[An early member of the Celtic Revival, Tynan was a highly regarded Irish poet, novelist, journalist, and critic. In the following essay, she favorably reviews Fifty-One Tales.]

There is one curious contradiction in our national attitude towards the nobility—and it may be a simple kind of poetry and love of the picturesque which is at the root of "loving a lord"—and that is that a titled author's books have no more chance of selling than anyone's else; in fact, if anything, they have less chance. Readers generally seem to regard a title of nobility on a title-page with suspicion. They think a lord very delightful in his place, but they distrust him as a man of letters.

I think Lord Dunsany's reputation as an author has suffered because of his title. It may even have affected men of letters adversely. They regard with suspicion the entrance of the gilded into their trade. One comes to the title with a prejudice; but, having read Lord Dunsany, one is compelled to admit that here is a man of letters and a poet born; that the art he works at is the art to which he is born; and that, if he were silent, something very beautiful and worth while would be lost to the world.

Now I concede that in his most fantastical fantasies Lord Dunsany is not every man's meat. Indeed, he is far from it. Take "The Gods of Pegāna," for instance. One can imagine the youth of Stevenson's story being shut up on a wet Sunday in a country inn with "The Gods of Pegāna" for sole mental provender. "Golly! What a book!" he would have said.

But the delightful thing about these Fifty-One Tales is that a simple person, not being a wilful Philistine, can understand at least the meaning of some; while to anyone who appreciates the marvels of language, the beautiful and sonorous diction must be a lasting delight. These Tales are each a very little vessel—some are quite tiny. In fact, it is a whimsicality of Lord Dunsany's to call them "Tales" at all. But each is a vessel of pure gold and nearly always filled with fine vintages. I say "nearly," because sometimes a bit of trenchant satire hardly deserves the stronger praise, although there is nothing in the book which is not good. The Tales, in fact, are little poems. In every poem is a real thought; and the whole is perfectly and cunningly set forth. Lord Dunsany handles his words as a master his music. If I were talking for ever of this beautiful book I should not persuade as much as one quotation from the book itself will do. And here is a tiny masterpiece which Lord Dunsany himself could hardly better.

"Wind and Fog"

"Way for us," said the North Wind as he came down the sea on an errand of old Winter. And he saw before him the grey, silent fog that lay along the tides.

"Way for us!" said the North Wind. "O ineffectual fog, for I am Winter's leader in his age-old war with the ships. I overwhelm them suddenly in my strength or drive upon them the huge seafaring bergs. I cross an ocean while you move a mile. There is mourning in inland places when I have met the ships. I drive them upon the rocks and feed the sea. Whereever I appear they bow to our lord the Winter."

And to his arrogant boasting nothing said the fog. Only he rose up slowly and trailed away from the sea, and crawling up the long valleys took refuge among the hills; and night came down and everything was still, and the fog began to mumble in the stillness. And I heard him telling infamously to himself the tale of his horrible spoils: "A hundred and fifteen galleons of Old Spain, a certain argosy that went from Tyre, eight fishing fleets and ninety ships of the line, twelve war-ships under sail with their carronades, three hundred and eighty-seven river-craft, forty-two merchantmen that carried spice, four quinquaremes, ten triremes, thirty yachts, twenty-one battleships of the modern time, nine thousand admirals.…" He mumbled and chuckled on, till I suddenly rose and fled from his fearful contamination.

Lord Dunsany has a double gift, for we see as well as hear the things he tells us, and as we listen we have a vision of an old blind poet chanting—Homer perhaps, for there is much of the Greek spirit in Lord Dunsany's work, and in the marshalling of his splendid words. Nor is he without the completion of humour, lacking which the greatest gift must be lop-sided. One has only to read "The Hen" to be sure of that.

The discriminating who know what it is to be swayed by the magic of words will see to it that they possess Fifty- One Tales, and return to it again and again.