NEW BOOKS AND PUBLICATIONS.

Press, Volume LVIII, Issue 17585, 14 October 1922, Page 9

NEW BOOKS AND PUBLICATIONS.

A BOOK OF VEBSE. The two authors of "Edith Cavell a Last Thought, and Other Poems," by H. North cote and M. A. Northcote,, are well known in Canterbury. Mr N orthcote is an Ang.icc.Ji clergyman, and twenty year?; ago ministered in the parish of Lincoln. This book shows him poet as well as ai scholar and cleric. His sister who collaborates with him is a Itomaji Catholic, as her verse indicates. Among clerical versifiers in Canterbury are tiie late Dean Jacobs and Mr Inwood. If this book reaches a higher level, it is m part owing to the vel ' & of Miss 2sorthcote, which are marked with real distinction. Let any iSew Zea.auder of Canterbury who haa spent tedious\years in England turn t tho verse headed v 'Sans cesse mon. co3ur cent le regret d'un absent'" : "There's jasmin round tho irinao'.T, And rosea on tho wail, And thrushes in tho garden— And; I would give it all To hear tho nor'-ireat eanjiilir His fierce song 1 on the plain, And through the tail blue-gum trees I ehfcli noi sea egam. and he will find his thoughts mirrored exactly. This poem and others like it demand the serious .consideration of tha critic, and clain: for this book a place in the library of New Zealand poetry, which, by the bye, is a library of high standard. The sincere and imaginative love ot New Zealand i 9 one mark of the book. Another is its religious tone. Mr Northcote's verse La plainly reminiscent or Keb'.e, who in his turn echoed Scott. Miss Northcote has heard of later poets, more dangerous to copy, such as Francis Thomson. However, she is alwayß beautiful and suggestive, even if thero are lines occasionally in which tho rhythm is either minutely defective, or else achieves some modern effect which ears classically-tuned cannot appreciate. Air Northcote'& style is not so ambitious, though an exception roust be madia of "Easter Sunrise'' with its weird and original effect obtained by the repetition of the penultimate word) in the first line of each verso. _ He hna not the high inspiration of his sister, but his verse is always flawless and never flag 9. The name-poem is not very impressive. But there is a curious and interesting attempt to paraphrase tho song of Habbakuk in heroic couplets, a metre which inevitably recalls some of the worst efforts of that kind in the English language. In spit© of this hr.iv clieap, we do find the fire and vigour of the Hebrew poetry mirrored m the placid lines of the English. For Mr Northcote has the advantage of Hebrew scholarship and understands his original. The gifted pair seem at home in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, French, and Italian, as well as their native English. But Canterbury readers will love tho book for its delightful pictures of tho Plains, and for the feeling for beauty which inspires it. (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner and Co. Through L. M. Isitt, Ltd.) "

"AIT ANATOMY OF POETRY." "Our young poets—those who are the most promising—are often the better for a good 'head-masterish' talking t§/' So wntea Mrs Wiliiam&~l£liis, the "Spectator's'' poetry-tester, in her book "An Anatomy of Poetry." Her sex prevents iier from uisciiarging tms duty to our young poets and our young anu old reauers or poetry, but she does her best to bo "head-mistresisjsh"—a word whicn shows that even in tiie World of Ugly iseoiogisms tine female of the species is more aeauly than the male. Hera is an interesting and irritating little book, which is to say that it ia very "Spectator, ish," or periiaps, we Buouidi say "Jbhn St. L. iStraeheyish." We aro patted on the head, we aro talked nonsense to in a manner which ranges all the way from "Spectaborishness'' to that deft and alluring sprightliness which only the clever women can do, and oiteu we are staggered? by some searching and thoroughly sane piece of criticism. The other day we read Mrs Williams-Ellis's brief notice —for it was but a notice, at which, we should 6ay, many eyebrows went up in surprise or down in beetling wrath, and as roany lips wreathed themselves in smiles —of Mr Hardy's latest collection of poems. Mrs I'/llia think 3 nothing of the poor man! But it would be a very serious mistake to suppose that Mrs Ellis is all limitation, or that her limitations amount to very much more than a few personal prejudices and —but this is not her fault —a feminine disdain to trouble herself with the manmade rules of grammar, punctuation, and accuracy. All this may be mere carping. For amends, let us tell the lovers of modern verse —or, if they dislike the phrase (as, indeed, we do) the lovers of the (verse that is now being written—that they will find in this irritating and attractive book an enthusiasm for verse, and a vivacity in appreciating it, which are wholly admrable, and likely to be very helpful to young students of poetry. (Oxford: Basil Blackwell.)

