BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 20422, 1 March 1930, Page 25

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

VERSES THE LARK’S SONG. The morning is wild and dark, The night-mist runs on the vale, Bright Lucifer dies to a spark, And the wind whistles up for a gale. And stormy the day may be That breaks through its prison bars, But it brings no regret to me, For I sing at the door of the stars! Along the dim ocean-verge I see the ships labouring on; They rise on the lifting surge One moment, and they are gone. ] see on the twilight plain The flash of the flying cars; Men travail in joy or pain— But I sing at the door of the stars! I see the green, sleeping world, The pastures all glazed with rime: The smoke from the chimney curled: I hear the faint church hells chime. I see the grey mountain crest, The slopes, and the forest-spars, With the dying moon on their breast— While I sing at the door of the stars! —Anne Glenny Wilson.

MEMORIES. When Spring flies over the isles, like a bird from her cage set free Will.you stand in your doorway at evening, my comrade, and then think of me, When a wind from the mountain gap will pause, and whisper and pass; And the cherry-tree scatter with both hands white petals over the grass. And a rainbow shower will turn and lightly walk over the plain: And the sleepy’ thunder mutter: then all is silence again. And the breakers roll in afar from the uttermost hovering blue, As if some ploughman unseen his crescented sea-furrow drew. And the wood-ffre waits on tho hearth; and the pillow for tired head; Then think for a moment of one who lies in his far foreign bed. He rides no more over the moorland, his sail never shines on the sea. The- Spring fades awl Summer approaches; the, fruit-blossom falls from the tree. Happy he lies and at rest: he has chosen the better part: Only think of him, friend, tho’ in silence, deep down in your innermost heart. —Anne Glenny Wilson. MIGNON’S SONG. —New World.— Know’sfc thou an island on the misty ocean (Green, green witli fern, and many an ancient tree), Whose waving tops, with soft perpetual motion Repeat the same primeval melody? The rata with the red pine interlaces, And lights the forest with a scarlet gleam. fhc sunshine on the hills the shadow chases; The fern-tree bends in silence o’er the stream.1 see the harvest slopes; the village under; The rivulet lifts its music on the air. Hearing far off the turbulent oceanthunder, It leaps in laughter down its rocky stair. There, is tho snow-king’s palace and dominion, Unchanged in summer s glow and winter rain.; With frozen wings outspread, and icy pinion, He floats above tho level pastoral plain. Motionless, voiceless, pallid, yet immortal ! While far below the cloudy seasons roll; Meeting the day, and night s slowclosing portal, He reads the ever-changing starry scroll. Oh there, beloved! There if we might wander, Leaving this -world of noisy hopes and fears, Drink of the fount of youth that rises vonder, And'all forget our shadow-laden years! —Anne Glenny Wilson.

BOOKS LENT “ If ever a religion is able to impose new festivals and fast days on tho human race, it is to bo hoped that a solemn week of returning books to their owners will every year precede the Feast of Property.”—Anon. Thus this week writes the 4 New Zealand Tablet ’: For some days I have been in vain looking round for certain books to which I wanted to refer. They were here, but are boro no longer. No doubt I lent them to some importunate friend who promised, vowed, and swore to return them at once. So, once more, I renew' my solemn resolution never to lend a book to anybody under any terms or upon any promises, not even if lie swears by the beard of his mother. If a person asks me for a book I will give it cheerfully if it is one that I do not want to keep, but f shall make it clear that T do not expect to see it again in this life. One wonders how it is that book-borrowers seem to have as little conscience as talebearers and scandal-gatherers, who, as the old catechism tells us, live in a damnable state, and should be slum nod bv decent pconlc as if they stank with the plague. Both classes never repent and never make restitution, with what future consequences we all know._ That knowledge is a sort of consolation to some people.

