BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 20666, 13 December 1930, Page 27

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

VERSES i :I ' If you were queen of night, dear* And I your champion, day ? We’d pluck the stars for posies, Pull sunny days for roses, Make dawns for our delight, dear. And crowns ofrainbow ray, If you were queen of night, dear, And I your champion, day. If love were lawyers’ thesis, We’d argue who must pay, For you’re ray sweet defendant, Dan Cupid court attendant, Let judge say what ho pleases, And counsel what he'may, “ I’ll sue for love and kisses, , And sign ,my heart away. .. —H. S. Gaskell, in ‘G.K.’s Weekly/ \ ATLAS! Birds do not mourn Nor flowers don , More sober dress Since she is gone. Her tended lawns And grassy ways With flaunting weeds Are all ablaze. How gaily earth Will riot when ■■■>- Time has amassed The last of men ! <—Joyce M. Westrup, in ‘John o’ London’s Weekly,’ SHAKESPEARE PERGEHTAGED . When I pick up my Shakespeare I usually read it in lazy and ignorant content. It is a good text, published . by the University of Oxford Press. I know, of course, that it is not a mere haphazard correlation of the playhouse, ) Quarto, and Folio versions that seem to-have passed muster in Shakespeare’s own time; patient scholarship and ini finite care have gone to the making of it (says G. H. Vallins, in ‘John o’ London’s Weekly’). And for that, when I read the great familiar passages, I am thankful. It is, perhaps, an odd confession to make—hut since “The Works of Shakespeare” is printed on the title page I read it all - trustingly as Shakespeare’s, as some men read • Ll io Pentatefich and have no doubt that its five hooks were written • by Moses ’himself. In my heart of hearts I know lam wrong; I should ho ■ looking for other “hands” and cultiV vata an ear for lines ,that would ho a rank discredit to the master, . And : here is a book (‘The Genuine in Shakespeare: A Conspectus,’ by J. M. ; Robertson), that condemns my idle folly.' 1 ‘ ■" Mr J. M. Robertson, _ who as summarising his own deductions in fixing The Shakespeare Canon, lays about him with a vengeance. Ignorant readers, journalists, scholars, the very professors themselves, are attacked by a pqn as sharp as any sword. I could almost exclaim to Mr Robertson, as Macbeth to the First Murderer: “There’s hlood upon thyfaco.”- The blood, however, of a fighter—not a murderer. As I read the ingenious and learned pages I feel myself on an old battlefield. Only tho skull I kick against unwittingly is not so much the remnant of one of these fierce battlers with the Canon, hut Shakespeare’s own, quite chap-fallen, with all his quips and quiddities long since in the dust. It is the tragedy of the battle Of the texts that the hero himself is slain. '' . , * And what good came of it at last? quoth little Peterkin. I don’t know. But the book has at least interested met;, amusement, resentment, defiance, and! wonder have chased themselves across my mind. .What Shakespeare actually- wrote neither Mr Robertson nor I shall ever know, in this transitory life at any rate. So hb as safe in his assertions as I_ am in my incredulity. , However, if I make bold to question his two great “tests” I cannot but admire the skill with which he applies them. The first one is, the old trial by the ordeal of versification, familiar because it is the best method .of arriving at a rough chronology of the plays. But Mr Robertson goes farther. By a kind of ready reckoner ho decides the bines Shakespeare did write and condemns those he did not. Given a few fairly reliable dates and a table of percentages of run-on lines, end-stopped lines, and weak endings, he will divine thi true Shakespeare amid the mass of plays and poems with which my Oxford edition honours or insults his , name. . 'And as his verse marched on with unwavering feet—to ho percentaged in Mr Robertson’s notebook —so did Shakespeare’s mortality keen the even .tenor of its way. Ho could not (says Mr Robertson) have pictured the more ’boastful and priggish elements in Henry V.; the treatment of Joan of Arc in I. “Henry Vl.’ he would never have tolerated: even S’ Toby’s quaffing and drinking would undo him. This Robertsonian Shakespeare is infallible, without variableness or shadow of turning. ‘ , . It is, indeed, Shakespeare’s graduated perfection that forms the basis or the argument in this book. That most of the so-called Shakespearean plays contain the work of other dramatists, and that some of them were scarcely touched by Shakespeare at all, is a commonly accepted theory. But Mr Robertson’s ‘Works of Shakespeare ’ is a patchwork quilt \of Elizabethan drama. All the Elizabethan playwrights seem to have rallied round and (to quote Mr Stephen Leacock’s delightful skit on Shakespearean criticism) “stuck in what they could.” There was, it appears, a regular team of them captained, at it were, by Chapman. Heywood, Greene, Poole, Middleton, Kyd, Chapman himsef, and, above all, Marlowe, did the bulk of the work and loft that “upstart crow decked in our feathers” to transmute the dross into gold. Tho marvel is that Marlowe managed to crowd so !rouch into his twenty-nine years, and that Shakespeare did so little , before he broke his wand and buried it deep "among the flowers of his Stratford gar* den. As well call the plays The Works of Marlowe ” and admit Shakespeare and the rest as occasional collaborators. ■ , ... . . But jn truth, I know it is a sin to he a mocker. And yet Ido not mock. This book wins my admiration lor its its clearness, its scholarship; I merely protest at what I think to •be tho futility of it all. I have a roa- , sonablo good ear in music, as Bottom said; but on the whole I prefer the .tongs; and the bones to tho mechanised.

