BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 18393, 29 September 1923, Page 11

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

-'A LITERARY CORNER.

VERSES.

THE INQUEST, Not labor kills us; no, nor joys

The incredulity and frown, The interference and annoy,

Tho small attritions wear us down. The little gnat-like buzzings shrill The hurdy-gurdies of the street, The common curses of the will — These wrap the cerements round our feet.

'And, more than all, tho look askance Of loving souls that cannot gauge The numbing touch of circumstance, The heavy toll of heritage. It is not Death, but Life that slays: The night less mountainously lies Upon our lids, than foolish day s Importunate futilities! —Francis Money-Coutls.

THINGS ENOUGH.

.“That man can thank his lucky stars Whoso things to keep are few, To which tho moth and rain and rust Find little harm to do; “A faith that makes his handshake warm ’And simple things most wise; A wife to make eacli morning sweet With morning-glory eyes; “ A love to make him foot green roads Which others motor on; A garden small and kind enough To let him watch the dawn; “ A pity for the hungry ones, The ragged and ill-shod; A tree that’s tall and straight enough To make him think of God.” —Robert P. Tristram Coffin, in 1 Harper’s Magazine.’

BANKER-POET DEAD.

'nder the name of Francis MoneyCoutts Lord Latymcr, who died in London in July in his seventy-first year, had considerable distinction as a poet. Among the books of poems which _he published were ‘ Tho Romance of King Arthur’ and ‘The Alhambra and other Poems.’ He also wrote an analysis of the Book of Job. Lord Latymer enjoyed a most curious succession of surnames. lie was tho son of the Rev. James Money, rector of Sternfield, Suffolk, and a nephew of tho late Baroness Burdett-Coutts. He assumed the additional name of Coutts by royal license in 1880, in accordance with a provision of the will of tho Duchess of St. Albans (Harriet Mellon, widow of Thqmas Coutts), by which ho became heir to the shares in the banking house of Coutts, of a great number of which the Baroness Burdett-Coutts held the life interest. Ho was for many years associated with the banking business. An unusual interest to be combined with that of poetry. His original profession was that of a barrister. In 1914 he assumed the name of Coutts-Nevill by royal license, his heir retaining the name of Money-Coutts. In 1912, when he was in his sixtieth year, his efforts to establish his claim to the ancient Barony of . atymer, created in 1341, were successful. Tho title had been in abeyance since the death in 1T77 of John Nevi'll, fourth baron, who left four daughters. Lord Latymcr married in 1875 Edith Ellen, daughter of the late Mr Charles Churchill, of Weybridge Park, Surrey. He is succeeded in the baronv by his oldest son, Mr Hugh Burdett Money-Coutts, who was born in 1376.

“OXJIDA” AND MISS BRADDON.

Mr H. A. Veacbell, the novelist, writes in ‘ Cassell’s Magazine of Fiction ’ an interesting study of two popular women novelists of the Victorian era—“ Ouida ” (Louise de la Ramco) and Miss Brad don. Of “ Onida" he says ;

I have read all Ouida’s novels. She •wrote to please herself, and she disdained criticism. She perpetrated terrible “howlers.” In the Grand Military Steeplechase several horses started with odds on each ! Her most famous hero was styled “ Beauty of the Brigades.” It was negligible to Ouida that there is only one Brigade of Guards. She achieved atmosphere regardless of the eternal verities. Her novel ‘Friendship, set Florence by the ears in 1378. She became infatuated with the Marches© della Stufa, portrayed as " loris.” The heroine, “ Etoile," is herself. That eccentric old personage, Lady Oxford, a friend of Ouida’s, whom I knew quite well, was admirably hit off as “Lady Cardiff. It would be stirring up mud to say pore about this malicious book. Ouida s literary sin was the greater because she was under obligations to the lady whom she pilloried as Lady Joan. When I was in Florence in ’eighty-three society vas divided into two camps, the Ouidaiies and the anti-Ouidaites.

