BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 19712, 12 November 1927, Page 14

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

VERSES HOW MANY DREAMS? How many dreams for a penny? Dreams are poor faro for many. “ Flour and salt,” said the grocer, “ Herring and dills——” In a purple fen the fireflies hover around a silver lotus. “ Dreams pay no bills.” “Scissors and steel,” said the surgeon, “ Weeping and groans— A voice goes through the trees like a rustle of eagle feathers, and rain in silver buds breaks from the branches. “Dreams mend no bones.” “ Clover and corn,” said the farmer, “Horses and kine ” Ripples of silver sequins on lazy waters ease the drowsy pools’ tinwinking amber eyes. “ Dreams feed no swine.” How many dreams for a penny? Dreams are poor faro for many. Maud E. Uschold. THE OLD SPINET. Like moonlight falling on a city street, Softening the harsh and garish things of day, Is thy faint voice when fingers lightly stray Over tho yellow keys. Jangled and sweet The old world melodics and measures beat; Some plaintive as an evening breeze, some gay As little streams that down the hillside play;- " Some mellow, as the sun upon ripe wheat. A brazen jazz band clangs tho latest song. Dancers like marionettes with measured- tread Move in and out and round, a dizzy throng From whoso dull souls the love of thee has fled. I steal away to hear thy voice among The ghosts of those who loved thee and are dead. —lv. Ford, in ‘ G.K.’s Weekly.’ WHERE THE PUBLIC ALWAYS WINS Is there any justice in the rewards aud penalties which tho public metes out to authors? The newspaper statement that the late James_ Oliver Curwood, the American novelist, once received 80,000 dollars for the film rights of a single story has moved the London 1 Evening Standard ’ to indulge in some serious reflections on the subject. Without wishing to say anything derogatory to Mr Curwood or to the fiction school of which he was an excellent example, that paper takes a look at the whole question of literary popularity. Sir Walter Scott, we are told, made two fortunes from his novels during his lifetime, while Edgar Allan Poe was sentenced by the public to live and die in 'poverty, though he created shortstones that are still quite as much alive as Scott’s romances. Why tho fatal difference in rewards? Bringing this question to bear upon Mr Curwood and tho present-day type of romance, the London editor remarks:

“The wide popularity of novels and films about the ‘Wild West’ cowboys and ‘ bad men,’ death, destruction, and all the rest or it in the more desolate parts of the earth may have a rather disquieting aspect. It suggests that the people who arc so avid for such stories are not wholly at ease in their own peaceful lives, and are satisfying a latent craving for adventure by means of day dreams—day dreams, moreover, which they do not even fashion for themselves. But the demand for these books is as great as it is undoubted, and it is supplied with commendable skill by a number of writers. But there is no disrespect to any of them in saying that the rewards they are accustomed to receive seem sadly disproportionate to those received by the authors of books which are of greater permanent value.

“There is. of course, tho argument that tho world Ims the best right to decide what it will most value, and that, in the present hard scheme of things, if tho world wants stories of the Wild West it is no use offering it ‘ Paradise Lost.’ By some standards ‘ P.aradise Lost’ may be worth more than tho story for which Mr Curwood received 80,000 dollars, but by the practical standards under which we live Milton only got 50 dollars for it, and, since his publisher has never been accused of exploiting him, that was precisely what it was worth. In other words, the final and only tost of literary value, as reckoned in terms of money, is public demand.” This argument _is defensible as far as it goes, but it takes too short a view, the London editor adds. And then he goes on to explain this curious game of chance, in which the reading public always wins, whatever happens to tho author—thus: “The truth is that ultimately the public demand for ‘Paradise Lost’ is far greater than that for any * Wild West ’ story. Unfortunately, it is spread over a much longer period, and as a rule does not attain its full cumulative effect until after tho author’s death. “ Keats and Shello.v had some difficulty in finding publishers for- their books, and never made anything to speak of out of any of them, while tho egregious Robert Montgomery, who afforded Macaulay so much amusement, was a ‘ best seller.’ But in the century which lias since elapsed Montgomery’s superiority: has proved- to be merely a delusive sprint at the start. If we reckon merely in vulgar terms of copies sold, both Keats and Shelley are far ahead of him. But the works of Keats and Shelley are out of copyright, and, even if they were not, their authors are not alive to receive royalties from them.

“It is this time lag which makes what is hard in the scheme of things, not any real public preference for worse rather than better literature. _ It appears, fortunately, that the writing of tho better literature is in some cases its own reward, in others a sheer necessity to the writers. They may suffer, but we are not allowed to lose.”

