BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 19062, 3 October 1925, Page 14

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

VERSES. LOVE SUPREME, I am the breath of Spring. I am the swelling bud, the leafy bough. The glad, sweet laughter of the unbound streams. The little nest, slow swinging in the ■ breeze, The brooding love that waits and hopes and dreams. I am the Summer’s heart. I pulse in tune to waving fields of gold, The scarlet lily as it sways and swings ; I check my hounding currents just to hear A drowsy call, the whirr of so"t, brown wings. I am the waning year. Warra ; red-lipped Autumn, heavy with her fruit, Glad with such joy of bearing as Love knows j When, having yielded np life’s dearest gift, She seeks, without a sigh, her sweet repose. I am the soul of life. • I am the swelling bud, the full-, leafed bough, The stubble fields where wild birds softly call, The still, white days, where life seems lost in death. Lo! I am Love, and Love is all in all. —Fi.ort.nck Jonks Hadley, in the ‘ Magnificat.’ OLD MEADOWS Old fields bear epochs patiently, but men Cannot abide till towns grow trees again, And so they ravish Beauty for their joy, And bring her home as Helen came to Troy, A prisoner to the chisel or the pen. But in the town she walks a stolen bride And only plays at marriage with the throng. She lives in thrall, and gazes homesick 7 from the city wall, While Earth’s wild genius fights against the -wrong. Wild cataracts of streets make us forget That underneath the stones are ancient fields Which whisper to the feet of Beauty yet A longing for the grass until she yields, And even while we claim her gratitude For building her a house in which to die, She seeks green solitude,_ Where shepherds pipe in an eternal mood, | And claffs the read -world by. - ;—From ‘ Earth Moods,’ by Hervey Alj pen, New York. I -0 A TALK ON BOOKS. I OVER 12,000 PUBLISHED LAST , YEAR. ! An interesting; address, on ‘ Book Worms and Book Mon,’ was given by Mr G. H. Peters, managing director of Robertson and Mullens, in Melbourne recently. Mr Peters said that the difference between a book man and book worm was that the former loved books and used them judiciously, but the latter devoured hooks and made them a passion, almost a vice. The Australian was a reader. His consumption of books was enormous, and, comparatively speaking, he was one of the best customers of the world’s publishers. But, sad to relate, it was fiction which he consumed most. Book production reached a record in Great Britain in 1924, exceeding by 337 titles the previous record of 1913. In 1924 an avai lanche of 12,700 different books poured | from the presses of Great Britain. Fie--1 tion headed the list with 2,187 titles, followed by children’s books,_ which, though in the seventh place in 1914, stepped up in 1924 to second_ place. Truly it was the clay of the child, for 1,048 now titles were recorded in 1924. Religion and sociology followed with over 800 titles each; poetry and drama had about 750, and then camo technology and science. The boom of war books of a few years ago would probably be eclipsed by the rush ot wireless books, now that wireless had come to stay. Another boom was the cross-word puzzle. A healthy phase of that new craze was the record sales of dictionaries thereby crented. Tendencies in modern fiction were to-day toward extreme frankness, and the “shocker” of twenty or even ten years ago would be passed to-day into a Sunday school library. It was somewhat annoying to hear people constantly referring to the high prices of books, which were the priceless tools or education. Some families spent more in a month on “movies” and sweets than they did in a year on books. People had become accustomed to paying best prices for clothes, food, and other commodities since the war, but the price of books had increased only slightly in that period. To-day new fiction" sold at two dollars in America and 7s 6d net in England, was procurable in Australia for Cs. THOMAS HARDY ON PROSE AND POETRY. Thomas Hardy has long since given up the writing of fiction, but ho still solaces the autumn of his life with hia first love—poetry. It is therefore interesting to recall what at one time Mr Hardy considered the finest passages in English poetry and _ prose. The occasion for expressing his opinion arose when, in 1887, Mr Frank Harris, who was running a symposium —contributed by all the leading writers of the dav—in the 'Fortnightly Review,’ asked for “the one passage in all poetry which seemed the finest, and also the one passage in prose which appears of its kind the best.” Mr Hardy answered: "I have very often felt (but not always) that one of the most beautiful of English lyrics is Shellev’s ‘Lament' ‘0 world, 0 life, O "time’; and of descriptive poetry I do not know that anything has as yet been fairly able to oust our old friends in ‘ Childe Harold, e.g,, C. Hi-, stanzas 85 to 87. With regard to prose, I will go thus far: I think that the passage in Carlyle’s ‘ French Revolution ’ on the silent growth of the oak have never been surpassed by anything I have read as specimens of contemplative prose. In narrative prose the chapter of the Bible (11. Samuel, xviii.) containing the death of Absalom is the finest of its kind that I know, showing beyond its power and pathos the highest artistic cunning.”