“She was an amalgam of ignorance and knowledge,” continues Mr Vachell. “ Apart from the blunders in her novels, ahe betrayed Che same reckless disregard of facts in her studies and essays, most admirably ■written. She fulminated against Queen Victoria because she actually didn’t know that the English Monarchy is con. Etitatlonal. She believed that Her Majesty could end the Boer war by_ merely holding up a finger! Any special ease —such as vivisection or cruelly to animals pleaded by her sincerely and passionately, was weakened to breaking point by this astounding indifb rente to facts. She held ‘The Massarenes ’ to lie her best book (‘worth a thousand Trilbys,’ she wrote to Tauchnitz). It remains, unread, her worst, because her indictment of wealth and fashion was ludicrously overdrawn. 1 believe it would bo possible to fake from her books passages oi such beauty that they might be accepted to-day as worthy to endure, but great care and insight would have to be exercised in making such a selection. .She had inordinate vanity and no sense of humor. Probably she never eaw a joke against herself. When George Eliott died, she wrote; —‘You must make much of me, for now George Eliott is fine there is no one else who can write nglish.’ It will be noted that she misspelled George .Elliot’s name!’ ”

Mr Vache!! draws a more pleasing picture of Miss Braddon : When I met her she was an old lady, ■white-haired, stout, gracious, hospitable, with no taint of the "high-brow” or “ blue-stocking.” Her outlook upon past, present, and future appeared both wide and sane. In all, I mot her throe times, and her vitality made an enduring impression upon me. -She had Jived a full life and enjoyed it thoroughly. She shared with Dumas and Balzac power, fertility, inventiveness, and almost superhuman industry. ‘Lady Audley’s Secret,’ ‘Eleanor's Victory,’ ‘Aurora Floyd,’ and ‘Henry Dunbar’ were written before she was twenty-five. During fifty more years, apparently •without effort or fatigue, she launched seventy long And she wrote comedies, comediettas, blank verse tragedies, and several volumes of poetry! She published nine novels that to this day remain anonymous. She edited magazines, notably ‘Temple Bar’ and ‘Belgravia.’ Bho had an annual to which she was the principal contributor,'and once she wrote in French a serial story for tho Baris 1 Figard.' . . . Unlike the best sellers of to-day, Miss Brnddon was acclaimed by tho established authors of her own generation. Bulwer Lytton sent to her long letters of kindly criticism and advice. Charles Beade, Wilkie Collins, George Augustus Sala, Henry Laboucherc, _ and* Burnand were her most devoted friends and supporters. Thackeray—so Lady Ritchie tells us—could not tgar himself away from Miss Braddon’s novels.

JOSEPH CONRAD, SCULPTOR OP WORDS.

“ Joseph Conrad uses words in his art as Rodin used his clay. His mind • holds the clear image. Word by word he builds language into tho form of tljat image. But for Conrad sculpture is not all, form is not enough. There is also color. Word by word that also is laid on. So that it is as if a sculpture worked in both form nud color—moulding and coloring in one process. Tho images of Conrad are not mero painted statues. The color is not on tho surface. It is in tho substance.” In these words Mr H. I. Brock commences a searching article on Joseph Conrad, whom he calls a “ sculptor of words,” in tho ‘New York Times Book Review.’ ‘‘lt was in 1878 that the Pole, Teodol Josef Konrad Korzionowski —who as an inland-bred boy of thirteen had resolved to follow the distant, unseen se.v—funded at Lowestoft from a French, ship. He was twenty-one years old when tuns for the first time ho saw England, And lie know then hardly a word of English speech. Ho met plain English folk in seacoast taverns, ho puzzled over English papers in the parlors of inns, ho sailed (thereafter) in English ships with the blunt Englishmen of those ships from forecastle to quarterdeck. And he learned so well that from able seaman ho was second officer in a year, and master mariner in six. On the long voyages of sailing ships and in port he read eagerly and much.

“It may bo for this reason that he is able so extraordinarily to master English words—to make their stubborn substance obey him as the yielding clay does the hand of tho sculptor. “At all events and clearly Conrad is not tho slave of his words, as so many of us of one language are doomed to bo. He is not, as wo are, warped and driven out of his meaning by tho mere instability of the words themselves, words composite of metaphor piled oh metaphor and in the same syllables taking on one value, now another —in spite of us, unnoticed by ua for all our pains.

