NOTES

New Zealand Tablet, 31 March 1921, Page 26

NOTES

Belloc as a Poet Most people are astonished if one speaks of Belloc as a poet. They know him as a writer of nervous English and as a knight without fear whose lance is set for the defence of truth and the defeat of shams and falsehoods. Their knowledge of him is often second-hand, or perhaps derived from articles quoted by newspapers on historical, political, or social topics, He is the man who helped to expose the Marconi scandals which made certain flourishing British politicians wealthy men and disgraced them at the same time he is the co-worker of the Chestertons in their crusade for the regeneration of society on a basis of sound principles he is a man hated of the tawdry jingoes who thrive on the deceits which he is perpetually warring down. We venture to say that even a slight firsthand knowledge of hjs prose would prepare them to accept without wonder the assertion that he is also a poet of no mean rank. There is poetry in prose and in verse—in Four Men ; there is poetry in The Path to Pome, and in many of those delightful essays which one may buy for a few shillings in any bookshop in the world to-day. Quality not Quantity He did not write much verse, but to win £ne’s spurs as a poet it is not necessary to write much. , Gray’s works would not make a large volume, yet does not

Matthew Arnold place Gray in the very first rank of English poets What have we now of Sappho but a few fragments? We have not a great deal of Catullus. Leopardi did not leave us a bulky legacy neither did uu. u ~ van., in nnnlier X 1 iG/igoiaiLi, iiui xu.ciiigcni ? nut v iuuu. j. u 10 C|ctt*x.iujr that counts: a mass of copper is of less value than an ounce of pure gold. And Belloc’s claim to be considered a poet rests on the large proportion'of pure gold that is found among his’ verses. An admirer of Belloc’s who is also a disciple tells us that the characteristics of his verse are a strict French technical tradition combined with a dreamy wistfulness that suggests the Celtic spirit; and tenderness combined with an abrupt military manner. The same wistfulness is found in his best prose in his prose, too, one cannot help remarking the influence of the best French writers. The clear vision, the limpid style, the flexibility and strength are all French. And net rarely they are illumined by the true Celtic glamor which is the quality that gives a charm to the best English prose and verse. In a word, Belloc is a stylist Style is indefinable and elusive, but we recognise its presence at once if we know at all what good writing is. And anyone who has a fair acquaintance with French works cannot be ignorant that the best English is immeasurably behind the best French when there is a question of style. Even Burke, according to Arnold, could not compare with Bossuet. What ‘novelist would we put beside Flaubert or Bourget or Coppee to-day ? Remembering, then, that Belloc is half French and half Celt we arrive at the secret of his stvle. It is distinctive both in his prose and in his verse. Take this sonnet ; Sedan. I. from a window where the Meuse is wide. Looked Eastward out to the September night. The men that in the hopeless battle died Rose and reformed and marshalled for the fight. A brumal army vague and ordered large For mile on mile by one pale General, I saw them lean by companies to the charge ; But no man living' heard the bugle call. And fading still, and pointing to their scars, They rose in lessening cloud where, grev and high, Dawn lay along the heaven in misty bars. ; But gazing from the Eastern casement, I Saw the Republic splendid in the sky, And round her terrible head the morning stars. The Celtic Note He is violent at times. lie sings a rollicking, roystering song for us with a tankard in hand. He is fierce in denunciation of the shams he hates. But sadness and wistfulness and 11 tun u'eh for a land of hopes and dreams are his leading notes, the Celtic notes — A lost, thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend ; And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will be there to comfort me ' Or who will be my friend ? I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald, They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed. If ever I become a rich man, i Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with a deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told. I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me.

His Fierce Mood 7-- : — What a warrior he is when he falls upon his foes! Hear this : r . ; , . Only before I eat and drink, . - - ■ When I have killed them all, I think y That I will batter their carven names, And slit the pictures in their frames, : And burn for scent their cedar door, And melt the gold their woraem'wore, ■ And hack their horses at their knees, . And hew to death their timber trees, And plough their gardens deep and through For fear perhaps my little son Should break his hands as I have done. His wrath is always directed against the blind guides and the money-changers who defile the temple with their trafficking. Behind it all is the Catholic heart that drives him to the fight and inspires him to pray Our Lord that was Our Lady’s Son, Go bless you, People, one by one; My rhyme is written, my work is done.