A LITERARY CORNER

WHAT A GOOD ANTHOLOGIST SHOULD DO. “ Purely the next beat thing to making a good anthology is to read one. Subtle and peculiar pleasure, definitely set apart from the more masculine delights of the high road of literature; an aimless self-sufficing meander down a tangled lane in June, with a lapse into the high grass at the end of it, and a sun-checkered rumination oyer one of the laziest and most tantalising problems of criticism,” says the Times Literary Supplement.’ “ For the good anthologist is he who follows his bent, who puts in nothing because he ought, but everything because he will. There are really but two qualifications demanded or the good anthologist: to have much reading and to have the courage of his idiosyncrasy. Yet how seldom are they found together! Somewhere in the course of that much reading the seed of a sense of duty has been sown. ‘‘The anthologist becomes a man with a mission, to instruct or, hardly hotter, to amuse. Hia real business is to do neither of these things—in fact, tp do nothing but to be, faithfully and lavishly, himself. In the anthologist self-indulgence is a cardinal virtue. Not what he can give reasons for liking, but what he lives, is what wo require of him; and his true function is to supply the place of a very rare kind of genius—to he natural. “And this the collector of Varia eminently is. From her odd little introduction onwards, from her perplexing division of her book into two main parts, for no reason that we could discover save that what would not go into one should be bundled into the other —and a very good reason, too —from her chronological arrangement which is just not too chronological, from her capricious glossary, and above all from the quality of the flowers in her garland, we are sure that sho has been enjoying herself.” Here is the full description of the hook, which many, after reading the above, will probably like to get for themselves;—‘ Varia ’ i A miscellany of verse and prose, ancient and mociern. Compiled by Eleanor M. Brougham. (Heinemann, 8s 6d net.)