A LITERARY CORNER

piano. In tho traditional Shakespeare I am content to accept the good with tho bad. If the worst in him really belongs to a little syndicate of his rivals, well, so much the better lor his memory. Beyond that I care little. It is time to attune tho heart to the master’s sorrow, and to that laughter which Carlylo said was like sunshine over the deep sea. For Shakespeare was, above all, a man as other men are; and a playwright writing for an audience that must be _ satisfied. 1 suppose ho had his frailties, his weaknesses; there must have been times when the mighty lines dragged a little and tho winged words drooped in their flight. Ho wrote to please: there wore tho groundlings to be thought of, and they wanted (ho knew) murders most horrible, and common jests and a talo that was familiar—much as they want them even now. To me that is the real Shakespeare, a, man who could lift tho popular appeal into tho eternal. It would disappoint mo to feel that all Mr Robertson’s conjectures were true. I would have a playwright who knows and uses tho tricks of his trade; not a scholar who was at tho beck and call of his syllables. If he were that—who knows? When J read that terrible cry of. Macbeth: “ To-morrow and to-morrow and tomorrow.” I might in , tho ond bo tempted to wonder which “ to-mor-row ” was Marlowe’s and which Chapman put in. In that awful “ Never, never, never, never, never,” of Lear I should bo dividing up the “ nevers ” among tho university wits. Shakespeare would become an exercise, as, alasl ho is still in schools sometimes; or, worse still, a cross-word puzzle with Mr Robertson’s percentages for clues. _ For, truth to tell, I am a sentimentalist. Though Mr Robertson does his best to break down the old familiar Shakespeare traditions, I still keep untouched raj own thought of a- Shakespeare. Sometimes ho is as Bottom, shaking tho dust from his boots and bursting in upon tho hard-handed men of Athens —or Stratford, shall wo say ? —with a “Where are these lads? Where are these hearts?” Sometimes a Toby drinking so late that after all li'A js up betimes; a Hamlet irresolute before tho puzzle of life; a Macbeth sleepless at its tragedy; of a Brutus grieved and tender, bending over , a Utile slave who murmurs: “The strings, my lord, are false ” out cf an uneasv sleep. All these and more—the whole gamut of his creation—make up tho Shakespeare I know. Ho is tho greater in that ho took old things and refashioned them. Miracle, morality, mystery—the folk plays of religion and work—have their place in the drama that ho quickened into glorious life. The excitement of an awakening world is all about him; ho sees tho pageantry of London and remembers tho quiet years of Stratford. Observation and memory, a love of the topical and a liking for the traditional, these go to the making of his plays. He will let men see, touched into rollicking comedy or into fearful tragedy, the things they know and understand. Venice, Athens, Forres, Elsinore, are all England to him; and to him all men aro his countrymen. As Drake left his game to venture out against tho Spaniards, ho left the little town for an adventure of the soul. I cannot, as 1 read, resolve this man into his component parts, or measure his percentages. To me ho holds tho stage alone; tho others are but as Voices off,-or as Messengers who make their entrances and their exits with a bow and a formal word. But I stand condemned. “As for tho godlike journalists,” writes Mr Robertson, “ who think to ‘ size him up’ in their stride, ‘the rest is silence.’ ” It is a cryptic sentence—perhaps, since Mr Robertson’s writing is visually pretty clear, touched by another hand However that may be, 1 have a suspicion that tho silence is broken—elsewhere. “Underneath a new-old sign Sipping beverage divine ” It may bo tho friends and rivals of tho Bankside make the heavenly Mermaid ring with their laughter; or Shakespeare himself chuckles over his glass at the Elephant in tho south suburbs of Elysium.

