BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 19044, 12 September 1925, Page 14

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

VERSES. FOUR WINDS. I felt four winds blow over mo—■ Four tall winds from some primal sea Breathing tall words of mystery. “Who aro you and what is hero?” I whispered low as they drew near And breathed their breath without a fear., ‘‘Wo are the winds of death and sleep, Of life Jjfnd love—our pathways keep lletwee/i two shores that bound the drxep. ‘‘A;>d in our compass time and space We,ave arabesque across life’s face, Nor is there any secret place. ‘‘For life and death and love are one, And each man journeys toward his sun, And each man sees his journey done “ Yet is his journeying but begun; For there are suns within the sun, These must ho seek till life is won. “He must seek ever without rest The light within the light, unblest Save as he finds the peak’s aim crest. “ And there the light and dark are one, And no man sees his journey done. Each knows his life is but begun. “ And there the gods go tall, and there Come seekers drawn from everywhere, And there the childhearts find* life fair.”—Mary Siogrtst. LOVE TRIUMPHANT. Helen’s lips are drifting dust; lliou is consumed with rust; AU the galloons of Greece Drink the ocean’s dreamless peace; Lost was Solomon’s purple show Restless centuries ago; Stately empires wax and wane— Babylon, Barbary, and Spain; Only one thing, undofaced. Lasts, though all the world lies waste And the heavens are overturned— Dear, how long ago wo learned! There’s a sight that blinds the sun, Sound that lives when sounds are done, Music that rebukes the birds, Language lovelier than words, Hue and scent that shame the rose, Wine no earthly vineyard knows, Silence stiller than the shore Swept by Charon’s stealthy oar, Ocean more divinely free Than Pacific’s boundless sea— Ye who love have learned it true, —Dear, how long ago wo knew 1 —Frederick Lawrence Knowles. DEATH OF MARYCHOLMONDELEY bliss Mary Cholmondeiey died lasi month at her home in Kensington, London. She had been ill a long time. She will be long remembered Ly the public with grateful affection for 1 Red Pottage ’ and her other novels, all too few as they were. Miss Cholmondeiey was the oldest daughter of the Rev. R. H. Cholmondeiey, rector of Hodnot. Her grandmother was Mary Hebor, sister of Bishop Hober, the hymn writer. The family is directly descended from the Cbolmondeleys of Vale Royal. Mary Cholmondeley’s health was never very strong (safd ‘ The, Times’), and perhaps for that reason she was a slow worker, every one of her books costing her an extraordinary amount of labor. She bad the temperament of the true patient, conscientious, never satisfied with anything but the best possible realisation of the idea in her mind. It is the more surprising that her work should have been so popular; this was no doubt due to her singular power, not only of inventing exciting plots, but also of them to their destined end with unfa]-' tering skill. As a child she wrote much, including histories of Greece and England. Her first published book, ‘ The Danvers Jewels,’ was shown by Miss Rhoda Broughton to George Benttoy, who took it and its successors, ‘ Sir Charles Danvers ’ and ‘Diana Tempest,’ for Temple Bar. These all illustrate her mastery