“Exactly he chooses words, therefore, and moulds them into phrases around his bright vision or his sombre thought. Exactly, also, ho selects his verbal pigments and mixes their rainbow hues to the precise rich color or dims them to the vagueness of distance and dreams.

“ Perhaps, again, the way he learned his English has made him better master of it. "Certain it is ho learned the 'Men tongue of his fine art from life, not irom schools. Ho picked it up bit by bit alive and in tho rough, or wherever ho found it in tho speech of men or the books of men—not of schoolmasters.

“ In the first of his reading of English (ho has said) wore tho ‘ Leather Stocking Tales ’ of our American Fenimore Cooper, who, for all he wrote mainly of Red Indians. had been a seafaring man himself, a midshipmite. In right of which he wrote the novel called ‘ The Pilot ’ to show up Sir Walter Scott. Because (he said with some asperity) Sir Walter had in ‘The Pirate’ from "his busy pen betrayed ignominously the landlubber. “In Cooper Conrad discovered a fine and true feeling foe tho salt sea and a not despicable gift of description. Poo also he read and John Stuart Mill (a quaint conjunction! before ho tasted Shakespeare in the native tongue or King James’s English version of Holy Writ.

“ Thus his English came to him. However it came, and wherever he took what ho had of it, he had made himself reasonably master of the language by the time ho began (as he puts it) ‘ to blacken over pages.’ ”

JONATHAN SWIFT

He was not a comfortable companion, except to the high-placed personages whom he courted with an obsequiousness _ occasionally touched with insolence—for _it was tlie place, not the man, ho cultivated. At best, among his equals or inferiors, he was exacting, masterful; at worst, he was a brutal bully. Faulkner, his Dublin publisher, years after the Dean’s death, was dining with some friends, who chaffed him for his odd way of eating asparagus. They laughed at him when he confessed that the Dean had toldl him -it was the right way. Whereupon Faulkner, with a touch of choler, exclaimed: “I tell you what it is, gentlemen; if you had ever dined with tho Dean you would have eaten your asparagus as he bade you.”

He had in him not a trace of courtesy .which springs from tho heart, and must be defined as formal kindliness. He loved to humiliate these wiio, for this reason or that, were debarred from hitting back or were afraid to do so. Dining at a certain house, where the part of the tablecloth next to him happened to have a email hole in it, he tore the hole as wide as he could and ate his soup through it; his reason for such behaviour being, ns ho said, to mortify tho lady of the house and teach her to pay a proper attention to housewifery.

A lothlv man—yet lovable, and beloved by ono of the most delightful women in all literary history—the Stella who moves Thackeray to a "sudden rapture—“ Fair and tender creature 1 Pure and affectionate heart. . . . Gentle lady! So

lonely, so loving, so unhappy ._ . . you are ono of the saints of English story. Whether or not he married this_ lady will never be known ; probably he did not, as his ruthless rejection of Vanessa, who wished to compel a marriage, proves that he was not a marrying man. There is some mystery and misery in Swift’s life which wo shall never succeed in elucidating. That is why ho remains one of _ the mast piteous and perplexing personalities in the history of English literature. Ills bodily sufferings, winch ended in five terrible years of madness, had doubtless something to do with tho character of his literary works, Ifis hatred of mankind seems sincere enough ; a burning indignation, more vehement than Juvenal’s, consumes his vitals as ho rages at tho littlenesses, the treachery, and mean injustice of his fellowanimals.—From part 12 of ‘ Tho Outline of Literature and Art.’