THE POET LAUREATE Mr John Mdsefield, the Poet Laureate, recently received the Freedom of Hereford. He is tho first non-resident of the city to ho so honoured since the freedom was conferred on Lord Nelson in 1802, after his return from tho Battle of tne Nile. Mr Masefield is a native of Herefordshire. He was born at Ledbury, about fifteen miles from Hereford, and lived there while his father was practising as a solicitor. “ I believe,” said Mr Masefield in his speech of thanks “ that life js tho ex-* pression of a will or law, which lias a purpose in every one of its manifestations. I believe that this world is only a shadow of tho real world, and I think that by brooding on what is brightest and most generous in this world tho beauty and the bounty and the majesty of the real world shine in upon tho soul. "I am linked to this county by ties deeper than I can explain. They are ties of beauty. Whenever I think of Paradise I think of parts of this county. Whenever I think of any perfect human sight I think of things which I have seen in this county, and whenever 1 think of tho beauty and bounty of God I think of parts of this shire. There is no more lovely county in this lovely land, and I cannot be thankful enough that I passed my childhood days in a land in which nearly everbody lived on and by the land, singing when they brought tho harvest homo, and taking such pride in their great cattle and in their great horses, their apple orchards, their dovecotes, and their little gardens. It will be a happy day for England when she realises again that tho true wealth of a land is in these things and in tho men and women who care for these things, since tho beauty and tho bounty of earth must he the shadow of Paradise. “When I was a little child X looked upon this beautiful landscape, tho reel earth and deep woodlands and running brooks and streams, and I felt that they were the shadow of Paradise, and that just beyond there was Paradise. Then for many years I brooded upon these things, hoping that by some miracle o poetry I might get beyond into the reality of heaven of which these things are only the shadows, and that, getting into heaven, T might hear the words and come back to earth and tell men and women, so that they would know and be happy.” Tho Mayor (Mrs Luarcl) said that in ’ many of Mr Masefield’s poems they rej. cognised tho beauties or Ledbury and j tho country on tho Herefordshire, side j of the Malvern Hills.

NEW BOOKS NEW ZEALAND VERSE Still they come—more writers of New Zealand verse, too young or too retiring to have found a place in even the latest anthology. New Zealand writers of verse might doscribo_ them better, because New Zealand is very seldom reflected in ‘Primroses for My Fair,’ by Esma North, and in Carl Straubel’s ‘Undersong’ in no more than ton lines. Carl Straubel has fancy and tho seeing eye. Tho poem of ten lines noted, is among his best. Entitled ‘Riverside Trees,’ it reads: — Hero among the birches Loaning like slim lordlings from the ground, A Karaka tree, Squat, a little fearful, and aloof. As if a Native headman came, And at some ceremony of State Looked strangely in his island dress, And ’mid a prim official throng Mused glumly on these ways of theirs And bis, and knew they would not mix. Hr Straubel, it will be seen, is very iftucli of a modern. The stylo seems to owe something to the Japanese. A poem, tho idea appears to be, should not bo too much larger than a limerick. T’ j principle is sound, when that suffices for what tho author has to say. There is merit in being simple and direct. There is lie, particular merit in elaborate line division, blanks, and asterisks, which some moderns also affect. A stanza like tho following, by Mr Straubel, is worth precisely what it would ho written as prose—no more, no less