of plot; but it was not until ‘ Rod Pottage ’ appeared, soon after the outbreak of the South African War. that she won the hearts of the great novel-consuming public. It contained a picture of a narrow-minded clergyman, so mercilessly drawn that many complete strangers wrote to remonstrate with her, each believing that she had depicted a clerical relative of his own. Edition after edition was demanded, but she never thought of exploiting her success by putting forth hasty, ill-considered work. ‘ Moth and Rust, ‘Prisoners,’ ‘The Lowest Rung,’ ‘ Notwithstanding,’ and ‘ The Romance of His Life ’ (two of them collections of short stories) were the only works of fiction which she published in the later period of nearly twenty years; and, although none of them was as successful as ‘Red Pottage,’ they none of them fell below her nigh standard of distinction. Her literary style is simple and unaffected, with admirably concealed art. A severe critic mrtht object to an occasional touch or melodrama in her plots. But in her wit and wisdom, her vein of satirical humor, her resolute refusal to turn her novels into propagandist pamphlets, and her intensive cultivation in each story of one group of characters whose little closed world is made absorbing by her artistry, she reminds us of her groat exemplar, Jane Austen. One who knew her well wrote to ‘ The Times ’ i Grave, quiet, low-voiced, with a kind of gracious and dignified angularity, Mary Cholmondeiey looked exactly what she was—an Englishwoman of good old stock, with a long and docent “ county ” history behind her. She was this, with everything that it implied : her seriousness, her fine courtesy, her deep sense of duty, were full of traditions of an honorable past. But she had added to these something entirely of her own in quite another vein —her observant and ironic humor. Quietly, with soft, veiled tones, It appeared in her talk; her shrewd eye for comedy and character was always alert, and it gave her talk, not exactly an edge (though her wit flashed out occasionally), but a pungent zest that was a delight to innumerable friends. 111healbh, it was possible to guess, had taught her many sharp lessons; but it seemed chiefly to have determined her to keep it out of sight, as a matter that concerned nobody but herself, in her relations with the world; and when she mixed with her kind, as she enjoyed doing, she had none ot the airs or ways of an invalid. She had the double gift of an easy and sociable give and lake and of a vividly personal and intimate interest in other lives; it was hfird to say whether she was most herself when she was entertaining a very carefullychosen party (she was a perfect hostess), lightly directing an occasion that seemed to bo all a matter of happy chance, or when she v. as lavishing her .sympathy and understanding, deep in tlie confidence of a friend. She loved the solitude of her work, but that, too, she put completely behind her in company; in her house in London, in her country cottage, she moved in an air of serenity and leisure that made an unfailing welcome for a guest. Mary Cholmondeiey will be badly missed by everybody who knew her; she was one whose friendship was peculiarly needed, sought, and securely counted on by ail her friends, men and women—a very jide /lathering of botK