A CRITIC ON MODERN ENGLISH POETRY. “ English poetry is in a strange state of muddle and uncertain growth. Wo are in the midst of a Literary Renaissance, and yet it is a very unsatisfactory Renaissance. Wo can say with confidence that never in the history of English literature have there been so many noticeably good poets (not oven during tho Elizabethan Age) and never during any fertile time have there existed so few really first-rate ones that we know about,” writes Mr Herbert E. Palmer, in ‘Vox Studentium.’ “The poets have forgotten the people, and the people have forgotten tho poets. The poets, impatient of a commercial age’s neglect of them, have turned artists, more artists, academic and cultured singers with sensibilities and experiences apart: while the people, impatient with the proud and erring poets, have ceased buying their books. On the side of the people, the commercial spirit has worked its worst, whilst on the side of the peek) there has been another kind of sliding into the abyss, and yet not so different m kind as might at first appear. “ Poetry has, in fact, become a port of ship for floating novelists and journalists, and for improving thenposition. Changing tho figure of speech, it has become a moans towards academic decoration. When the poet does not turn novelist (winch is very Irequont) he aspires to become a critic. He must make a living; he must even sell himself; and ho thinks of his reputation in verse in the same way as a professional man thinks or ins university degree; for it furnishes him with the insignia of power. “Popular poets in the sense that Burns and Crabhe were popular poets seem quite impossible to-day. “ In conclusion 1 could sny_ that until there has been'a little stramht talking on the subject there will lie no marked improvement. Critics will continuo to onoourngo the weakor and noncommittal poets, and overlook tho more plangent lyres, tho strong and jadical singers. , , “Our literary combines ana coteries are so afraid of straight talking that thov have deliberately hidden their heads behind the Old Augustan Banner of Good Taste. They tell us that poets must write in good taste, and critics must talk about diem in good taste. Soon we shall have nothing loft to us save tho dull, he correct, the psychological, the ummpassioned, tho cynical, the non-religious, tho pretty, and the decorous. WOMAN WHO KEPT A SECRET. the ROMANCE OF "AULD robin GRAY.” Lady Anno Barnard, who died in 1825, controverted one of the popular beliefs about women—that they cannot keep a secret (states ‘John o London’s Weekly’). For more than twenty years she remained silent as to the authorship of the ballad ‘Auld Robin Gray,’ about which the literary world was so curious that tho Society of Antiquaries offered a reward of £2O to anyone who could throw a light on tho subject. Sir Walter Scott, who quoted a verso from the second part of the ballad in ‘The Pirate,’ added Lady Anne’s name as the author, and to him the gifted lady wrote, telling him the history of the ballad, the date at which she composed it, and enclosing a copy of the original. He was the first person outside her own family to bo entrusted with the secret. A HAPPY FAMILY. At tho time tho ballad was written Lady Anne Lindsay, the eldest daughter of tiie Earl of Balcarres, was little more than a girl, with eight brothers and two sisters. They were a united family, of whom Lady Anne wrote, in later years, that eleven brother and sister chickens had never known what it was to peck at each other. But, they were very unruly chickens, all the same. On one of their mischievous pranks the truant children had boon stopped by an old shepherd called “Auld Robin Gray.” His name was chosen as that of the ballad that Lady Anne wrote to the music of a rather coarse song sung by a daughter of the Laird of Hilton, who was for thirteen years an inmate of the Balcarres home. This woman, known as “ Soph ” Johnstone, was an extraordinary character, who swore like a trooper, wore a man’s greatcoat, hat, and square-buckled shoes, shod horses, played the fiddle in an ago when the violin was considered an indelicate instrument, and sang men’s songs in a bass voice. Lady Anne liked the tune of the ballad, but detested the coarseness of the song, and decided to write a simple story of village life. Her first verso as originally written began: When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye’s a’ at hame, And a’ the weary world to rest are gane, . The waes o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my e’e, Unbent by my gudeman who sleeps * sound by me.

In tlie throes of composition the young authoress got stuck over the ending of her ballad. Her little sister Elizabeth, only about seven years old at the time, came into the room. “ Tell me of some misfortune that can happen to my heroine,” she begged the child. “I have sent her Jamie to sea, broken her father’s arm. made her mother fall sick, and given her an old man for a lover. Help me to think of one more sorrow for her.” “ Steal the cow, sister Anne, replied the child, and the cow was accordingly stolon. That, as we know, was the last straw. * —— —— NOTES. A cable message from Cape Town reports the death of Mr Ernest Glanville, formerly editor of the ‘ Cape Argus,’ at the ago of sixty-five years. Mr Glanville was the author of a number of novels. W, S. Gilbert once argued in a circle of Shakespeare enthusiasts at the Garrick Club that no poet was so obscure as Shakespeare. They denied it. “ Well,” he replied, “ what do you make of the following passage?:— “ I would as lief be thrust through a quickset Hodge as cry ‘ plosh ’ to a callow throstle.” ’ “Thera’s nothing obscure in that,” said one. “It’s perfectly plain. Here’s a man, a groat lover of the leathered songsters, who, rather than disturb the carolling of the little warbler, prefers to go through the awful pains of thrusting himself through a thorny hedge. But I don’t know that passage; in what play does it oCcur?” “In no said Gilbert; " I’ve just invented

Lord Rosebery owns, among his other literary treasures, the manuscript of a story known by the name of ‘ Lady Susan,/ which Jane Austen wrote about the year 1805. The manuscript, unlike those of her ‘ Sandition ’ and ‘ The Watsons,’ is not a draft, but a fair copy, free from correction and erasure. Lord Rosebery has lent it for a now collated edition of ‘ Lady Susan,’ which the Oxford Press is to publish at once. The volume will be welcome to Jane Austen lovers, as being an accurate edition, for that could not be said about the first edition which appeared in 1871. . The town of Hannibal, Missouri, is to have a monument to Mark Twain’s two famous boy characters, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. It will take the form of a bronze group of the two boys set on a pedestal of polished Missouri rod granite, and it will be placed at the foot of Holliday’s Hill, the Cardiff Hill of Tom Sawyer. The monument is a gift to the town, which, incidentally, is the birthplace of Admiral Coontz. The sculptor is Frederick C. Hibbard, a native Missourian now living in Chicago.