Tho Gutenberg Bible, printed on vellum, the world’s costliest book, will probably appear in London for sale early this year. It is thought that this example of the Bible is the one that for many years has been in a monastery in Carinthia, and which was the subject of negotiations by Mr Edward Goldston, of Museum street, W.C. The price, however, was too high. The monastery required £55,000, and, with tho necessary State commissions to be paid to Vienna, tho price would have neon at least £60,000. It was through Mr Goldston’s hands that another example of tho Gutenberg Bible went to Yale at a cost of about £24,000,

A LITERARY CORNER

HEW ZEALAND’S FIRST WOMAN POET ANNE GLEKNY WILSON (Written for the ‘Evening Star.’) The death of Lady Wilson (Anno Glenny Wilson), of Bulls, North Island, demands more than the_ bare announcement of a Press Association telegram. She was the first of our New Zealand women poets, her earliest little collection of verses, ‘Themes and Variations,’ being published in London as long pgo as 1889. That in itself would not determine Lady Wilson’s seniority, since the first collected verses of another reverend New Zealand woman writer, whose pen is still active, were published in New Zealand in the same year. But Anne Glenny Wilson was forty when sho first trusted her inspirations to book form, and the assumption is that they bad been appearing in the Press for a score of years previous to that period. For her contemporary in tho dignity of covers to have commenced as early she would have had to begin publishing in newspapers almost as soon as rho was born. Not many of our New Zealand verso .writers, men or women, commenced to write earlier than Anno Glenny Wilson. Her first book appeared in tho same year with one of a Dunedin singer, still living, tho 4 Far South Fancies ’ of Mr Alexander Bathgate. In the strictest sense sho was not a New Zealander, but neither were Gordon and Marcus Clarke and “Rolfe Boldrewood ” Australians. Unlike them, she was by birth a colonial, being born in Victoria (Anne Adams). Her father was a North of Ireland man, and her mother Scotch. She lived in Victoria until her marriage in 1874 to Mr James, later Sir James Wilson, who did good work for many years for this dominion as first President of its Farmers’ Union and in other capacities, dying last year. Lady Wilson’s life was uneventful. After her first remove it was lived entirely and very quietly at Bulls, though the prosaic name, it would seem, did not strike her as agreeing with poetry. The pre--faces to her books were always published over the address “ Rangitikei, New Zealand,” and to readers or them in many quarters pf tho world—even to many readers in Now Zealand—that must have been Rangitikei’s chief title to distinction.

The best verses of ‘Themes and Variations ’ were republished, with additions, twelve years later as ‘A Book of Versos,’ which itself was enlarged in 1917. One of the prized possessions of the writer is a copy of the medial vol- 1 nine, inscribed “With the author’s compliments,” in a most scrambling hand, and annotated in the same hand to show where some of the poems were first published. Throe or four of them appeared in the 4 Century Magazine,’ 4 Temple Bar,’ and the 4 Spectator,' when admission to their pages was a test of poetry. Lady Wilson was not a prolific writer, but the quality of her work met with instant appreciation from some of the best judges when it was new. A leading London paper said of 4 Themes and Variations ' that 44 If Mrs Wilson wrote much in this style she would take a distinct place, not only among Australasian, but among English poetesses.” A tribute from the ‘Scotsman’ was; “If the Great Britain of the South has not already chosen a laureate, it will not fare ill by placing the circlet of leaves on the bead of 4 Austral.’ ” The poeijj.s have lasted long, and on their merits, in anthologies. 4 A Treasury of New Zealand Verse ’ finds room for nine of them—almost as many as it gives to any writer. The two Australian anthologies of Bertram Stevens both give three— 4 Fairyland.’ 4 A Winter Daybreak,’ and 4 The Lark’s Song,’ and ‘A Book of Australasian Verse’ (Walter Murdoch’s selection for the Oxford University Press) has two—‘Fairyland’ and ‘Travel Song.’ It was a high standard that Anne Glenny Wilson set for her successors. The rarest quality of glamour she did nbt possess; her poems have a clearness without atmosphere, resembling the light on the white mountain, “ like some glittering altar stone,” of which sho wrote. There is more sunshine than shade in her 4 Forty Mile Bush.’ But it is doubtful if anyone has described New Zealand scenery better—tho forest, the hills and their torrents, the storm in the gorge. She wrote also ‘Social Verse,’ of the difficult Locker-Lampson typo, as gracefully as that has been done in New Zealand—only one of her successors has done it notably—and poems of reflection, and the daintiest translations of French and other trifles. She used familiar metres with a great deal of variety. Everything she did had a charm of its own, and was done with accomplished workmanship. One of her poems, 4 The Mountains,’ which brings Erebus into a silent communion with Egmont, has in its long lines a distinct, lilt of Kendall, with something less than his use of alliteration. She had fancy always, and sometimes imagination. She published also two novels, which were highly praised, but are unknown to the writer. She was pleased that some of her verses had 44 found their way into more than one Government series /of reading books 4 for tho use of schools’ on this side of the world.” Pleasant memories of her linger now that, like her lark, she “ sings at the door of the stars.” GUWPER'S LOVE OF THE COUNTRY