THE KING'S PILGRIMAGE. The story of t?io visit of the King and Queen to the British war graves in France and Flanders last May is simply but graphically told iu a handsome volume entitled "Xhe .king s i ugmnage/' published by the authority of the Imperial Wat Graves Commission. The narrative by Mr i'tank Fox describes the whole of the tour which started at '/.eebruggo and included visits to Tyno Cot Cemetery, where lie those who died in the struggle for Pasßchendaele, Biandhoek, Vlamer-> tiii£>iio and i'pres, the cemeteries oi the Somme —Wariencourt, j/orce;viiie,' Lou. vencourt, Ficquigny—the resting-places of many New Zeslanders; Damo de Lorette, the graveyard of 100,Wv) Frenchmen, Etaples with its more than 11 000 graves including 281 New -oealanders," and lastly Terlincthun* Cemetery, Boulogne, which shelters 3327 dead' of whom 29 were New Zealanders. It wag at Terlincthun that the King delivered his historic message to his people over all the sens. Nearly hall the book is made up of splendid pictures illustrating the King's tour, those oi tie completed cemeteries with their packed rows of uniform headstones ranged between the Cross of Sacrifice and the Stone of Remembrance being particularly impressive. The proiits from the sale of the hook will, by tha Kind's desire, be distributed among the organisations assisting relatives of the fallen to visit the ceirieberies. (i<ondott: Bockler and Siougliton, Ltd. J Chris tchurch, L. M. Isitfc,' Ltd.}. COUNTRIES OP THE MIND. Mr ' Middlet-on Slurry, in bia "'Countries of the Mind: Essays in Literary Criticism," eays that "the function of criticism is* primarily the function of literature itself, to provide a means of self-expression for the critic. , . . Criticism is a._ particular art of literature. . , . Criticism is an < art. _ It I has its own technique. . . .' Critical articles and essays are read: for themselves; at their best they are perfectly j self-contained; they do not demand that the purchaser should out. and purchaser the books which they discuss." At this time of <k-y nobody is likely to protest against tins elevation of the j parasite to the distinction of the host, although it is not very many -years 1 since many people, forgetting that some of the best of English literature is criiiciem of ibooks, would have de-

Bounced Mr Mirny's view as heresy, and, worse than heresy, impudence. But Mr Murrv has tho best of rights to claim for criticism the status of an independent art, for ho has done better critical writing than any other modern, lii this book, m addition to tho article from which we have been quoting, he reprints many of those artiolea which cnarmed us when they appeared iri the Literary Supplement of "The Times" trie "Athenaeum," and the "Lcndon Mercury." Doughty, of "Arabia Deserta," and Walter fie la Jlare aro *'•?! '' v ' r, n authors he has deaifc with litre. His other es-ays are upon tho 'Anatomy of Melancholy," "Shrksyjenro and Lore," "William Collins. John Claire, Baudelaire, Amiol, r laubert, and Stendnal. They aro all acute and brilliant studies, of which the most interesting is certainly the examination of do la Mare's poetry. It is impossible for any student of ir.odem lotto's to be without Mr Mursy's ba;.ks. (London: Collins, Sons and Co. Inrough «v kitcombo and Tombs, Ltd.)