A LITERARY CORNER

HALL CAINE’S TRIBUTE TO DICKENS. Sir Hall Caine gave a lino address at the memorial service to Mr Bertram Matz, founder of the Dickens Fellowship, in the Church of St. Martin’s-in-tho Fields. It is reported in the ‘ Evening Standard.’ We give the portion iu which the great living novelist pays tribute to his famous predecessor, who died fifty-five years ago. Sir Hall Caine said: “ It is fifty-five years since the great lord of laughter and tears passed into the silent land, yet Dickens is now more alive than ever. “ Time has plied his scythe industriously in the long interval ,_ and many another gentle and humanising influence has mingled with the elements, yet the name of Dickens remains, and the sympathy and affection the world fools for him is still expressed in the words ho used himself on another and simpler occasion: ‘God bless him! God bliss us, every one!’ “ Nobody knew better than Dickens that before all else ho was a simple story-teller; that his first duty was to amuse, to entertain. And of all the writers who have brought cheer and brightness and happiness and even merriment into human life, Dickons must for ever be counted among the first. But he also know that he had a higher duty than to make us laugh, and that was to make us feel. “ No writer can touch the heart of the world until his own heart has boon touched. And perhaps it was because the heart of Dickens was so easily and deeply touched—touched with sympathy for those who toil and suffer, touched with a desire to make their lives more human and beautiful, touched with the btdief that the same divine heart beats in all classes, touched with a manly and chivalrous love of all women and of fatherly affection for all children, touched with faith in all the gentle mid good things of life, touched with the joy of birth and the pity of death—perhaps this is why Dickens still lives and comes closer to a large part of the human family than a brother, closer than a sister, and as close as their own souls. “ It is not for nothing that Dickens has laid his hand so lastingly upon Time. There have always' been people enough to talk of fiction as 1 light literature ’ the easy product of uninstructod intellects, to bo taken up today to while away an idle hour and to be* cast on the world’s dust heap tomorrow. Such people have their reward, and we know what it is. “ Sufficient for us to remember that the greatest novelists have not rarely been among the greatest minds of their age and country, writing, perhaps, with the Joy and rapture ot the craftsman who is working in his true medium, but also witli all the fire and {lame of his soul. It was so witli Dickons. If ho had not been a great novelist he might have been a groat preacher, a great orator, a great historian. “ He chose to bo a great novelist, scourging hypocrisy and tyranny with the scorpions of his mighty wrath, touching weakness and suffering with the tenderness of his infinite pity. And now the humblest novelist of us all may well fed his throat swell and his eyes fill when ho secs, as he does to-day, that after more than fifty years in which Time’s scythe has swept down a whole battalion of the world’s groat ones, the place it keeps nearest to its heart of hearts is still filled by a simply storyteller—the great creature to whoso foot a vast multitude of the children of men are accustomed to go in happy hours and in sad ones, the great soul who knew man and the world as few have known them, and found nothing common or unclean.” HEW BOOKS ‘FIERY PARTICLES.’ ‘ Fiery Particles,’ by C. E. Montague (Cbatto and Wlndus), is a book of nine separate tales “ of arrant lovers of living, mighty hunters of lions or shadows, rapt amateurs, of shady adventures or profitless zeal.” This is the author’s description of the men ho writes about—a set of wild fellows who want to bo up and doing something, as often foolish as not. His heroes are not those of the average novel. Respectability, conventional success, and the applause of their fellows are not conspicuously among their achievements. They aro men hi Led with tho zest ot life who wander out and fax - , for the most part, ou some illusory quest. These stones are splendidly told, with remarkable insight and power, indeed, it may bo said that Mr Montague has in this collection placed himself m the front rank of short story writers. The author’s knowledge of hie, his gift of characterisation, his sympathy, his gut of irony and humor, and Ins outstanding craftsmanship put his work on a pinnacle that is sure to attract much attention. Our copy of tins reprint of 1 Fiery Particles ’ is from Angus and RobertsonISLAND FILMS. 1 Island Films: Reminiscences of Genman New Guinea,’ by Gaptam James Lyug, F.R. G.b. (Angus and Robertson, Ltd.). —Captain Lyug went to Rabaul on ii.M.A.S. Australia at the outbreak of the war. He was appointed Government Printer and afterwards District Officer at Madaug. Ho served for five years in New Guinea. Possessing a keen and inquiring mind and an active Dofly, he saw much of tho country auraig his stay, and studied tile origin; maimers, and customs oi tne natives. it is no dry n-- - - rutivo. On the contrary, is is a most absorbing book, written in an easy and convincing stylo. Captain Lyng’s knowledge of New Guinea is not oiuy drawn from books and official files. Ho mot and talked with the planter, tho soa captain, the recruiter, tho pearler, tho outcast, and tho hundred and ono types that ara to be encountered in tho fcouth Seas. At this particular time, when tho Assembly of the League of Nations is in session, and tho mandates under the League come up for discussion, this book is particularly welcome, for Captain Lyng seta out very clearly' tho results of Australia’s administration. Captain Lyng raises many important questions regarding the obligations and duties of tho white man in the tropics. He expresses his opinions freely, but without animus or bias in any way. ‘PARKIN AGAIN.’ Cecil Parkin, the author-cricketer, whose candid criticisms embodied in his book ‘ On Cricket ’ caused such a stir a few months ago, has written another book entitled ‘ Parkin Again.’ This time there is nothing that is likely to cause an outburst of indignation, condemnation, or bad temper. On the contrary, there is much to entertain and instruct in the thirteen chapters, which include observations on “ Bowling,” “ Fielding,” “ Tossing for Innings,” “Club Cnckot,” and so on, as well as “ A Word to Australian Cricketers,” “English Players of To-morrow ” and in Olden Tunes,’’- Tim geniM JJaddn

