship with the Meynells begun in the year 1911. Within two years appeared the first of the five important volumes, landmarks in their period, of Georgian Poetry, edited by Edward Marsh. Classic today, these books at that time introduced the works of new poets—Rupert Brooke, Monro, James Elroy Flecker, D. H. Lawrence, James Stephens, Walter de la Mare—to a wide public; it is satisfying to know that a one-volume anthology of their contents is in preparation, once again selected and edited by Edward Marsh. In 1918 Sir Edward put all lovers of Rupert Brooke's work for ever in his debt by publishing that poet's Collected Poems, with a long and touching memoir of his dead friend by way of introduction.

Apart from his activities as editor and picture-collector, Eddie Marsh has affected his generation in other ways. Everyone knows that he has to his credit the magnificent verse translation of the Fables of La Fontaine, lately republished in the Everyman's Library, which will assure him lasting fame. As well as this, he has given us a fine version of the Odes of Horace; and five years ago he brought out a polished and sensitive translation of Fromentin's single and romantic novel, Dominique. In this, his eightieth year, he has, moreover, added to these achievements by translating a modern historical novel, also from the French, though in this case some may feel that the original was hardly worthy of the translator. And then there is his further rôle—one in which he is essential and omnipotent—that of “diabolising.”

The word “diabolisation,” coined by himself, Sir Edward applies to the most arduous and the most selfless of all his labours: the reading and correcting of the manuscripts, the galley- and the page-proofs of his friends' books. “To the onlie begetter of the ensuing commas,” he tells us, one of these authors inscribed a presentation copy: but, though he feels passionately about punctuation, it goes deeper than that, and many well-known books would have been less successful, less readable and even less intelligible without his aid. Mr. Churchill, Mr. Somerset Maugham, Mr. Harold Nicolson, Lord David Cecil, Sir Ronald Storrs, Miss Clemence Dane, Desmond MacCarthy, Maurice Baring are but a few of those who have benefited at some time or another—and in many cases all of the time—by Eddie's scrupulous and severe advice. “You don't listen to what you are writing, you don't listen enough,” he will cry plaintively in that voice the high note of which is due, he declares, to an attack of German measles during adolescence. And his marginal comment is devastating: “You really must have been feeling very tired when you wrote this chapter,” or more tersely “What on earth is this supposed to mean?”

There is no space to deal with yet another facet of Eddie Marsh's interests—his delight in the theatre and his place as “an inveterate first-nighter.” But he has in fact an inveterate delight in all the arts, including a dying art of which he sometimes seems one of the last exponents—that of conversation. In this he valiantly upholds the good old last-century tradition of anecdote. In appearance, as in all other respects, Eddie Marsh is like no one else: and the tufted elfin eyebrows, the stiff carriage, the kind responsive smile and inquisitive eyes seem the outward expression of a personality which defies the foolish mathematics of age.