William Cowpor is a poet who is not in fashion nowadays, but lovers of country life hold his poems in affection, because of Cowpor’s deep love of Nature, and especially of trees. Cowpor lived almost entirely in the country, in one neighbourhood, and in his poems ho described tho scones of In's daily walks. His association for so many years with Olney, in Buckinghamshire, and the village of Weston Underwood, nearby, has made that part of the Ouse Valley famous. Tho place remains not very different from what it was in Cowper’s day, a century and a-half «go. One of the poet’s favourite walks was from Olney to Weston Park, about a mile away,, to see his friend Throckmorton. His way lay through -woods and avenues in the park, so designed that they have hold tho world’s admiration from Cowpor’s day till modern times. The chief glory (if tho place was an avenue of about 200 magnificent lime trees. Now many of these trees have been felled, and a group about an alcove which makes a viewpoint in the poet’s stroll has Veen almost entirely destroyed, and the whole avenue is threatened.

NEW BOOKS 1 KOHIKOHINGA * No one who scans the booksellers’ shelves is likely to overlook ‘ Kohikohinga.’ Its stylish exterior catches the eye. The contents are correspondingly attractive. Very seldom do we see a purely New Zealand book so tastefully got up. Letterpress and illustrations are quite artistic, the smooth and thick paper is a delight to linger, and altogether the workmanship is highly creditable to Whitcombe and Tombs. The contents also give more than a little satisfaction. The subtitle, ‘ Reminiscences and Reflections of Rapata (Vernon Roberts), Arranged in Narrative Form by G. T. Roberts,’ his son, indicates the true nature of the writing. It is not history. It does not profess to bo history. It is a collection of tales and reminiscences regarding incidents in the life of Vernon Roberts, who was storekeeping in the Maori country in the ’sixties, and took a great interest in studying the ways and the speech or the Native race. The tales are quite free from the exuberance that characterises Maori narrations as ,ordinarily interpreted. That is a distinct advantage. As dished up for modern reading, many old tales are made tedious by wordy ornamentation that to some extent weakens their point. Mr Roberts evidently has the happy knack of condensing judiciously, and ho is to be thanked for eschewing annotations except such as are necessary to convey the meaning. A further matter in which the author and the repeater display wisdom is in imaging the Maori of the period—that is to say, the Maori as we of this day know him or remember him: the Maori as the Europeans turned him to their ways, not altogether to his advantage. The description rings true. Those of us who have lived in Maori country and have read this book recognise the likeness, and find more pleasure therein than is to be derived from some older writings on the subject that picture the Maori as super-heroic, alter the fashion of Fenimore Cooper’s impossible Red Indians. ’ihe_ Maori who rivalled Moses in law-giving and St. James in ethical homilies may have existed in the remote past, but wo do not know him—he was buried a cen tury ago. Let it also be noted that ‘ Kohikohinga ’ is a clean book, not prudish, but free from the defiling coarseness of language that might bo resorted to if the interpretation was unbendingly literal. One more point of merit is that here aifd there Mr Roberts ventures on a correction of popular beliefs. For instance, he tells us that the oft-quoted “Ake ake” speech attributed to Rowi at Orakau was not uttered by that chief, but by another of the defiant tribe. These are amongst the many reasons for giving ‘Kohikohinga’ a place in our libraries. Fine writing is to bo found in some other books on New Zealand, but none are more faithful to the subject. THREE KAISERS