writes in bright vein; ho is a humorist, and lias obviously thoroughly enjoyed the little storm in a tea cup' which ho raised with his first book. You may imagine him sitting on the rim of the cup, so to speak, or standing in the saucer peering over _ tho edge and grinning at the seriousminded gentlemen who are shaking their fists at him. Cricketers, too, will appreciate the matter in this latest volume, which is published at a low price by Messrs Ilodder and Stoughton, from whom our copy comes. ANOTHER GALSWORTH PLAY. Mr Galsworthy’s great powers are seen at their best in his plays. His dramatic instinct, his power of creating living men and women, his gift of crystallising a thought, are revealed in his dramas. ‘The Show_’ is a depressing play, but intensely interesting, hi it ho pillories certain aspects of British social life to-day. Colin Morea distinguished flying man, is found in his study dead, shot through tho heart. Then the characters that must inevitably appear in such a case come on tho scene, and events connected with the tragedy are gradually revealed. Colin and Anne Morecorahe when they married thought they loved each other. Disillusionment followed. At the time of Colin’s death he had a mistress and she had a lover. In addition to indicating the tendency to laxity in social circles where the marriage bond is concerned, certain undesirable aspects of sensational journalism are revealed. We have pictured, too, tho eagerness of a number of fashionable ladies to be spectators at tho inquest. Colin’s mother and Anne’s rather, distinctly Victorian in type, afford a contrast to the other very modern characters. Colin’s suicide is due to fear on the part of thisr heroic flying man—the fear of going mad. Our copy of 1 Tho Show ’is from tho publishers, Duckworth and Co. NOTES. In pursuance of tho heresy hunt conducted by the “ fundamentalists,” the Tennessee School Board has banned Mr H. G. Wells’s ‘ Outline of History,’ which has been a “best seller” in the United States for some years. A selection of Maurice Hewlett’s letters is about to be published by Methuen, with a preface by Laurence Binyon. The late Camille Flammarion, the French astronomer, left a book which Fisher Unwin will publish in English. Madame Melba thinks of calling her reminiscences, which Buttenvorth is to publish, ‘ Melodies and Memories.’ A, biography of William Archer is being written by his brother, Colonel Charles Archer, for many years an official of the Indian Government in Baluchistan. “ The First Methodist Church vt Yucaipa, California, has held what is called a Scripture Marathon. For sixty nine and a-half hours a succession of people, technically called ‘ tonguetwisters,’ recited tho Holy Writ, from Genesis i. to the last amen of Revelation. Tho reading is alleged to have been as intelligent as it was assuredly continuous,” writes the New York correspondent of ‘ Truth.’ Air James Oliver Curwood, the popular American storyteller, recently visited London, and about the same time Hoclder and Stoughton published a new novel by him, ‘ Tire Anciont Highway.'

Historical research in Scotland will shortly bo the gainer by the publication of another volume of ‘ Culloden PaporSj’ edited by Duncan Warrand. This will include many hitherto unpublished letters and documents casting now light on the history of the Highlands during the earlier part of the eighteenth century. One of its notable features will bo the letters of Simon, Lord Lovat.

It is thought that a new series of the loiters by the late Ambassador Pago, which are promised, may equal in interest the series printed two years ago. The sale of that volume, in England alone, ran up to 50,000 copies, a very unusual figure for a book of the sort. Mr Page went to London not only ns American Ambassador, but as tho intimate and trusted friend of President Wilson. It was to him the letters already published wore addressed, and the same applies to tho next batchy which, it was decided, should be held back until the events they dealt with were a little older.

In Afghanistan, according to Lowell Thomas, who has travelled extensively in that country, they dress, to keep the heat out, and well they may, lor the thermometer usually registers around 120. Mr Thomas says that ho was obliged to wear a thick suit of clothes, with a heavy pad over his hack, and a thick helmet from which depended a quilted cape that spread out over tho back of his nock and "shoulders. Close-fitting goggles and heavy shoos completed his equipment. Evidently Afghanistan is no place for a modern flapper.