I am a savage whoso old wound throbs with the chill mysteries; and my mind is a theme, a numb, reitefant minor, played on an insistent ' Japanese musical instrument. Normal rhymes for some poets, apparently, make a mechanical click. They prefer the subtler,' easier music of such conjunctions as “wind,” “ground”; “strewn,” “rain,” “thrown”: “swifter,” “laughter”: “waking, “seeking”; sustained through whole poems. Mr Straubel rhymes “Helen” with “telling.” It is a question of taste. That it is not want of fac'Hty on his part is shown by some renderings of old .French poems, done well and traditionally. Published by- the ‘New Spectator’ Company Ltd., Christchurch. Esma North’s volume is more conventional. It does not lack skill or attractivo feeling, but it lacks distinctiveness. Six “songs of sorrow,” with which it concludes, have an impressive poignancy. Harry H. Tombs Ltd., Wellington, publisher, SAMOA MISRULED Mr N. A. Rowe was for about four years on the Administration staff in Samoa. His work lay in the Department of Agriculture, and it involved travelling which gave him more opportunity to get below the surface than if bo had stuck religiously to Apia. In 192(3 bo was dismissed from the Government service, and ho then wont into trade. The environment of the genesis of this book— ‘ Samoa Under the Sailing Gods ’ —may bo suspect to the generality of the New Zealand public; but perusal must create in the reader growing doubts as to whether New Zealand’s well-intentioned efforts have not been productive of harm. Mr Rowe, if one is to take him at his word, found his environment in one way good, in another bad. It seems to have been a case of “ Where every prospect pleases and only man is vile.” He liked Samoa, ho liked the Samoans, ho Ijked the European traders, but he disliked intensely the sycophantic colleagues who—to his way or thinking—assisted Major-general Sir George Richardson to pursue a policy which led to minor # massacre and whitewashing investigation. It would bo easy to imEute bias against the Wesleyan and ondon Missionary Society Missions and against the alliance between mandated authority and religion; but the book is too well documented to permit of the discarding of evidence on that score. The moral of the whole affair seems to be that no ono should take on a job about which ho is profoundly ignorant, however enthusiastic. Nor should one, when confronted with the early fruits of ignorance, resort to violence on the spot and soft-soap to tho League of Nations. This book should bo read by all Now Zealanders, though to all but tho most thickskinned it will cause humiliating pain or an intense desire to refute what comes with a peculiar air of authenticity. As to this latter, there is an introduction written by Lloyd Osbourne, tho stepson of “R.L.5.,” and ho says; “Then the war came; the seizure of Samoa by tho New Zealand Expeditionary Force: the Mandate; bureaucrats; heel-clicking A.D.C.s; curt commands in the military manner; a grinding interference with the lives of _ both natives and whites—everything, in fact, that the Germans might do—and didn’t. The labels had somehow become mixed. The Prussians came from Auckland, and alas! they are still there, though somewhat chastened by the world’s opprobrium. I am thankful that Mr Rowe has written this book; thankful, too, that Messrs Putnam’s Sous should have been so courageous as to publish it. Tho whole painful story of the Now Zealand administration of Samoa is now laid bare to the world, documented, temperately stated—and appalling.” Those who care, nothing for good or bad administration and everything for literature will be gratified by tho inclusion of some of tho nervous prose of tho late Rupert Brooke. ‘ THE HEW LAW • ‘The New Law’ is a convincing-novel of modern life by Miss Lilian Clifford, and published by Herbert Jenkins Ltd. It is undoubtedly a merciless summing up of a certain section of the present generation, with its cocktails and nigh: clubs. June tho central figure, is t 1” pretty and fascinating daughter of an easy-going, indulgent father. Her only aim in life is amusement, ’’n what the price. But tho old lawhaving sown you must reap—still holds good, as Juno finds out to her cost. It is an excellent story of “the bright young things,” and although not exactly pointing a moral, gives a gentle hint that there is more in life than a gay time. •