The sum of £250 was paid in London recently for an autographed piece of manuscript .music by Beethoven. The only surviving letter from Beethoven to Golitzin, to whom several of the great composer’s works were dedicated, realised £56. Three original drawings framed by Thackeray fetched £235, £340, and £6O respectively. A superb manuscript, one of Chopin’s best-known works, ‘Nocturne for the Piano,’ was sold for £l4O.

Those readers who have delighted in the charming Nature studies of the late Henri Fabre, the great French naturalist, will be interested to know that he left behind him—after his death two years ago—a large mass of unpublished material. _ This is now being translated into English, and Mr Fisher Unwin is to publish in the autumn two new Fabre books, ‘ Our Dumb Friends,’ which concerns dogs and domestic animals generally, and ‘Farm Friends and Foes.’

“She was sometimes a little depressed when she thought of the pre-sent-day tendency of those who had passed through our schools to read racing news and sensational murder trials in the newspapers rather than parliamentary news and other topics of real interest, to read cheap 'snippets’ in the place of good literature, and to rush to the ‘ pictures,’ which appeared to be far away from the drama.”—The Duchess of Atholl, M.P., in a recent speech. A movement is on foot in England to raise a memorial to Louisa Alcott, the author of ‘Little Women,’ ‘Good Wives,’ ‘ Little Women Wedded,’ and other hooks that have delighted so many children and that still delight the present generation. The Englishspeaking Union has given its blessing to the project. A small provisional committee has been formed, and it is hoped sufficient funds will be forthcoming to endow a “ Little Women ” bod in the ward of a hospital. -

“ She darted about the court like quicksilver. Almost impossible to follow her flights and bounds, like those of a sprite unchained. Astonishing, too, the grace and harmony of her movements, unsurpassed by those of a great dancer. Even the old people, for whom tennis bad little moaning, fell to the virtuosity displayed by this young oirl.” This is an extract from the Fawn tennis novel written by Mile. Suzanne Lenglen,_ entitled ‘ The Loro Game.’ There will bo many enthusiasts who will read the story if only on account of the tennis prowess of its author.

At last the Chapel of the Guild of the Holy Cross at Stratford-on-Avon is to bo restored. It was built in the Middle Ages of stone, which has grown soft through weather assaults. So it must bo, perhaps, refncod or restored whore most needed. It warn here, under the direction of the guild, that were probably performed some of the Coventry Cvcle of Mystery, Miracle, and Pageant Plavs. But hero, more certainly, in the adjoining Guild Hall, were performed plays by strolling “mummers.” These plays William Shakespeare —the lad in tlio grammar school upstairs—-must have witnessed, as his father, alderman and bailiff of the town, was concerned h the payment of the plavers, accounts be ing fully onteied. So the chapel is a Shakespeare monument to he well presen t d.

Those dreadful fellows who spend | their lives proving that nearly all popular beliefs have no basis in fact (says a writer in the London ‘Daily News') have attacked the authenticity of Longfellow’s poem, ‘ The Wreck of the Hesperus.’ The historians of Boston have discovered from old newspaper files that in the gale of that December the schooner Hesperus was safe inside Boston Harbor, and only broke her bowsprit on being struck by another snip when her moorings gave way. Longfellow, as his, diary suggests, confused the Hesperus with one of the sixty vessels lying off Norman’s Woe, which was scattered by the storm. The Boston paper reported that seventeen bodies were washed ashore, “among them the body of a woman found lashed to the windlass bitts of a Castine schooner.” She was Mrs Sally Hilton, fifty-five years old. But Longfellow may have known more than the Boston historians think, and when he substituted the captain’s “little daughter” for Mrs Hilton, may possibly nave also chris- | toned the unnamed schooner Hesperus 1 because it had a fine ring about if*