Miss Agnes Gardner King, a niece of Lord Kelvin, has written tin intimate sketch of the great scientist called ‘Kelvin the Alan.’ She mentions _ the* modest manner in which he received the numerous honors which came in recognition of his work, though there was only ono distinction of which he ever boasted. Tho University of Heidelberg wished to honor him, and, finding that he had received several times over all tho appropriate degrees within its power to confer, made him a Doctor of Medicino. Later, during crossexamination in a patent case, counsel for the opponents said that “ of course Lord Kelvin would have no medical qualification.” “On the contrary,” was tho retort, “ 1 am a Doctor of Medicine in the University of Heidelberg.” Kelvin used to carry a notebook with him, and was accustomed, wherever lie might be, to pull it out and proceed with his notes and calculations. Once, travelling with Lady Kelvin and a friend, while ho was working on his compass, ho suddenly turned to his wife, a stately and well-dressed woman, and said; “Fanny, have you got a bit of whalebone about you?” and, raising the edge of his waistcoat, indicated where he expected it to come from. Lady Kelvin indignantly objected to robbing her dross in a railway carriage, but tho friend came to the rescue, and during tho rest of the journey Kelvin occupied himself with the required aid to his reflections. Once, at breakfast, while he was stirring his cup, he suddenly exclaimed with delight: “This is remarkable. I have never seen those waves before.” Then, “jumping up he went round tho whole table, cup in hand, showing to each of us the way in which, by moving his spoon in a certain manner, a certain result followed.” The marriage of Margaret Ethel Gladstone, his grandniece, to Air Ramsay AlacDonald was a surprise and a “bit of a shock ” to the household, but the newcomer was admitted to the family circle. Lord Kelvin’s verdict alter several Jong conversations was that “ Ramsay was a nice young man,”

An Ttnliau paper announces that Signor Mussolini is occupying his leisure with tho composition of a novel. It deals with the arts of a beautiful adventuress, who is hired by a linn ol mol or .manufacturers to make love to tho inventor of a wonderfid ngw motor, and discover the secret of his invention. When the inventor realises that ho has been betrayed ho kills the Indy in his passion, and then commits suicide. Perhaps it was about this literary project, and not about any political matter, that ho conversed during his much-canvassod visit to Gabriele D’Annunzio.

Rebecca West, critic and novelist, has recovered from a serious breakdown which she suffered during the writing of her latest novel, ‘The Judge.’ The story is highly emotional. Rebecca West is a native of Jolimont, Victoria, and a daughter of Mr Charles Fairfield, who many years ago was on the staff of the ‘ Argus.’ Her pen name is taken from Ibsen’s play, ‘ Rosmerholm.’

j Mr Dale Collins, a young Mel--1 bourne journalist, whose fine dramatic : novel, ‘ Ordeal,’ has been remarkably successful in England, America, and Australia, returned to Melbourne on August 23 by the R.M.S. Mongolia (states tho ‘Australasian’). Mr Coli lies, who has another novel, ‘The : Haven,’ ready for publication shortly, left Australia in an American millionaire’s yacht, tho Speejacks, which he left at Singapore, Mr Collins wrote an ■ account of his experiences in ‘ The I Cruise of the Speejacks.’ The filming ’of ‘ Ordeal ’ has been highly successful.

Browning, the poet, told Mrs Russell la story about Fanny Kemble: “it seems that after Fanny Kemble had separated from her husband she heard that ho had lost a great deal of money. : Always impulsive, she rushed over to America to offer him financial assistance. When she was shown into his room he rose stiffly and said: ‘ Madam, to what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?’ Enraged at his for- ' mality, she exclaimed; ‘I only came I to tell you how much I hate you 1’ I and flounced out, and she started back across the Atlantic without a word of 1 reconciliation.” I There are interesting allusions to the ' Carlyles in Mrs Frank Russell’s ‘ Fragments of Auld Lang Syne.’ Mrs Mildmay, a well-known ligure in London society in tho middle of last • century, in conversation with the author, described Mrs Carlyle as a vain woman, who liked to engross conversation, and ; also was fond of telling long-winded i stories. When she began to talk her I husband used to look across the table land say “Brevity, my dear; brevity!” j Mrs Carlyle was fond of improving con- : versation, which did not suit Mrs Mildmay, who had no wish to be improved. One day they were sent out driving in a small pony carriage along a somewhat dull road, and Mrs Mildmay thought: j “ Surely Mrs Carlyle won’t find anyj thing to quote poetry about hero!” : Just then a goose crossed the road, and Mrs Carlyle began, rolling her , r’s:

Of all tho birrds that skim the air The goose should bo preferred; There is so much good nourishment In that weak-minded birrd.