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New Zealand Tablet, 20 February 1919, Page 26

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■' » George Eliot w s were very glad to find a warm word of praise for George Eliot in a paper by so distinguished a Catholic writer as John Ayscough ; for it has been the fashion among some Catholics to attribute to her writings the failing of her philosophy and her creed. It has been said that she knew her failings, and that she pleaded that her books would help to undo much of the harm due to her example and it is no new thing to find a writer’s personal convictions about religion or

the want of it shut out from the public. At any rat© we have always thought that some of our people were unfair to the great novelist, and have ,never wavered in our early allegiance to her as the first of modern English writers of fiction. We still hold, as we did when we read them when our mind was more plastic and our imagination fresher than now, that The Mill on the Floss, Adam Bede, and Romola are in the very highest rank of European novels, and it is not x likely that we shall ever again read any novels that will delight us as they did and move us as they moved us. Her Vogue Her vogue was at its highest towards the end of her life; and after her death it began to pass. Among the young readers of to-day admirers of George Eliot are not too common, but. it is doubtful if that is not rather by way of a tribute to her worth. Considering what the youth nowadays read there was wisdom in Mr. Dooley’s policy of erecting the Bible and Shakespere on his desk in front of him, ‘‘while Hall Caine and Mary Corelli raged outside.” At the beginning of the “eighties” public suffrage would have certainly put George Eliot in the same class as Scott and Dickens : and though the public has changed, the best critics arc still on her side. “There has been no greater novelist since the death of Dickens,” was Andrew Lang’s verdict. '“No woman.” said Oscar Browning, “has attained so high a place among the. writers of our country. , . . No English novels have aimed at higher ends, have presented more complex characters, or attempted more difficult problems.” Edmond Scherer, a distinguished French critic, held that for George Eliot was reserved “the honor of writing the most perfect novels yet known.” Lord Acton’s praise was high indeed: “In problems of life and thought which baffled Shakespere disgracefully, her touch was unfailing. No writer ever lived who had anything like her power of manifold sympathy. If Sophocles or Cervantes had lived in the light of our culture, if Dante had prospered like Manzoni, George Eliot would have had a rival. . . . George Eliot seemed to me not only capable of reading the diverse hearts of men, but of creeping into their skin, watching the world through their eyes, feeling their latent background of conviction, discerning theory and habit, influence of thought and knowledge, of life and descent, and having obtained this experience, recovering her independence, stripping off the borrowed shell, and exposing scientifically and indifferently the soul of a Vesta, a Crusader, an Anabaptist, an Inquisitor, a Dervish, a Nihilist, or a Cavalier without attraction, preference, or caricature. And each of them would say she had displayed him in his strength, that she gave rational form to motives he had imperfectly analysed, that she laid bare features in his character he had never realised.” John Ayscough’s Opinion As it is certain that many of our readers will not agree with us we hasten to support our broader view by appealing to John Ayscough, who is better qualified to judge than most of us. Here is what he has to say on the point; “That George Eliot was an agnostic all the world believed that it knew, and that a considerable portion of the world that is by no means agnostic proceeded to read agnostic teaching (sic) into her novels. For my part I can never see it: on the contrary, I am rootedly convinced that if no one had ever known by whom her books were written, no one would ever have discovered them to be the work of an agnostic. . . . That George Eliot’s Christians were often innocently pagan is only a proof that she could regard “Christian” England with very clear eyes, and was much better aware than many Christians of what Christianity really is. . . . Who can doubt the serene happiness, in the midst of- a life often saddened by the sins and sorrows of others, of Dinah Morris How dull must a reader be who cannot see that Maggie Tulliver was never so near happiness as while endeavoring to sr&mit herself to the teaching of The Imitation of Christ ? I would venture to say that

Georg© Eliot’s novels are far from providing proofs of the fact of her agnosticism, far from illustrating it: and that they seem to me to prove that she saw that in belief, and in conduct corresponding to belief, lay the best hope of happiness.” Moira O’Neill Of sweet singers surely the New Ireland has plenty, and of a variety to please each song-lover’s taste. Who is greatest and who is best let critics decide; we take them all to our heart and thank God for them. For it is something to be thankful for that no dark days and lean years have been able to hush the little singing-birds of old Eire. Many a man or woman who r admires the grandeur of the broad ocean, or the, majesty of the Alps loves better some quiet little backwater sheltered By the hanging woods over an Irish river, or a little hillside patched with little fields which have Irish names that come down from father to son and are sweet on the tongue and musical to the ear. So, many a one who recognises the beauty of Yeats and the power* of Synge will yet love far more the sweet, artless songs that spring from the hearts of singers like Moira O’Neill or Ethna Carbery. Here is a, melody from the Sonya of the Glens of Antrim, by the former: Sure this is blessed Erin an' this same glen-, Jhe i/nlcl is on the whin-hush, the leather sings again,' The. fair thorn's in flower, — an' what ails my heart then! Flower o' the may, Flower o’ the may. hat about the may time, aid he far away! Summer loves the green glen, the white bird loves the sea, An’ the wind must hiss the heather, too, an’ the red hell Indies a. bee; A s the bee is dear to the honey-flower, so one is dear to vie. Flower o’ the rose, Flower o’ the rose, -1 thorn pricked me one day, but nobody knows. The bracken up the braeside has rusted- in the air, Three branches lean together, so silver-limbed and fair, Och! golden leaves are fly in fast, but the scarlet roan is rare. Berry o’ the roan, Berry o’ the roan, Tie wind sighs among the trees, but I sigh alone. 1 k mi,t beside the turf-fire, I spin upon the wheel, Tl inter nights for f/linkin’ long, round runs the reel . . But he never knows, he never knows that here for him I’d kneel. Sjuirkle o’ the fire, Sparkle o’ the fire, Mother Many keep my love, an’ send me my desire; That is a song that pierces to the heart of ihe child of the Gael, at home or abroad; and when a singer can make a song do that he or she is a poet Moore and Burns were never more poets than when they wrote such lyrics as The Coulin and Ye Banks and Braes. We could quote Moira O’Neill for many a page without wearying our readers. But instead of doing that we recommend them to get hold of her songs for themselves. As “Corrymeela” is commonly said ’"to be her best we will print one stanza: Over here in England I’m helping •with the hay, An’ I wish I was in Ireland the livelong day: Weary on the English hag, an’ sorra take the wheat! Och! Corrymeela an’ the blue sky over it. There’s a dumb river flowin’ by bey out the heavy trees This livin’ air is moithered id’ the hum min’ o’ the bees I wish I’d hear the Claddagh burn go runnin’ through . the peat Past Corrymeela, wi’ the blue sky over it.