Before Hie war Wilhelm 11. was a man who aroused extraordinary interest. Whatever his faults, he was considered to be the possessor of unusual ability and great force of character. He might have gone to his grave holding that reputation but for the outbreak of hostilities. The events that followed 1914, however, showed how dismally ho failed when tho test came. Notwithstanding this, there is still a great deal of curiosity exhibited about the life of the Kaiser and the conditions at his Court in pre-war days, and a book just published entitled ‘ Recollections of Three Kaisers ’ is bound to attract a large number of renders, particularly when it is explained that the author was a minor Court functionary, the whole of whose working life was spent in the service of the three Kaisers. His father had been much in England, and the son came to have a great regard for the English. The whole book is tinged with this feeling, so that it was, perhaps, just as well folium that he died in 1914 before the war broke out. He lived practically all his life in Court circles. A man trusted and respected, he was not in the inner councils of the nation, and the book contains nothing bearing on high politics or State secrets and intrigues. It would seem tat he never head the nuitterings of the storm, for apparently no serious thought of war with England was in his mind. Ills book, which, it is said, is culled from a diary kept over a long period, is mainly on tho social and presonal side of things. He had a profound veneration for the first Kaiser of tho United German Empire (tho Emperor William I.). For the latter’s son. the Emperor Frederick, he had a great respect also, and for that illfated monarch’s consort, who was the Princess Royal of England, his admiration knew no bounds. For their son, Wilhelm IT., he had no such feeling. Ho acknowledged the ex-Kaiser’s good qualities, but he saw through his egotism, his weakness, and his lack of balance. “It is really astonishing how utterly' destitute of tact the Kaiser alwa.vs -was, considering the he had,” remarked the author. “ What tho Germans called Herzcnsbildung (literally, education < of tho heart) seemed unknown to him,” and he contrasts his manners with those of his unde. King Edward VTT. of England, and quotes a remark made by a German in contrasting the two; “That is the difference between a gentleman and a boor.” In another place the author says; “The old Kaiser (Wilhelm 1.) was genuinely beloved by high and low for his gentle consideration ; nobody was afraid of him, T do not think there will he an.y genuine tears shed when the time comes for the passing of his grandson.” Anyone interested in the brilliant Court, with its State halls and weddings nad other functions, in one of the most interesting periods of Germany’s history will onjnv the ‘ Recollections of Three Kaisers.’ Our copy is from the publishers (Herbert Jenkins, Limited). THE FEMININE TOUGH Almey St. John Adcock is a woman who writes for women. Her latest novel, ‘ Poacher’s Moon,’ _ is proof enough of the truth of this opinion. From beginning to end there are very few pages, or even passages, which would bo likely to interest the male reader; but not the harshest of critics could deny that as a writer the author css possesses that rare charm of style which should delight all and sundry. Tho story? Her sisters of the faii; sex

should thoroughly enjoy every phase of it. The opening chapter tells us of a competent young lover who has just finished building with his own hands the house which is to shelter his bride-to-be and himself. She, a quiet, demure, intensely loyal little thing; he seemingly a good type of vigorous manhood, who is contemptuous of his fiancee’s “ tiger lily ” friend, a young lady destined to cause most of the heartaches contained- in.. the. novel. Tiger Lily, quite spoiled, must have everything she secs—and everybody. That is w'hy she sets her trap for the homebuilding hero. The story is rather poignant in its subsequent trend, and were it not for extraordinarily skilful treatment from the pen of the writer it would hardly be convincing. Our copy is from Messrs Hodder and Stoughton, Ltd.

MOTHERCRAFT A wise medico is Leslie George Housdon, M. 8., B.S, (London). Into a compact little volume published by Messrs Herbert Jenkins, Ltd., he has packed a wealth of information which should be of incalculable benefit to modern mothers. Bearing the title ‘ MothercraiV Hr Housden’s treatise should convey timely advice _to those mothers who—if an expressive colloquialism may bo pardoned—have become “ blinded with science.” His fundamental methods are so simple, so natural. He firmly believes in breast feeding, and denounces strongly the artificial system, with (as lie himself puts it) “ its dreadful and manifold dangers.” ‘ Mothercraft ’ is not a bewildering text book crammed with still more perplexing diagrams. It is simply a homely, straightforward chat, as though from a family physician, dealing in a practical manner with the various problems of babyhood. Its theories, so it is claimed, have been tried and proved in practice. _ All stupid fads go by the board with one stroke of the pen, and altogether the book is as the author intends it to to —a reassurance to mothers that “Nature knows best.” NOTES In 1(1:19 14,086 books were published in the British Isles (states the ‘Publisher’s Circular’) against 14,399 in 1928. More than a quarter of the year’s total is under the heading of fiction. There was an unusual demand for the best foreign books in English translation.