A LITERARY CORNER

BOOK CULLEOTOHS' PHIZES A writer in ‘John- o’ London’s Weekly ’ discourses on book collecting: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, as all collectors know, could hardly pick up a book without writing his comments in margins and on fly-ieaves. These marginalia are exceptionally interesting for their scholarship, and books annotated by him aro highly prized. He made a charming and pathetic apology—and incidentally showed true foresight—in one book of Charles Lamb’s which ho distinguished with his profuse notes. At the bottom of the back cover ho wrote: “I shall die soon, my dear Charles Lamb, and then you will not bo sorry that I have bescribbled your book.” It was S.T.C.’s son, Hartley Coleridge, who, when asked to obtain Wordsworth’s signature, replied in a way which more than compensated his refusal. In tho course of his rhymed letter he wrote- . . . Yet Joseph, if your name had been Not Joseph, but sweet Josephine, Fanny or May or simple Meg, I might have been so bold to beg For a few traces of his pen. But autograph-collecting men, I know, are his abominations, And so are all new corporations. . . Thirty-six years later R. D. Blackmore, carrying on this literary tradition of gallantly, was making much tho same reply when ho wrote: “. . . My general rule is to answer letters from ladies, who are good enough to seek my hand[writing], but not from gentlemen. ...” But mere signatures are to collectors what froth was to Sir Toby Belch—unless they are excessively rare, like those of Shakespeare and Button Gwinnet, a signatory to the United States Declaration of Independence. What interest can there be in a name as compared with an intimate letter or a book with inscribed annotations ? For example, a first edition of ‘ Theatrum Poet-arum ’ would appeal to comparatively few people, but who would not treasure and turn again and again to that copy containing a letter from Charles Lamb in which he says: “I am' very uneasy about a book which I either have lost or left at your house on Thursday, lb was tho book I went out to fetch from Miss Bufranis while the tripe was frying. It is called ‘ Phillips’s Theatrum P.oetarum,’ but it is an English book. . . . If it is lost I shall never like tripe again. ...” How delightful are the gay asides which some authors scribble on flyleaves. There is Hilaire Belloc’s original ballad in a presentation copy of ‘ Lambkin’s Remains ’; — Father Cowley continues to thrive, And I wish in my heart he did not; Why doesn’t ho many or wive? Oh, I’m heartily sick of the lot! There is almost as much catholicity in this Lambkin’s lament as in Patmore’s parody of Leigh Hunt’s famous lines; — Tho two dlvinosfc things this world has got, A lovely woman in a rural spot. Wrote Patmore in an unforgettable couplet:— Two of the nicest things a map,‘cap grab, , , : A handsome woman in a hansom cab.

A FOBGOTTEH METEOR

Mr G. K. Squire, in the ‘Observer,’ discourses on a forgotten meteor, Stephen Phillips:—

“How pathetic and amusing it is to remember that great brief vogue, the shawms, and the trumpets. The excitement before each new masterpiece, the quotations from the magniloquent or languorous speeches of the terrific monsters, the sad lovers, the broken girls, who sighed in moonlit gardens or raved amid the ruins of the world. The profile of Mr Ainsley’s Paolo haunted a myriad day-dreams; months before Tree produced his new ‘ Herod ’ or ‘ Ulysses ’ or ‘ Nero ’ there were excited discussions of the violent and expensive stage effects with which he was intending to dazzle an eager public, and the photographs of Tree’s own taco, with a great variety of paint, hair, and eye-roll, still vividly linger in the memory. The volumes of slender and agreeable poems sold as enormously as the plays. It was impossible to sit out a dance with a girl without perjuring oneself about Marpessa or assenting to the magnificence of the great single lines in ‘Paolo’ and ‘Herod.’ Phillips, meanwhile, was getting the best of both worlds, ‘ £I,OOO a Year out of Poetry ’ is a headino I remember above a wholehearted eulogy in a daily newspaper; and a horde of critics vied with each other in panegyrics of a more fastidious kind. Shakespeare was freely, if sometimes nervously, mentioned. * The soul of Milton speaking with the voice of the elder ’; the fhrase remains in. the memory, and rather think it was William Archer’s. I remember talking once with the late Maurice Hewlett, a poet, a humorist, a fine critic, and a man of blunt speech, about these roses of yesteryear. He said that, about the height of the boom, he was at a literary soiree, standing at the buffet with an elderly and eminent critic, and saw some yards away a man with a clean-shaven aquiline countenance, handsome, but wooden. ‘Who’s that solemn-looking ass? asked Hewlett, direct ms usual. His senior, looking away from him and speaking as from a great height, replied very distinctly: ‘We are all agreed tnat the wisdom of Shakespeare. the exaltation of Dante, and the sweetness of Raphael are united in that one noble face.’ This was about 1902. The anti-climax came rapidly. The novelty wore off and what quality there had been disappeared; plays failed; prospects of more productions faded; by 1914 Phillips was a neglected and penniless man who had exhausted his thin vein and been almost forgotten.’’ He concludes: “Nevertheless, let us not too easily laugh at Phillips or at those who welcomed him. He at least was trying to bring back to the stage the passion and the music which it lacked for 800 years: they at least, even if they mistook the aiin for the achievement, _ were giving evidence of their starvation in the theatre: they cheered a false dawn, but at last' it showed that they wanted a dawn, and that Ibsen, however intelligent, did not entirely satisfy them. Poets since Phillips have written for the theatre. Except for Flecker, untimely dead, none of them has shown more gift than he for the theatre or, however superior their purely poetical gifts, more power than he of distinguishing between speech which is dramatic) and speech which is not. The ocean which lies between our poetry and our theatre remains to bo crossed; and wo may spare a handful of rosemary forone wno wholeheartedly nerved him- 1 self to the feat, even if he did not succeed.’-

