BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 17922, 18 March 1922, Page 4

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

VERSES.

THE PRAYER OF THE EMPEROR CHINO. lot mo be reverent, be reverent, Even ns the way of Heaven is evident, And its appointment easy is to mar. last me not say “It is too high above, Above ns and below os doth it move, ■And daily watches wheresoe’er wo are. It is bnt as a little child I ask, Without intelligence to do my task, Yet learning, month by month and 1 day by

day. I will hold fast some gleams of knowledge bright; Help mo to bear my heavy burden right. And show mo how to walk in wisdoms

way. —From the Chinese ‘Book of Odes,’ Professor Loggo’s translation.

my books

When Mis the winter snow I little care, nor yet what cold winds blow, For hero beside the fire Are many friends of whom I never tiro i' Jane Austen sits with me, And, oh. what company! " Or elso Brontes make the fireside glow With their strange spirit; Wordsworth comes, and therf Most lovable of men, Bear Browning, and I’ve named not even ten Of those who come and go. When the December of my life shall come and those that now I love, ■The best perhaps— aro gone, I shall not bo quite friendless and alone. These same dear ones shall be 1 Spring, youth, and love to me; , I ahalll he young with them, and happy too, ■ , ~ And who can tell? In that great afterplace, I. by diviner grace, May touch their hands and look upon each face ' With happiness anew. _ —Julia Johnson Davis, in the * Lyric,’ Norfolk, U.S'.A,

G.K.O. Oil MILTON.

SOMETHING ABOUT THE DECADENTS.

Mv first impulse to write, and almost my iirst impulse to think, was a revolt of. distrust with the Decadents and the {esthetic pessimism of the nineties. It is ij,,w almost impossible to bring homo to anybody, even to myself, how final that liu* do sieclc seemed to be ; not the end of the century, but the end or the world. . • ,„ . r . , To-day the picture of Dorian Gray has really grown old. Dodo then was not merely an amusing female; she was tho ' eternal feminine. To-day the Dodo is extinct Then, above all, everyone claiming intelligence insisted on what was called “Art for art’s sake.” To-day even the biographer of Oscar Wilde proposes to abandon * art for art s sake and to substitute “art for life’s sake.” But at the time I was more inclined to substitute “no art, for God’s sake.” ... It does really seem to me that Milton wae an artist, and 1 nothing but an art?st; and yet so great an artist as to sustain by his own strength the idea that art can exist alone. Ho seems to me an almost Solitary example of a man oi magnificent i genius whose greatness does not depend at all upon moral earnestness or upon anything connected with morality’. His greatness is in a style, and a style which seems to me rather unusually separate from its substance. What is the exact nature_ of pleasure which I, for one, take in reading and repeating some such lines, for instance, as those familiar ones; Dying put on tho weeds of Dominic \ Or in Franciscan think to. pass disguised? The idea itself is at best an obvious ind even conventional condemnatfon of superstition, and in the ultimate sense a rather superficial one. Coming where it •• does, indeed, it does not so much suggest moral earnestness as rather a moralising priggishness. For it is dragged in very laboriously into the very last place where it' is wanted, before a splendidly largo and luminous vision of the world newly created, and the first innocence of earth and sky. It is that passage in which the wanderer - through space approaches Eden; one of tho most unquestionable triumphs of all human literature. ■ . That one book at least of ‘ Paradise Lost * could claim the more audacious title of ‘Paradise Found.’ But if it was necessary for the poet going to Eden, to pass through Limbo, why was it necessary to pass through Lambeth and Little Bethel? Why should ho go there via Eome and Geneva? Why was it necessary to compare the debris of Limbo to the details of ecclesiastical quarrels in tho seventeenth century, when he was moving in a world before the dawn of .all the centuries, or the shadow of the first quarrel? Why did 1 he talk as if the Church was reformed before the world was made, or as if Latimer lit his candle before God made the sun and moon? Matthew Arnold made fun of _ those who claimed divine sanction for episcopacy by suggesting that when God said “Let there be light,” Ho also *aid ‘‘Let there bo bishops.” But his own favorite Milton went very near suggesting that when God said “ Let there be light,” Ha soon afterwards remarked : “ Let there bo Nonconformists.”—G. Iv. Chesterton i in the ‘London Mercury.*