VARIOUS MAGAZINES

Messrs Gordon and Gotch, Limited, have forwarded to us some of tho late issues of well-known magazines, ‘ Physical Culture ’ is what its name implies. The editor (Bernarr Vacfuddon) is one of the greatest living exponents of all matters relating to tho development of the body, and his publication is complete and up to date in every way. Tho admirable illustrations are a big help to anyone who desires to use the methods prescribed. The September 1 Windsor ’ contains short stories by competent writers, and articles of various kinds by specialists. For instance, Harry Varcion discourses on golf, and the fiction writers include persons of such note as Marjorie Bowen and Barry Pain, Tho August ‘ Pearson,’ always up to date, has as features contributions from tho pens of Dr Frank C jano, 11. Do Vero Stacpoolo, Hesketh Pritchard, and Lady Dorothy Mills (' With tho Veiled Men of the Sahara’). Readers of the ‘Adventure Magazine’ will appreciate the July issue, with its stirring talcs of adventures by land and sea. The ‘ New Magazine,’ one of tho productions of the house of Cassell, is strong in the fiction department, tho editor having secured tho services of some of tho best short story writers of the day. The holiday number of the ‘ Green ’ (September) maintains its reputation for providing bright entertainment for those who want relaxation after work. ,

NOTES.

Mr Augustine Birroll, in an appreciation, in the ‘ CongrcgatiJnal Quarterly,' of Daniel Defoe, describes tiro great storyteller’s prosecution for tho writing of that remarkable satire ‘The Shortest Way With Dissenters.’ One good thing, he points out, resulted from, the prosecution, inasmuch as it has supplied us with a pen-and-ink portrait of tho author of ‘Robinsou Crusoo ’: —“ Whereas Daniel Do Foe alias De Fooo is charged with writing a scandalous and seditious pamphlet, entitled ‘Tho Shortest Way With Dissenters.’ Ho is a middle-aged spare man, about forty years old, of a brown complexion, and dark brown-colored hair, but wears a wig; a hogked noso, a sharp chin, grey eyes, and a largo mole near his mouth; was born in London, and for, many years was a hose factor in Freeman’s yard, in Cornhill, and now is the owner of tho brick and pantile works near Tilbury Fort, in Essex. Whoever shall discover the said Daniel Foe, etc., shall have a reward of £501” Dofoo was allowed twenty davs’ grace in Newgate before standing in the pillory, first in Conrhill, then in Cheapside, ’and lastly at Tcmplo Bar. Mr W. B. Maxwell, on leaving New York alter his first visit to tho Stales, was asked by the Philadelphia ‘Public Ledger’ for Iris’impressions. In tno course of his message tho English novelist said : “ My liveliest admiration has been aroused in understanding for the first time your genuine, widespread love of literature, ai d my regret is that, no master what wo may say or write, wo are not really ns fond of books as you aits. There can be no mistake about this. Your whole mental attitude towards the written word is different from ours. You look to it for inspiration and guidance, as well as for amusement.”

Writing of the bi-contonavy of the birth of Sir Joshua Reynolds, i writer in the ‘ Morning Post ’ quotes the opinions of Lamb and Ruskin :—The ‘Holy Family’ (painted for Mackliu’s Bible) was severely criticised by Charles Lamb. “For a Madonna,” lie declared, “Sir Joshua substituted a sleepy, insensible girl—one so little worthy to have been selected as the mother of tho Saviour that sho seems to have neither heart nor feeling to entitle her to become a mother at all.” On the other hand, Ruskin said: “If truth be told, Sir Joshua pain led Madonnas never, for sorely this dearest pet of an English girl with the little curl of lovely hair under her car is not one.” Then ho goes on: “ Why did not—or could not, or would not—Sir Joshua paint Madonnas?”

Where is tho last will and testament of John Runyan? asks “Elijah True,” in ‘John o’ London’s Weekly.” A correspondent writes to mo claiming that it is in Canada, in the proud possession of a gentleman living in Toronto. If this claim be right, the description of tho document which I get- is interesting. One gathers that it is written on parchment, entirely in tho hand of B-unyan, that it runs to fortyyme lines, and that it is signed by four w,it,nesses. It was drawn in favor of his wife, whoso name was Elizabeth Bunvan, and it bears a date in the year 1685. Plic story is that tho document was preserved for many years in the lining of an old Bible ; which became dilapidated and fell to pieces, thus discovering tho precious contents.