TO ANY FATHER Miss Edith Howes lias added another book to the list that stands to her name. Entitled / The Golden I’orcst, it comes appropriately at a time when parents arc searching the _ shops tor Christinas presents for their children. Nothing more suitable for boys who have reached tho reading ago can bo imagined. Most of her previous works havo been written for tho benefit of the very young. How successful she has been is proved by the sales of her books in Britain and America, not only to the individual buyer, but to schools and libraries. Also sho is a prophet who has gained honour in her own country, as any New Zealand bookseller will testify. ‘ The Golden Forest ’is for young people who havo begun to advance along tho path of learning. The spice of adventure runs through it from die first page to tho last, but it has a deep underlying and very noble purpose. It is to lead tho youthful mind gently, naturally, and clearly along tho way to an understanding, by means of _ examples in natural history t of the origin, mystery, and purpose of life. Incidentally, it also illustrates what may be accomplished by a change of environment. It is tho case of a wise man profiting by his mistakes. As tho result of a sudden access to wealth, tins individual left his motherless hoy to tho care of relatives while he- set off overseas in search'of adventure and pleasure. Ho returned in after years to find his son dying as tho result of indulgence during the critical period of In’s life. Full of remorse that ho had neglected his duty of guiding tho youth during the impressionable years, he tried to make some amends. Having plenty of money, ho came to Now Zealand and bought a bush-clad area near tho coast. A keen naturalist, ’ho stocked liis place with birds and beasts and fisbes. exotic and native, and extended a helping hand to those about him. During a visit to London he found, on ono cold November night, a poor boy huddled in a city doorway. He brought tho lad to New Zealand, established him on his place, and set about imparting to him tho knowledge that he had neglected to give his son. The experiment was successful, for the boy responded instantly to tho new conditions. His mentor had profited from his own mistakes. “ All life is one,” ho impressed on the boy. “From tho single coll, up to flowers, to insects, fishes, reptiles, birds, mammals ho had been led patiently and skilfully; ho had been shown birth and its attendant care, before and after, as well as tho throbbing lovo and self-sacrifice it aroused. Now hero was human birth. Because ho had been trained; because ho had some knowledge of Nature, however slight in comparison with that of his teacher, ho could look on this new thing with understanding; ho could see it in lino with all other birth, as tho climax to tho plan that ran through the whole of life.” All this part of tho book is handled with graceful delicacy and restraint, and is so subtly related that the story itself is in no way subordinated to "the deeper theme. Physical training is part of tho lad’s development, and ample opportunities for this are afforded by busli and sea and river and mountain. ‘ The Golden Forest,’ which is published by tho London house of Dent, is written with ail the literary facility possessed by Miss Howes. Far from writing herself out. she seems to gather added inspiration with each new book. CLEVER LEGAL SKITS A satirist and humorist, Mr A. P. Herbert, whoso work is so well known to readers of ‘Punch,’ is in tho forefront of writers who are able, with a little exaggeration, to picture tho lighter side of incidents that occur in an austere atmosphere. In ‘ More Misleading Cases ’ (Methuen) Mr Herbert has taken the English law courts for his groundwork, and ho has produced a diverting book. The _ phraseology of judges, counsel, and witnesses is presented with just enough of caricature to appeal to everyone with a sense of humour who has followed the procedure of the legal processes. In Cowfat v. Wheedle the question of “What are snails?” is thrashed out. Mrs Cowfat, who appears in forma pauperis, is suing her neighbour, Mrs Wheedle, for alleged trespass x and damage to property. Plaintiff and defendant live in adjoining houses in the suburb of West Munsoy, Both are keen gardeners, and plaintiff alleges that defendant has made a practice of throwing snails and slugs over the dividing wall, thus_ damaging Mrs Cowfat’s_ plants and injuring her chances of gaining prizes at the West Munsey, flower snow. Tho contrast between plaintiff’s downright diction in tho witness box and counsel’s polished phrases is cleverly set out Fol' example:—witness.: “Never were no snails in ray garden, mister, not bo fore Flo Wheedle began ’er dirty games.” Cojunsel; “A very remarkable garden, Mrs Cowfat, in its complete freedom from destructive gasteropoda.” His Lordship’s judgment in this caso is a masterpiece of irony. Another case is that in which tho well-known cartoonist, Low, has surrendered to his bail on a charge of criminal libel. His victims are well-known politicians—including Lord Brentford, Mr J. H. Thomas, Sir Lloyd George, and Mr Ramsay MacDonald. The defendant’s offence, according to counsel, was that ho had hold up in’s fellow men to ridicule and contempt, instead of portraying their virtues; that all his life lie had taken as the particular targets of liis art tho highest statesmen in the land, “men who are charged or have been charged, or hope to bo charged, with tho government of onr country and tho care of her destinies.” Tho judge’s amazement (or pretended amazement) when ho learns that a solicitor that ho knew as Hicks became Joynson-Hicks, then Sir William Joyn-son-Hicks, Homo Secretary in tho late Conservative Government, and finally Lord Brentford is described most amusingly. As has boon said, “Mr Herbert, alleging himself a barrister, does not hesitate to brand the law an ass whenever he feels that way.” Mr Herbert’s powers of satire and witty description are fully shown in this book.

STORY OF A ZOO A most interesting story for those who aro interested in wiki animals is 4 Zoo Ways and Whys,’ written by Mr T. H. Gillespie, director of the geological Parle, Edinburgh. Mr Gillespie deals with the inhabitants of the zoo, family by family, and ho explains their habits, their origin, and other little facts as they occur to him. Ho shows how much there is to discover about animals and how they have developed through tho ages to their present sizes and forms] Mr Gillespie states, and gives reasons for stating, that the animals aro really more happy and contented in captivity than when at large in their yidc, open spaces as they are well and kindly treated, and do not need to bother searching for food and avoiding their natural enemies. The book was written as a result of requests to the author after he had broadcast talks during the children’s sessions of] the British Broadcasting Company’s stations at Glasgow and Edinburgh The book would make excellent r sading in schools, and would prove of jrept value to tho pupils, Herbert JVnkius and ,Co., arc the publishers.

