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New Zealand Tablet, 2 August 1917, Page 26

NOTES

Mendacity ? Last week we made a statement concerning the history of an attack made on the Tablet by the Christchurch Sun. We need not point out to our readers that we had every reason to believe the truth of what we said. We still believe it. The editor of the Sun says that there is not a word of truth in our statement, and accuses us of mendacity. On a charge like that from such a quarter there is nothing to be said. We leave to our readers the privilege of judging between us and the editor of the Sun. The Sun invites us to disclose the source of our information. Even if we were inclined to go to so much trouble to defend ourselves against such an attack as the Sun's we are not at liberty to make public the source of our information. We leave it to our readers to decide where the mendacity comes in at present. " Encyclopedia Britannica" A few years ago with a great blare of trumpets this work was foisted on a gullible public by a mer-

denary press, A book has been written in criticism of the huge volumes with the significant title, Misinforming a Nation. It is proclaimed as a most dangerous and misleading work, distorting the truth and disseminating false ideas... If it deserves all the hard things said about its prejudiced views on history, art, science, and literature, it merits tenfold a castigation for its misrepresentation of Catholic doctrine. “It constitutes,” says a critic, “one of the most subtle and malign dangers to our national development it has ever been our misfortune to possess.”

Shelley The mention of the fact that some letters of Shelley's have been discovered affords us an excuse for refreshing the memories of our readers with that marvellous passage of English prose in which Francis Thompson has added a new glory to the memory of his brother poet: "The universe is his box of toys. He dabbles his fingers in the day-fall. He is gold dusty with tumbling among the stars. lie makes bright mischief with the moon. The meteors nuzzle their noses in his hand. He teases into growling the kennelled thunder, and laughs at the shaking of its fiery chain. He dances in and out at the gate of heaven : its floor is littered with his broken fancies. He runs wild over the fields of ether. He chases the rolling world. He gets between the feet of the horses of the sun. He stands in the lap of nature, and twines her loosened tresses after a hundred wilful fashions, to see how she will look nicest in his song." There it is! And did Shelley himself ever write anything to surpass it for pure poetry ?

Vis Vivida Animae John Morley tells us that but for the Latin and Celtic elements in English literature it would be a poor thing at its best. The Latin influence makes for gravity and dignity, and for the compactness of Tacitus or the verbosity of Cicero according to the natural bent of the writer. The Celtic spirit gives that nameless quality which is aptly described as vis vivida animae —the vivid fire of the soul. It is particularly to this quality that the best French prose owes its inimitable charm and grace, so elusive and so baffling. And it is noteworthy that when speaking of the excellence of French prose a first-class English critic can find among English classics none fit to compare with the French except the Irishman Burke. Here and there among Irish writers you will come upon stray passages drenched with the same unspeakable charm. Burke certainly abounds in such passages ; so does Sheil. And it is a remarkable fact that the brightest writers on the London press have been Irishmen. Apart from this Celtic element, and from the almost negligible classical influence, English prose is as heavy as German.

How our Classics are Forgotten We have remarked ere now that reading Scott or Dickens has become a lost art as far as most of the young generation are concerned. A propos we quote the following conversation recorded in the Publisher's Weekly: "Are you fond of literature?" he asked. "Passionately," she replied. "Then you must admire Sir Walter Scott," he exclaimed with sudden animation. "Is not his 'Lady of the Lake ' exquisite in its flowing grace and poetic imagery V "It is perfectly lovely," she exclaimed, clasping her hands in ecstasy. "I suppose I have read it a dozen times." "And Scott's ' Marmion,' " he continued, " and ' Peverifof the Peak ' V "I just dote on them," she replied. "And Scott's Emulsion?" he said, a faint suspicion dawning on him. "I think," she interrupted rashly, "it is the most charming thing he ever wrote."

Essays ; According to Doctor Johnson an essay is (1) an attempt, an endeavor; (2) a loose sally of the mind, irregular, indigested piece; (3) a trial, an experiment; (4) a taste of anything. The essay is an old and honorable form of literature for which there is less welcome nowadays than in the leisurely days of long ago. But those who love good literature and delight in the charm of perfect style will find both in the essays of the old writers. If you read Lamb, or Addison, or Steele, or Goldsmith carefully you will get a clearer and better notion of how to build a right English sentence than you can get from reading all the works of Dickens—not to speak of Hall Caine or any other of our moderns; and you will moreover enrich your mind with clean, beautiful thoughts that are positively refreshing. It used to be taken for granted that a volume of essays was included in the course of English studies prescribed in secondary and higher schools where in Mr. Hanan's establishments we find a digest of a Tlunnish story with anti-Catholic tendencies, such as Here ward the Wake: —and with sound reason, for style is the essential of a good essay. The writing of essays is almost, but not quite a lost art. We have still in the person of Mr. Birrell one who can hold his own with the best : Hilaire Belloc and G. K. Chesterton have also strong claims to first rank : and we suppose there are some people still who retain the old reverence for Macaulay.

Intimidation in Grcymouth

As an instance of how bigotry can affect a man wo ask our readers to peruse the following facts, for which we thank our Greymouth correspondent : That illustrious historian and cultured Christian gentleman, Howard Elliott, accused the Catholics of Greymouth of intimidating a jury and securing a miscarriage of justice. Needless to say the charge was made with the cowardly vagueness which characterises this biped’s onslaughts. What did happen was this. A clerk of the .borough Council was charged with stealing £BOO. The Council decided that if the money were paid in they would not prosecute. It was refunded, but the Government Audit Department took action. The Grand Jury, composed of the leading business men of the town, were with one exception Protestants. In returning “No Bill’’ they kept the compact which the Council had made, being influenced too by the fact that the young man’s father was then at (he door of death. This is the awful history of “intimidation’’ which has given occasion to the recent nightmares of Elliott. We are informed that while this splendid specimen of Christian chivalry was launching his attack the young man in question was lying wounded in France. Will not the Government strike a special medal to distinguish people like Elliott from ordinary human beings?