! BEET HASTE'S DAUGHTER. Through a kinema presentation of 1 Tennessee's Partner.’ the Bret Harto classic, the ■whereabouts of the famous - author’s elder daughter, Jessamy Bret Hart Steele, has become known to the ,public under dramatic circumstances, says the New York correspondent of the ‘Daily Chronicle.’ The picture was b»ng shown in the St. Lawrence Hospital for the Insane at Ogdensburg, on the American shore of the St. Lawrence River, when one of the ?women patients leaped to her feet screaming “My father! Oh, my father!’’ The performance had to be stopped until she could be quieted. It was then learned that the woipan, who. as. Mrs Steele, had been an inmato of the place for five years, was in truth Jeesamy. Memories evoked by the visualisation of the story brought with thun, singular to say, a recovery of her wits .. to the point where she demanded the services of a lawyer, claiming that the 1 film company had adapted her father’s story .without paying her the royalties to which, she insisted, she was entitled. jt appears that shortly before Brot Harts’s death, near London in 1902, this daughter of the author of ‘The Heathen Chinee.’ 1 The Outcasts of Poker Fiat,’ and ‘The Luck of Roaring Camp’ came to America and was married to Henry Milford Steele. Then began a career of luxury and folily that Jed to the couple’s .divorce seven years later. SIE J. M. BARBIE, OfM, '* Sir James Matthew Barrio, Bt., 0.M., M.A., LL.D. (Edin.), late Rector of St. Andrews University, members of tho Academic Committee of tho Royal .Society of Literature of tho United Kingdom, etc. It does not sound the least bit like him,” says 1 Tho Times,’ writing on his now honor. ■.“ Or, rather, one word only, besides tho two Christian names and one surname, sounds like him, and that is the ‘ etc.’ Therein' lies all the unknown, • the possible, the incredible, the impossible, and-'therefore probable, that make up so much of <Sir James Matthew Barrie, Bt., . etc., as the world has been allowed to see. “ He is the first to accept tho Order of Merit in recognition of his semdes’to the drama, as wall as to literature. Ho takes liia place beside an author indubitably great, Mr Thomas Hardy, in tho room of an- author indubitably great, George Mero- • drth. It may be that .there are writers

A LITERARY CORNER.

greater than he—scholars, philosophers, historians—on whom the Order of Merit / has not yet been conferred. Yet we believe that future ages, evaluating the eminent writers of our day, will agree that this signal honor was justly conferred on a very singular figure in our literature. “ There is none like him, none. From Sterna to George Macdonald, from the author of ' A Midsummer Night’s Dream ’ to the author of ' The Golden Ago ’ or the author of ‘ The Crystal Age,’ ho has no parallel. He is, in no 1 discolored ’ sense, incomparable. 'Others have amused us, frightened us, melted us, kept our hearts high in the war time, taught ns„ charmed us. To Sir James Matthew Barrie, Bt., 0.M., alone belong his peculiar achievement, and incalculable Etcetera. Beyond the statue in Kensington Gardens, beyond the legendary golden key, beyond the Bt., and the O.‘M , wo see it stretching away, ever challenging, ever unriddled—Etcetera, Etcetera/ . . .” NOTES, One hears from a- literary friend who has been in Russia that Tolstoy’s home at Yashna Polyana is in danger of falling to pieces (says' ‘ John o’ London’s Weekly Tho Soviet Government classified it as a national Russian museum, and arranged free weekly pilgrimages to it. But no money was spent, on its upkeep, perhaps because there was none to spend, and it has been left to the Tolstoy family to found a restoration fund. For this purpose, and to lay tho basis of a Tolstoy university, there is to be a memorial edition, "in many volumes, of the great writer's complete works. . On every hand the London booksellers say that now verse hao been a good sell-, ing article during tho winter. It is well to know that the impetus Which tho Great War gave to tho writing and the reading of poetry has not passed away. That imnelus brought back narrative poetry in a new measure, and it, in particular, has been in demand. At the head ot this school is Mr John Masefield, whose versified story of ‘Reynard the 1-ox was a favorite Christmas book. Mi/Jjdm Drmkwatcr, Mr Thomas Moult,_ Mr ktprge Moore, Mr Wyndham Lewis, and that delightful Scottish poetess, Mrs Violet Jacobs, all have-their followers Wbat a library has been written about Napoleon, and how it continues to increase! Some of it is prose, some of it poetry, and in this last lino is the contribution of the Baroness Aminotf, who lives near Faversham, in Iveiß. bho is .writing a trilogy of novels around N npoleon. his family, and his tonds, men and women, in peace and war. ihev'are to have the general title ‘Torchlight, and one volume has appeared, though,_ somehow it did not make as much impression''here as in America Q u,te shall have a second volume, and it is called ‘ Love,’ and deals with the' Directory Napoleon s acceptance of the Italian S&mJ and .Ids fitat marriage Baroness Aminofi is most carelul with h f history, though she writes as a novelist. ‘John o’ London’s Weekly.’ ' Tho French Chamber of Deputies decided that the cottage at Serignan,. m Provence, where the great entomologist,, , Henri Fabre, lived and died, ■should oecome national property. The Provcncaux now demand the same honor for Mistral, whose cottage is at Mmllane. Mistrals widow still resides there, -as does the poet’s spaniel, which wears a collar with tho inscription, “I am Jougeor, the dog or the poet Mistral. ’■ M. Rone iMaran, the negro writer, wna has just won the Prix Goncourt for the best novel of .1921, was born in Martinique and educated at Bordeaux. He is in the French Colonial .Service, and is stationed at a lonely post near Lake Chad. He is an ardent apostle of the rights of the black races, and the preface to his novel is a bitter protest against the oppression_o£ the negro by colonising European nations. 1 see the German working classes, for their part, putting their _ best foot forward, conscious of a new dignity, independence, and stake in the country, showing all their former enthusiasm for knowledge, not perhaps buying books —for they are too dear—but reading them, flocking to their class colleges (as at Berlin, Hamburg, and Frankfort) and night schools after the day’s work is over, and fitting themselves for tho time when Labor will govern in their country, as it will govon in ours.— W. H. Dawson in the ‘Contemporary .Review.’