‘ THY SERVANT A DCS * Hero Sir Rudyard Kipling has written an engaging book. ‘Thy Servant a Dog’ is its title, and Boots, a member of the terrier family, tells the story. The worship of tho dog is not carried to tho samo extent in Now Zealand mat it is in England. The majority of tho people of tho dominion think that the proper homo of Ponto or Rover or Nip is tho kennel and not tho house. Not so at Home. There in many of tho homes of the well-to-do the dog is an honoured member of the family. In a novel by a popular modern author the scone opens with the arrival of a visitor at a country house. The hostess walks into the drawing room to greet him with a “Peko” clasped fondly in her arms; the host appears with two setters at his heels, and ho is followed by a daughter carrying three puppies. However, this is a digression. In this hook Sir Kipling has again demonstrated liis skill and fertility of _ resource. One can well believe that if a dog had tho gift of speech this is the way it would express itself. Boots talks of tho things that interest him most, and which fill the lives of the dogs that live in tho country in comfortable homes. The introductory chapter carries a note of romance. Boots rooms with his. Own God, a young man living in a flat in London. Boots and Ids master, being out walking, meet Slippers, another terrier, whose Own God is a young woman. Tho dogs fight. Own Gods intervene, and acquaintanceship which ripens into love follows. Very soons Boots and Slippers with Own Gods are living in ono house in the country. Then tho lives of the terriers take on a new angle, and their many activities and adventures are related by Boots. Other dogs and other humans oomo into the picture. To all people who love dogs, for all who liko good writing, and for all who appreciate Kipling this book will havo a strong appeal. It is illustrated by G. L. Stampa, so well known through his drawings in ‘Punch’ and other journals. Needless to say, they are beautifully done. Our ; copy of ‘ Thy Servant a Dog ’ is from the publishers (Macmillan and Co.). STEEL SHIP AND STEALERS Want an exciting story of the sea light up to date? Then try ‘Sea Loot,’ by A. D. Divine, just > published by Methuen and Co. in it sensation is piled on sensation. It is a story of piracy on tho high seas in our own times. By means that aro not disclosed a party of a dozen mates, engineers, and gunners got possession of a new English-built destroyer that is to bo taken to Chile and handed over to the Government there. When fairly started on the voyage the Chilian members of tho crew are forcibly put on bowrd a vessel bound for England, and hho destroyer begins her lawless career. Sho holds up two Atlantic liners of tho larger size, and refuels from a, tanker. Thus the robbers become possessed of an incredible quantity of money and jewels, and they are about to set a. course to intercept the Capo mail when they learn by wireless that another sea wolf, imitating the destroyer, is attacking a big merchantman and imperilling the lives of the persons on board. That, in the opinion of tho destroyer’s men, is over the odds. Tiioj had been content to steal. Full speed is made for tho mysterious murderer, and in tho ensuing action sho is suw.ii. Whereupon the destroyer ceases heir raidings, steams back to tho Welsh coast, and is scuttled by her own party, who presumably divide the loot, repent, awd live virtuously from thence on. Mi Divine strengthens his story by technical details that indicate knowledge. au rl seafarers will very much enjoy" what may stand for a clever reconstruction of some modern realities at sea—all except the thefts. LIGHT COMEDY ‘ln Masquerade,’ by Margaret Behrens (Herbert Jenkins Ltd.), is a capital holiday book, for it contains no psychological problems to strain tho mind and no tragic incidents to harrow tho feelings. Professor Pcrcival Sidney Mulowncy, a phrenologist, and Ellen Gilchrist, a thoroughly resourceful, competent, awd humorous little person, reminiscent of some of the late Mrs Hodgson Burnett’s characters, are tho chief figures in the book, which is decidedly entertaining. The professor passes off a convenient baby as a “ mystery prince,” and poses himself as a lord. His eccentricities aro cleverly contrasted with tho managing, humorous, and maternal characteristics _of Ellen. Tho book is described as being full of shrewd and whimsical humour, and this is no overstatement of tho caso. THE WOMAN OF TO-DAY ‘lnvicta,’ by Melita Grayue, is .a cleverly-written novel right up to date. The Victorians are not derided; they are simply ignored as belonging to a past and forgotten generation. They aro no more in tito picture than are tho people of tho times of Queen Elizabeth. The story relates tho adventures of Invicta. Left an orphan in babyhood, she was brought up by her grandmother, Lady Carmndcn, a selfish and domineering old woman. The girl had an unhappy and lonely life. Then she inherited wealth. Ignorant of life, sho became attracted by an unscrupulous Polish Jew. Then alio married into a county family, but tho rigid conventions, the futile sporting life of tho county sot left her in tho cold. Finally she found her niche in the political world, which has opened its portals to woman, and sho became a member of Parliament. Tho modern outlook is well expressed, the dialogue and tho situations arc convincing, and tho characterisation is analytical and_ skilful. Our copy is from tho publishers (Herbert Jenkins Ltd.).