Mr Frederick Niven, novelist, who, suffering from a weak heart, is permitted by his physician to write only while lying prone, writes to the ‘Passing Show’ a letter in praise of Alexander Smith, the centenary of whose birth falls this year:—“l have been re-reading Alexander Smith. All my life I turn to him often. I do think, even if he’s called a minor, much of him can stand with those who, by custom and consent, are accepted as major. ‘A Summer in Skye’ can stand easily for me beside Hazlitt and De Quincey—and stand alone .indeed, as a classic.”

“Ralph Connor,” who made his reputation as a novelist with ‘ The Sky Pilot,’ recently finished a romance which Hodder and Stoughton will publish under the title, ‘The Runner.’ The scene of it is round about Niagara in the days when America and Canada battled on the frontier, and it has an historical colouring. But it is a romance first and foremost, because the Rev. Dr Gordon —who is “ Ralph Connor ’—does not allow history to obtrude beyond providing an accurate setting. The scenes and times in which they move are fact, but the characters are fiction.

Towards the end of last year Mr John Murray received by post an old leather-bound book of manuscript, full of maxims and reflections, which had been picked up by a dealer old furniture in the neighbourhood of Twickenham or Teddington. On the title page were written the words “A Pope, Tvvikcam.” The hook, which may or may not have been written by Alexander Pope, will bo published soon with the title, ‘ Characters and Observations.’ Lord Gorell has written a foreword. Facsimiles of a page of the manuscript, and an authenticated letter in Pope’s handwriting will appear in the volume for the purpose of comparison.

Mr St. John Ervine, in the London ‘ Daily Express,’ has reviewed in glowing terms new editions, published by Heinemnnn, of ‘ Henry Handel Richardson’s” novels ‘The Fortunes of Richard Mahony ’ and ‘ The _ Way Home.’ The author is the wife of Professor Robertson, of the University of London. She was formerly Miss Ettie Richardson, of Melbourne. Mr Ervine describes her as a genius. The novels ho has reviewed are the first and second of a trilogy, which was begun in 1917 and completed early last year by the publication of ‘ Ultima Thule.’ Many of the scenes are placed in Australia ‘in the gold-digging days and in other years of the Victorian period. An American edition of ‘Utima Thule’ is announced by W. W. Norton, New York.

Januarv 2 was the 100th anniversary of the birth of Henry Kingsley, and on that date ‘The Times Literary Supplement ’ devoted its principal article to an “appreciation’ of the novelist. Kingsley spent three years at Oxford, where, tho writer says, he was a queer blend of dissipation and rectitude.” There was “a bad row,” the nature of which has never been revealed, and Henry Kingsley, his debts having been paid by his brother Charles, “vanished” to Australia. “Of his activities in Australia,” we read, “ as little definite evidence survives as of the other phases of his forgotten life. But a few facts are certain. His five years were mainly' spent in New South Wales and Victoria. Ho was for a time a trooper in the Sydney mounted police; and his experiences in breaking up gangs of bushrangers find place in more than one of his books. There is a tradition that ho wrote a part of ‘ Geoury Hamlyn ’ in James Mitchell's house, near Melbourne; and Rolf Boldrcwood refers to him in ‘ Old Melbourne Memories 1 as writing and living quietly there after much stormier times Almost certainly ho visited tho goldfields; inevitably lie rioted in saloons, and drank too much, and generally, m tho traditional ways, revenged himselt on the respectability of homo by' giving lie- -j to his liberty.” Mrs T. P. O’Connor says that her husband was always disappointed that he did not, or could not, write a novel. He talked over many plots and ideas with her, but they never matured. She thinks his lack of patient plodding may have had something to do with it. Mary Roberts Rinehart, writer of good novels, has hastily completed her latest book, so that she may be free to enter upon her duties as a member of the United States Public Lands Commission. She is the only' woman member. Her knowledge of the far Western States is extensive, and is disclosed in her novels.