Among fine hew editions I should back the winter issue, with illustrations, of tho famous 1 Eoadmowbr ’ (says ‘John o’ Loudon’s Weekly’). Essentially this is a book of consolation, and there are endless people who need consolation. It crawled, unheralded and unsung, into print in the year 1902, and nobody knew the name, “ Michael Hairless,” which was on tho title page. Naturally, because it had only before been "on the title page of an unnoticed little volume, ‘ The Gathering of Father Hilarius,’ and, moreover, the full name of the author was Miss Michael Fa irk ss Barber. The ‘ Roadraender ’ was written out of a long illness, which became a spiritual crisis, and that had k> do with the finding of it by the public. When Miss Barber died her unpublished writings were gathered into a third volume, ‘ Tlie Grey Brethren,’ and there is now nothing more by her to print. Mr Louis Untermeyer, in his estimate of existing American writers of verse, says that Miss Hilda Doolittle is, “by all odds, the most important of tho group.” In taking the selected pieces of Miss Doolittle ns representative of tho newest American poetry, hero is one of them, entitled 1 Oread ’ ; Whirl up, sear— Whirl your pointed pines. Splash your great pines. On onT rocks. Hurl your green over us— Cover ue with your pools of fir.

That is all; that is the entire poem, which Mr Untermeyer finds “ capturing the firm delicacy of the Greek models.”