THE GREAT HILL CLIMB Messrs Angus and Robertson send us a. volume with the above title. Tho groat hill climb is tho Hill Difficulty, with which Bimyan lias made us familiar, and of which life gives all of us, sooner or later, abundant experience. What form it takes, tho names it assumes, and the success or failure we make of it varies with different people. Hero aro some of tho names of it discussed in this book:—Tho Spirit of Dare, Getting Past Our Prejudices, Doubts, and What to do With Them; Dp Against It; Why Wo Fight Shy of Religion; Ordinary People; Growing Old, etc. Tho author, Rev. Alex. P. Campbell, is a Congregational Minister in a Sydney suburb, and the articles are reprinted from tho 4 Sydney Mail,’ where the first appeared. They are well worth a larger audience. There is a robust common-sense about them that is refreshing. Mr Campbell does his own thinking. He rarely takes his cue from others. He uses few illustrations. But ho knows what ho wants to say, and ho says it in a lucid and impressive stylo. The subjects dealt with touch everyday needs. It is a well-worth-whilo book, and who ovor buy it-will get .sound and'sober advico ou how to climb the hill difficulty.,

A GOOD PLOT There is an ingenious plot in 1 Once Bitten,’ a murder xnystery story by G. M'Lcod Winsor. It is_ certainly a “thriller,” with a love interest and a melodramatic surprise at the end (vide tho wrapper). The plot is original, and there is plenty of action throughout tho story which concerns Major Wetherby, V.C., who returns to England after several years’ absence. He meets a stranger in tho street who bears a striking resemblance to himself. The fun commences wher tho major finds himself m tho stranger’s flat with a murdered man, and decides on flight in view of tho circumstances. From this point on there is not a dull moment in the tale, and the reader’s interest is kept an high pitch till tho last page. Our copy is from the publishers, Messrs Herbert Jenkins Ltd. (London), A MYSTERY THRILLER ‘ The Winterton Hotel Mystery,’ by James Corbett (Herbert Jenkins),—A series of mysterious murders in a popular London hotel is the theme around which this mystery thriller is written, but tho story, though of a fairly ingenious type, has no great appeal. Tho writer goes into a good deal of detail to describe why his great detective is outwitted at tho outset, and it docs seem strange that such a famous organisation as Scotland Yard is reputed to be should havo to go outside its own ranks to secure a man to solve the mystery. The story is not convincing, and after some of the thrilling mystery novels that have come from Herbert Jenkins lately this latest effort is most disappointing. Our copy comes from tho publishers. NOTES

Sir Philip Gibbs knows a lady who published her first novel last year at tho ago of eighty-two.

Mrs Elizabeth Haldane’s ‘Mrs Gaskell,’ announced by Hodder and Stoughton, promises to bo attractive. It will contain some hitherto unpublished letters relating to Charlotte Bronte and Florence Nightingale. Messrs Putnam announce for early publication a book qn Lord Birkenhead, giving intimate of his career, especially in connection with Oxford and athletics. Tho author is Mr Ivor Thomas.

Dr H. R. H. Hall, keeper of the Egyptian and Assyrian antiquities at the British Museum, whoso death is announced, was the author of numerous books on arclueolgy_ and kindred subjects. He took part in many archeological expeditions, and in 1919 was in charge of the excavations at Ur of the Chaldees.

Mr Frank Harris, formerly editor of tho ‘ Fortnightly Review,’ the ‘ Saturday Review,’ and other periodicals, is writing a biogi%phy of Mr Bernard Shaw. Mr Harris has had a varied life, and was at ono time a cowboy in tho Western States of America. Ho is in his seventy-fifth year.