NOVELS. Mr Horace Newte'3 previous novels j dealing with certain phases of modern liio and the relationship of tho sexes have prepared us for what we find in his latest book "Whither, a Story of tho Drift-Age." It gives us the experiences from eui'iy manhood to a decrepit souuparalyseu middle ago of Hubert IJurradel, a sentimental sensualist, who at what ho regards as a crisis m hie life — ins rejection Uy tne girl to whom no is engaged-- conie3 under the Iniiuenco of a haix-mad dentist with a fatalist philosophy of iife. According to 'timothy Mutton "everything that nappened had to happen," and "man instead) of being tue anjiter of his actions and creation's supremest etfort was merely the veriest slave of Lis planetary past, ancestry, and environment and tne most savage of beasts which had dehled and ravaged tho earth,' 1 Thenceforth Parradei's chief occupation appeal's to bo the satisfaction o'i physical desires. Ho seduces the philosopher's daughter Margot, who when the time comes when ho should marry her leaves him because of hisi obvioua reluctanco to fulfil that duty, and takes to the streets. Ono after another different women enter into hiii life and more than one© ho meets Margot who is maintaining his anai her little daughter. Eventually Parradel marries tne daughter of an old friend, the latter being one of the few really decent and likeable characters in the book, to whose family he has boon a sort of undo. In marriage, as might be expected, he faila to find happiness, his wife deceives him, and to add to tho tragedy of his life his own daughter folloys in her mother's footsteps, "whither" is not a pleasant book, but it conveys a 6tern moral. (London: Mills and Boon.) Ethel M. Doll's newest book "Charles Rex'' will no doubt delight her myriad readers, but it will hardly advance her reputation among critical people. It is the story of a lord and a waif. Lord Saltash, is known among his intimates as "Charles Hex," because, a3 the author tolls us "a certain arrogance, a certain royalty of bearing, both utterly unconscious and wholly unfeigned, characterised him," but also, wo should imagine, because, of traits in his character somewhat resembling those most marked in the "merry monarch." He is wandering about tho coast of Italy in his private yacht and at ono place rescues a fair-haired page, boy from an infuriated hotel-managor, who is boating him about • the head. The boy, Toby Barnes, stows away on his protectors yacht, which is soon after sunk in a collision with a liner, and Saltash rescues the ex-page boy, who is discovered on tho liner to bo a girl. Saltash asserts that she is the daughter of his skipper and takes her home, handing her aver to the care of a former sweetheart, a titled young lady now married to Jake Bolton, onco trainer and now owner of Saltaah's racing atable, The lady has a young brother, Sir Bernard Brian, who of cour&s, falls in love with Antoinette Largent, the ox-waif. That takes us about halfway through the book and admirers of Miss Dell's brand of fiction would not thank us to spoil their reading of tho book by telling them any more about it. There are one or two tense scenes and surprising developments. that wo can promise' tnem, before the end is reached. The pictorial cover, however, gives tho secret away. Tho book has no literary quality, to commend it, but wo could not forgive that (for. literary quality is not necessary for "beet sellers") if it were not for Lord Saltaeh'a irritating habit of interlarding his remarks with French phrases. (London: Hutchinson and Go. Through Whitcombo and Tombs and L-. M. Isitt, Ltd.). America—not undeservedly—still tacks the esteem of those _who require high merit in novels, and it is the more important that when a good American craftsman appeai-s he should bo warmly welcomed. * Mr Joseph Hergesheimer cannot complain of any want of appreciation for his unusually good work, and 'it is unlikely—at least s i one sho: la hope—that Mr Sherwood Anderson also should not come into his own. His novel with the ridiculous name, "'lhe 'Triumph of the Egg," was awarded a prize, by "The Dial" as the most important contribution to American literature during tho year. Not as tho best novel merely; and tho prize was _ well bo' stowed, Mr Anderson's technique is as nearly perfect au possible—so good that be leaves his readers free to tmnk only of his creative impulse and the drift of it. "The Triumph of the Egg" is a series of short stories, good ni themselves as stories, in which ha brings as ensitivo, but calm, imagination to bear upon tho tragedy of maa'a contentions with the facts of the Universe. For in tha flat and arid lives of iiruiny of the people of the _M|iddle> West the Universe is as heavily and terribly in action as anywhere. Most of ilr Anderson's stories hav<i rpx for the motive, and it is his distinction that he treats sex as an important thing but not as tho most important. Ho puts it in its proper place as nothing more than one of the districting forces of life. (London: Jonathan Capo. Through Whiteombe and Tombs, Ltd.)