MOST BEAUTIFUL LINE

POETS’ SELECTION It lias been stated that the lino of Keats, “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,” ivas tho finest single thought composed by any < writer or poet. Tho New York ‘Evening Post and Literary Review ’ invited tho poets of America to air their views. Hero are some of the lines they select as being the best in literature;— Our little life is rounded with a sleep.—Shakespeare. Tho light that never was on sea or land.—Wordsworth. Bo thino own palace, or tho world’s thy goal.—John Donne. A swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid.—Tennyson. And high above the fight the lonely bugle grieves.—Grenville Mellen. My heart leaps up when 1 behold a rainbow in the sky.—Wordsworth. Then blossomed tho stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.—Longfellow, God’s in his heaven— All’s right with tho world.—Browning. On' earth tho broken arcs, In heaven tho perfect round.—Browning. What I aspired to be and was not comforts me.—Browning. And joy whose hand Is ever at the lips bidding adieu. —Keats. ’Tis not what man does that exalts him, But what man would do.—Browning. The magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn. :—Keats. —How good is man’s life, the mere living—how fit to employ All tho heart and the soul and tho senses for over in joy. —Browning.

HEW BOOKS PETER B. KVKE A story from the pen of Peter I?. Kyne is always acceptable., and although ‘ !\lado of Money,’ Tils latest novel, is lighter than his previous publications, it is a good entertaining tale. It is really a rollicking farco in Mr Kyne’s inimitable style, and the reader will find a laugh on every page. ‘ Made of Money’ tells of how a fortune was left and taken away from a young American “ go-getter,” and what a remarkably astute and. shrewd young lady had to do with it. Our copy is from the publishers, Messrs Hodder and Stoughton (London). • CONTRAST' * Contrast,’ a tale of two generations, by G. P. Robinson, is a delightful story ,of the strange unmethodical upbringing of a boy and a girl by their romantically unpractical father. An exceptionally interesting part of the narrative is that dealing with their, adventurous residence in Bruges during the German occupation. This gives a new sidelight on the war, and is told with a vividness which grips the imagination. Post-war Prance and England are also graphically described. The author has created outstanding characters and built around them an excellent story which falls naturally into two parts—the first dealing with the romantic father and the second with the effect of tho strange upbringing on tho lives of his two children. Our copy is from the publishers, Messrs Duckworth and Co. (London).

This year’s annual of the ‘ New Zealand Free Lance,’ just out of the press, is a veritable feast of illustration and a gold mine of good holiday reading. The most popular and striking feature this year is undoubtedly the colored presentation plate of the Duchess of York; a happy, smiling portrait of Her Royal Highness, specially taken during her tour or the dominion. Suitably framed, it will make a charming souvenir of the Royal visit, and a happy reminder of the little Duchess. The colored picture cover, showing a party of deep-sea anglers out in a fishing launch, and a big sword-fish leaping out of the sparkling water, is a lively illustration of the exciting sport which is making New Zealand famous the world over. It is impossible to enumerate all the good things insido the complete 80 pages. On the pictorial side, there are 32 pages of photographic pictures, illustrating interesting scenes, character-', and incidents of New Zealand life and sport; full-page cartoons, and humorous pictures and sketches galore. Then there are over a dozen short stories, mostly of Now Zeaalnd interest, two fairy stories for children, and some poems of New Zealand life and scenery.

