The Man Who United Ireland

"Irish education," he says while continuing into Dublin's center, "is more or less beaten into you. It was a tough transition when I went to Villanova, where you had to take notes from lectures and ask questions. Here you copied what was on the board and memorized it. Gaelic especially was taught that way. In the 1800s the English suppressed Gaelic, and ever since we've been trying to revive it. I needed to pass it to leave high school, but now I only have the habit of a phrase or two."

Coghlan draws up before Bord F�ilte, the Irish Tourist Board, where he has worked as the youth and educational representative since July of 1977. "I spent five months reading brochures for study programs and youth tours, and meeting tour operators, and I'm still not aware of all the products available," he says.

Coghlan is marvelous at his work for about a dozen reasons. His celebrity, his American education, his manner are means of opening communication, but what a listener remembers is his feeling for Ireland and the Irish. He emphasizes their warmth toward visitors, the immense sweep of Ireland's history, the power of its spoken and written word, the beauty of its landscape, and just when one begins to grow uneasy with such superlatives, Coghlan confesses his frustrations with his people's complex character and in so doing lifts himself clear of public relations.

"The Irish are a hidebound breed," he says, not at all mildly. "In the country, life is parochial, people caring only to keep to themselves and their traditional ways and not taking notice of the rest of the world." He mentions novelist James Plunkett (Strumpet City), a Dubliner who has written that "Observers of human character, when they have turned their attention to Dublin, have isolated with remarkable unanimity the distinguishing mark of its true-born citizen.... He will share a characteristic philosophy, the essence of which is a serene and fatalistic composure." Plunkett explained this by reference to the Dubliners' habit of brooding over disappointments. "Add to this an inherited race memory and the history of his native city—that story of siege, pestilence, invasion, rebellion, fire, slaughter, persecution and civil war—and the combination seems likely to instill tolerance and patience to an unusual degree."

To Coghlan, returned from the activism and efficiencies of the New World, the stolid traits of his people often seem lamentable. "Even though traffic is horrendous, Dublin doesn't want a new expressway over the bay," he says. "We can't construct new office buildings because they may disturb some of the old Viking city Dublin is built upon. It is wonderful to have such a past, but sometimes you have to cease dwelling on the ordeals the Irish have endured and think of the future." This perhaps sounds too strident to him, so he says, "I admit I've thought of leaving, but my heart is still in Ireland."

In his bright, poster-filled office, Coghlan makes dozens of telephone calls, organizing presentations, itineraries, luncheons. His English takes on more pace, a stiffer accent when he is addressing countrymen. "When I'm in the States I'm influenced by the voices," he says, grinning. "In Dublin I revert to the way the tongue is meant to be used." John Synge, who wrote, among other masterpieces, The Playboy of the Western World, felt that the Irish have been notable in English literature because of the "invigorating suggestiveness" of Irish popular speech, but Coghlan finds that American slang has equivalent force. " 'Airhead' makes people here smile," he says, "though 'zonked' is incomprehensible."

While Coghlan labors at his arranging, a gnomish, gray-haired man pops into his office. J. P. Murray is the golf promotion adviser to the Tourist Board, a runner and a man of clear pronouncements. "There is nothing good advertised on TV," he says, apropos of how valuable is the wholesome appeal of Coghlan. "Not sunsets, not fresh fruit, not rainbows. Not even women for their own sake." Murray can feel his society exerting firm pressure against being first-rate. "Decay is everywhere. Insidious. Now they're reducing a natural, elemental thing like running to second-rate 'jogging' or 'fun runs.' " He looks as if he's about to spit. "You never see anyone playing 'fun golf.' "

Coghlan lunches in the Old Stand, which is filled with golden light, paintings of Dublin street scenes, brass and dark paneling. "Pub grub," says Coghlan, hacking into his lamb chops at the bar.

"You've been in the big time since we saw you last," says Seamus O'Rourke, pouring him a Harp lager.

"Things fell into place," says Coghlan easily. When O'Rourke has gone, Coghlan reflects that his 26-year life has seemed a charmed one. "Things have always fitted into place. When I was in high school and my running came into conflict with the demands of hard Irish scholarship, I chose running, and through that got a good university education. Now I have a good job, surpassing most of the guys who ground it out at school."