A number of Hora.ce Walpole’s letters were sold at .Sotheby’s on December 5. Among the correspondents in the collection are Boswell, Garrick, Chatham, Kitty Clive, and Voltaire, and there are over 100 letters from Gray, the poet to Walpole, written from 1754 to 1770. The following is Lord Acton’s description in bis American diaries (‘Fortnightly Review ’), of two celebrities he met at dinner. “This was James Russell Lowell. Ho is a young poet of Cambridge. Ho lias travelled, and wears his hair and moustache according to the approved fashion of poets. He holds a good place among American poets. He appeared to mo to be very clever and amusing. Brownson shyslhc is a transcendentalist. He thinks himmore of a man than Long-’ fellow. Longfellow was the other guest. He said nothing striking, but _ spoke a little about German poets. He is gentlemanlike in appearance, and'there arc no signs of genius about him. I should say ho has poetical feeling _ and facility of versification without creative power. I suspect he borrows abundantly/from the Germans. Incomparably his best short poem is a translation from /the Danish battle ode ‘King Christian Stood By the Lofty Mast.’ He is very vain. I noticed/that ho spoke of Bryant to Loweß with a mild sneer, with a consciousness of immeasurable superiority. .There, is no richness in his conversation.t I think him disagreeable, certainly not equal to his reputation abroad, which, however, is much greater than that which ho'enjoys at home.” Who, would you . say,, has ■ been the "best seller” of the Christmas, arid New Year book market? asks ‘ John o’ London’s Weekly. By that one means'not a single book,'but the author whoso books;-, as a whole, have sold most for Christmas presents. Mr Eudyard Kipling has been easily first,' alike for the complete editions of him which people have given, each other, and for particular volumes of his writings. The favorites are ‘ The Jungle Book,’ ‘Puck of Pook’s Hill,’ ‘Just So Stories,’ -‘The 'Second) _ Jungle* Book,’ ‘Plain

HEW BOOKS.

‘Poems of a Riper Experience.’ By William Hall. 1 George Allen and Unwin, Ltd. 5s net.

This volume follows four earlier ones of religious verso which have come from the same author—' Via Crucis,’ ‘ Renunciation,’ ‘ The Way of tho Kingdom,’ and ‘ The Victory of Defeat.’ To tho seventy or more poems which find a place, in this collection very high praise can be given. Suggested generally by spine text or passage of Scripture, they are. sermons in a poetical form—sermons as compact and impressive in reasoning as they aro fervent in devotion. If, as poetry, they seldom kindle, they n*wer cease to glow; the utterance is worthy of the thought which proceeds from a mind of strong understanding, as as intense spirituality. Among longer poems are ‘The Ancient Mariner’ and ‘The Holy Grail,’ described as “ interpretations,” and a reply to Omar Khayyam's delusive plrfkmophy, which, if it lacks the seductive music of Fitzgerald's stanzas, makes a loftier argument. Mr Hall's poetry is habitually grave and elevated, as befits his subjects. Though loss would be inevitable tin the.proccM, some preachers might do worse than turn his verse sermons into prose, NOTES ON NOVELS. ‘ Moon of Destiny.’ By Chester Keith. Published by Messrs George Allen and Unwin, Ltd. In ‘.Moon of Destiny’ Mr Keith has given a most fascinating story, enacted during a period of highly interesting hut almost forgotten civilisation. Most standard histories, however stiff their language, make most absorbing reading in dealing with the old Aztecs of South America and their manners and customs. Doubly* interesting, however, is a romantic story set amid such interesting scenes. Mr Keith’-, work is of this land, his title dealing with the struggles of an exiled prince, to regain Ins’ throne. His courage, loyal devotion, love affair, and hairbreadth escapes before he is successful in reaching his goal provide a succession of thrilling events. Perhaps one of the most interesting features of the book is its frequent references to the religion of the times, which gives a good insight into the minds of the people. Human sacrifices wcie frequently made to please the gods, and this practice was often made a subterfuge for satisfying personal revenge. The author displays tho touch of the true story-teller, {he icseavch of the scholar, and tho language of a master. First and foremost Mr Keith has brought to his task a romantic imagination, which is indispensable to anyone essaying it.

‘Mother.’ By Kathleen Norris. Forwarded by Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd.

Everyone should read this little book. It relates the life in a small American town, of one of the army of tender, patient, self-sacrificing women who the world over are devoting themselves to their children. This particular mother can stand for a type of womanhood, the members of which aro the salt of the earth. Mrs Paget at twenty married the nian she loved. Small means apd many .babies made her life..one of toil. But she never worried, and if she did none knew of it. Care, fatigue, responsibility, hard, long years of busy days and broken nights had left their marks on her face, but her eyes were calm and stcady|)nnd her spirit serene. Like all mothers of her kind she was counsellor, friend, and helper to her children from the days of babyhood till they loft the home. In her daughters appeared the spirit of revolt. The new ideas of marriage and home life and the question of children appealed to them. They desired wealtlj, opportunities for travel, the primrose path, and Ireedom from encumbering responsibilities. The warring elements are well described, the developments are told in a convincing way, and the authoress is to be commended on having produced a book that is natural and wholesome without being sentimental.