Among tho latest books for transcription ■ into Braille typo aro Mr J. B. Priestley’s ‘Angel Pavement,’ Mr George P reedy’s ‘The Rocklitz,’ Mr Stephen Graham’s 4 Peter the Great,’ and M, Andre Maurois’s 4 Byron.’ They will he added to tho National Library for the Blind, Westminster.

All tho parts that can bo deciphered of the recently-discovered diaries and note books of the Andrco Polar expedition will be published during the next few months in eight languages—Swedish, Norwegian, Danish, English, French, German, Dutch, and Italian. Tho Royal Swedish Geographic Society is to edit tho book.

Mr Alfred Tressider Sheppard, the author of many popular historical novels, lias been married at Antwerp to Miss Doreen Moore. They both live at Saffron Walden, and Miss Moore used to help Mr Sheppard with his work. Mr Sheppard’s latest book, 4 Tho Art and Practice of Historical Fiction,’ appeared only a few weeks ago.

Messrs Cassell announce 4 Tho Diaries of John Bright,’ edited by Mr R. A. J. AValling and containing an introduction by Mr Philip Bright, Only a fragment of these diaries has appeared in print before. The same publishers will issue this month 4 The Gladstone Papers, ! which reveal Gladstone in his private capacity..

The earliest reference to the expression “Hell for leather” in the large Oxford Dictionary is 1892, in Rndyard Kipling’s ‘ Barrack Room Ballads, ‘ Shillin’ a Day ”’; “ Where we rode hell for leather; both squadrons together.” Professor Weekly suggests that it may be a corruption of “ all in a lather.”

When U H. Lawrence died he left behind him manuscripts of several unpublished works. Among them was a novel which Mr Lawrence had prepared for the Press before he died, and which has just been published under the title of * The Virgin and the Gipsy.’ The other books which were found in manuscript form among Mr Lawrence’s papers will also bo published.

The largest-known collection of “hoi’ii” books, which were by schoolchildren in olden times, has been discovered in an old house in the Isle of Wight. It consists of some fifty examples, many of which are believed to date from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. “ Horn ” boobs consist, in most cases, of a piece of carved wood with a simple lesson on one side, and were so called because letters were protected with a strip of horn. Some are mrsdo in the form of animals and other figures. Mr Cyril Clemens is a cousin and not a son of Mark Twain, as reported. Mark Twain had no son. He had two daughters, one of whom died in painful circumstances. Mark felt her death acutely, and paid a loving tribute to her memory in a poem (blank verse) which appeared in ‘Harper’s Magazine.’ The other daughter was a pupil of a music toucher named Gabrilowitsh (or some such name), to whom she was married shortly before her father’s death. Mark Twain was present at the marriage, and after the ceremony temarked, “ I shall spend the rest of my life attempting a pronunciation of my son-in-law’s name.” Cyril Clemens is writing a biography of his famous relative.

The Earl of Balfour, in his book, ‘Chapters of Biography,’ wrote of his difficulties in public speaking:—“ It has been a serious misfortune to mo that, throughout a lifetime largely occupied in public speaking, my want of verbal memory has always ijmde verbal preparation impossible. Randolph Churchill could repeat a column of ‘ The Times ’ after a single perusal: if, therefore, he pould pecuro without difficulty whatever 'degree of verbal thought he thought desirable. Bonar Law, smoking comfortably in his armchair, .could compose a {speech involving the most complicated

arguments and figures without putting pen to paper; and, having done so, could use it, in whole or in part, without misplacing a word. I _ never could discover merely by listening whether Lord Oxford (Asquith) was speaking impromptu, was repeating from memory, or was reading from a manuscript. Always the right word came,, and always without an effort. This, unfortunately, has never been my case. After more than half a century of speech-making there still remains a lamentable difference between my written and my spoken word—a difference not the less lamentable because some of my friends profess themselves quite unable to detect it.

An effort is being made in France to check the abuse of what is called “ personality mongering” in literature. A book called ‘U.S.A. With Music’ has been published with no author’s name and no pseudonym, as part of an effort to, induce the public +o buy books for wliat they are and not for the name of their authors. The movement is spreading to London. ‘ U.S.A. With Music ’is a satire on American life, and other hooks are to follow. “Many English authors of note are showing a keen interest in the project,” said one of the promoters in London. “After all, how many people know who built the Tower or Westminster Abbey or _who wrote ‘God Save the King’? It is the work that counts, not the name. In this new venture anonymity will not be a game of finding out who wrote the book. The authorship of a book will not be revealed. Our chances of success depend on the quality of the books,”