Miss Victoria Sackville-West, tho tall, handsome wife of Harold Xicolson, of tho Foreign Office, recently wrote a novel .which sho called ‘ Challenge,’ and which was published in America (states ‘ John o’ London’s Weekly’). Though at least two London publishers wore anxious to have tho book on their lists, Miss Sackville-Wc-st has decided not to publish it in this country. It is said- that the characters arc “ real,” and might bo recognised here. Miss Sackville-West is a busy and versatile writer. Her ‘ Knole and tho Sackvilles ’ was a charming history of her family home. Sho is a poetess of real distinction, and she ic now writing another novel, which is to bo published both in England and America. The Xicolsons spend most of their time in their house at Sevenoaks. Mr Bram Stoker, so well known at the old Lyceum as Henry Irving’s manager and friend, was also a novelist. The most successful story that he wrote was ‘Drnouln,’ a hair-raiser of tho first order, which would be an enormous success on the film. Another of his .stories was called ‘The Jewel of Seven Stars,’ and- it tells about treasure found in the tomb of an Egyptian queen and of tho disasters that befell those who found it. It will bo seen (says John o’ London’s Weekly’) that hero is a near enough analogy to the resurrecting Tutankhamen for a now edition of tho novel to be called for, and wo aro getting it. One day, perhaps, wo shall have some reminiscences of Mr Bram Stoker, for he was in the habit of keeping a diary’, and no doubt it exists.

Apropos of tho recent Shakespeare first folio celebration, Mr Ernest Law, who is one of the trustees of Shakcpearo’s birthplace, makes the very interesting suggestion in ‘The Times’ that Shakespeare may well have intended to collect and; edit his own plays. Referring to tho first folio, Mr Law points out that the words of Hemingcs and Oondell, in their preface, rather seem to suggest it. “They say: 'lt had been a thing, we confess, worthy to have been wished, that the author himself had lived to have set forth, and overseen his own writings. But rinco it hath been ordained otherwise, and ho by death departed from that right, we pray you,’ etc. At any rate wo may assume from these words that ho would not have been unwilling. And, had he lived a year or two more, can wo doubt that he would have been urged, with irresistible force, by his friend's and fellows, to follow tho example of Ben Jonson, whoso collected ‘works’ were published; in 1616, tho very year of his death, and ‘ himself have set forth and overseen his own writings’! That ‘it was ordained otherwise.’ is indeed tho supremo misfortune for all lovers of our national poet.”

“ At his host, Mr Michael Sadleir reminds one of Trollope; at his worst, one fears that Mrs Radcliffe and her kind once appealed to him,” writes A. Wyatt Tilby in the ‘ Edinburgh • Review,’ in an essay on ‘The Post-war Novel.” “ There is always a danger that the legitimate device of tho bizarre may become theatrical and unreal. Mr Sadleir has so far successfully avoided it, but there are parts of 1 Desolate Splendor ’ where one feels that ho avoids it, like Job, by the skin of his teeth. He has, (however, also avoided that besetting sin of tho day, over-hasty writing, and his next book will be looked for with interest and expectation. Ho is establishing the kind of reputation that grows slowly hut steadily. Ha stands, perhaps unconsciously, in the great lino which has had no legitimate successor since Trollope, and it would not be very surprising if in time he equalled and perhaps surpassed his master.” Tho Edgar Allan Poe Shrine at Richmond, Virginia, is publishing ‘Politician,’ a drama by Edgar Allan Poe, first edited from tho original manuscript by Thomas Ollive Mabbott.

Tho second volume of the Farington Diary begins on August 28, 1802, when eminent people from all parts of the world wore flocking to Paris. Farington went there, and describes his impressions of Napoleon. Voltaire, Robespierre, Condorcet, Tallien, apd Danton aro other men of whom tho diarist writes. A chapter is devoted to an evening 'spent with Coleridge at tho house of Sir George Beaumont. In tho conversation the poet “ had tho leading and by far the greatest part.”

In a recent catalogue of Charles J. Sawyer, Ltd., is listed what is probably a unique copy of the first issue of the first edition of Charles Dickens’s ‘ Groat Expectations,’ printed in London in 1861. This copy is described os a hitherto unrecorded issue of tho first edition, with all the points and features of tho first issue, including thirty-two pages of Chapman and Hall’s announcements, and with tho canary-colored end papers in each volume. This copy, hound in green cloth, is of tho same wire texture aa that of the plum-colored cloth in which the first issue was bound, but the stamp on both sides differs somewhat in design; but the gold lettering .and design on the backs are identical. It is possible that this was a “ trial copy made up by the binder, who, knowing Dickens’s predilection for green, submitted it to him for approval.” The copy was recently purchased by a well-known collector from a country library, where it had rested unapprociaetd for nearly thirty years. Tho volume is offered for £l5O.