NOTES

Messrs Ilcinomann’s announcements include Mr Lowell Thomas's “ personal ” record of one of the German ocean raiders during the war, ‘Count Von Luckner: The Sea Devil,’ who sank millions of pounds’ worth of Allied shipping without taking a single life, and ‘ My Life as an Explorer,’ by Mr Roald Amundsen.

A new edition of Forster’s * Life of Dickens,’ edited by J. W. T. Ley, is announced for the English autumn by Mr Cecil Palmer. The editor’s aim has been to bring the work as far as possible up to date by means of annotations and additions based on the mass of Dickensiana which has j;omo to light during the last half-century. _ A biography of Forster himself is also included.

The tercentenary of the birth of John Bunyan will be celebrated next year. The celebration is anticipated in a new life of John Bunyan, by the Rev. Gwilym O. Griffith, which Messrs Hodder and Stoughton will publish. Another biography of Bunyan, by the Dean of Winchester, is included among the forthcoming additions to the same publishers’ ‘People’s Library,’ edited by Mr Sidney Dark; hut this will probably not , bo ready before the new year.

'Mr Alfred Noyes, the poet, who lost his wife a few years ago, is (writes the London correspondent or the ‘ Australasian’) engaged to be married to Mrs Weld-BlundelT, whose first husband was killed in the war. Mrs Weld-Blundell belongs to one _of the best-known Catholic families in the North of England. Her graudfahtor, Sir Frederick Weld, was Governor of Western Australia in the ’seventies. Governor of Tasmania in the ’eighties, and was earlier associated with New Zealand.

politics. Mr Noyes has the reputation of being the only English poet who makes a living out of his art, most other poets having another string to their literary bow, such as or play writing, or some scholastic calling He is very unlike tho poet of convention, being of athletic build, an excellent oarsman, a good golfer and tennis player, and a fine swimmer. Mrs WeldBlundcll was a close friend of tbo first Mrs Noyes.

A famous building in Southwark and a relic of old London, tho “Farm House,” which is more than 200 years old, has now been demolished, the building having been condemned by the local authority. Tho ‘‘Farm House ” stood in tho heart of Dickensland, and within aTow.yards of Christ Church Workhouse, Quilp street, Southwark, where Dickens is supposed to have found Oliver Twist. A century ago tho old homestead became a’ common lodging house for men and women, and the artistic woodwork and carvings, with the exception of one panel, disappeared, probably being vised as firewood. Dickens ' visited tho old house and talked to its tenants, and he referred to tho building in his ‘Reprinted Pieces: On Duty With Inspector Field.’

Many Australians were present at Weodgrango Park Cemetery, Eastham (England), when the Mayor of Leyton (Sir James Slade) placed a wreath of wattle on the grave of the poetess, Jennings Carmichael The grave was recently discovered as the result of the efforts of the Rev Mr Varney, Thanks were expressed by the Rev. Dr A. Law, of Melbourne, on behalf of the High Commissioner (Sir Granville Ryric). Those present included the Bishop of Barking (Dr J. T. Inskip). M. Jean Jacques Brousson, Anatole France’s secretary, has compiled a second volume of reminiscences about his master. Translated by_ Mr John Pollock, it will be published in England by Thornton Butterworth, with the title of ‘ Anatole France; Abroad.’ We are invited to travel with Anatole France in Brazil, Uruguay, and the Argentine, and learn for the first time tho secrets of the mysterious “.Madame” who dominated the great author’s later life.

The Chicago University Press and the Cambridge University Press publish an illuminating book entitled ‘ The Natural History of Revolutions,’ by Mr Lyford P Edwards. Mr Edwards sums up the “ eight stages of revolution ” : (1) Three or four generations of increasing tension. (2). The intellectuals transfer their allegiance. (3) The economic incentive blossoms as a social myth, a millennium. (4) The outbreak ; reformers take control, (o) Era of optimism. (6) Persecution, of Conservatives ; they hit back; Radicals displace Reformers. (7) Reign of Terror. (8) Compromise; end-of revolution; a small change made at enormous cost. A few months ago Mr Cyril Maude published an interesting hovel of stage life; now he is to give us his reminiscences. Mr Maude assures us that his book has no pretensions to literary style, and was written only at the request of many friends and admirers. He ■will hero tel! us of his career in England, in Australia, in Canada, and in America, and of his domestic and theatrical partnership with his famous actress wife, the late Winifred Emery. We are soon to have a study of the novel by that most retiring genius, Mr E. M. Forster, who, after many years in India, is now living in the little Surrey village of Abinger Hammer. Mr Forster, who entitles his new book ‘ Aspects of the Novel,’ is of the opinion that “ no English novelist is as great as Tolstoy.”