It is something of a puzzle that for forty years Anthony Trollope's ‘Autobiography 1 should have been ignored. For assuredly it is among the few best autobiographies which have been written in English. Trollope had most of the qualities which enable a man to write faithfully about himself. He was not afraid to toll the truth, even when it was ugly or sordid. No man was ever less inclined than he to put a halo upon his own head. He looked at himself from tho same distance whence he looked at the characters of his books, with a stark, uncompromising candor.— Charles Whibley, in the ‘ English Review.’ There is in the village of Chalfont St. Giles a house known as Milton’s Cottage, to which tho poet is said to have fled in order to escape tho plague (says the ‘Weekly Scotsman ’). Recently a big motor car drew up at tho wicket, and a large florid-faced man, wearing a. fur coat, stepped into the cottage. He paid to the caretaker the sixpence for admission, and was shown into (Milton’s sitting room. There the visitor stood for a moment in a reverential attitude. “And this is Lipkm’s cottage?’’ ho exclaimed musingly. ‘‘Milton’s, sir,” said the caretaker. ” Milton's!” he exclaimed savagely. “ I thought it was Lipton’s; it is most disappointing 1” And he strode out of the house.

What is tho best selling new book in tho world at this moment? When one makes that inquiry one does not moan a novel, because novels are different all over tho world, but a serious book (states ‘ John o’ London's Weakly’). Beyond doubt tho answer -would pc, ‘ Tho Life of Christ,’ which that very brilliant Italian, Giovanni Papini, has written. In Italy, in Italian, it has sold over 100,OCO copies, and in America, in English, more than 60,0C0

copies. Of the French translation nearly 40,000 copies have been sold. The ‘ Morning Post ’ recalls a popular novelist of a. quarter of a century ago :. “ When the auctioneers and estate agents hold their annual meeting at Bristol they ought to give a thought to a famous Bristolian, Hugh Conway, who was well known on the rostrum, and still better known as a novelist. Frederick John Fargns, as he really was, would have gone to sea. ‘No,’ said his father, ‘you shall bo an auctioneer, as I am,' So for a time ho was, but the sale of 350,000 copies of ' Called Back ’ iu live years showed him where his true metier Jay, and he definitely abandoned the hammer for the pen.” Sir Charles Holmes, director of the National Gallery, lias been persuaded 1 to undertake, under the title ‘ Old Masters and Modern Art,’ a detailed exposition for the layman of the main features of pictorial art as illustrated in the famous collection at Trafalgar square. Not the least interesting of iiis tasks will be to point out the significance and permanence of the .great principles which guided the old masters in their work, and their utility for the practising artist of to-day. It is Sir Charles's intention to review the pictures in the National Gallery (especially the most comprehensive collection of old masters in the world) in two volumes.

Sir Henry Newbolt has been appointed, to linish the olEcial history of the fleet during tlio war which Sir Julian Corbett was writing when ho died. Sir Julian, like his successor, was a barrister, the, author of monographs on Drake and Monk and of ‘ Some Principles of Maritime Strategy.’ Sir Henry Newbolt lias already published ‘A Naval History of the War.’ Ho is sixty-one years old, and tho author of poems, romances, and anthologies, all full of love for England and the sea. The well-known ‘Admirals All’ was published when Sir Henry Newbolt was thirty-five, and ‘Tho Island Race’ a year later. It includes tho spirited 1 Drake’s Drum,’ a really fine sea poem : Drake he's in his hammock till tho great Armada’s come (Capton, art tha slccpin’ there below?). Slung a tween tho round shot, listenin’ for tho drum, An’ droamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoc. Call him on tho deep sea-, call him up tho Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet tho foe; Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag Ilyin’ They shall find him ware an’ w,ikin’, as they found him long ago!