BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 21518, 16 September 1933, Page 19

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

VERSES THE UNNET Nought seemed alive in the universe But myself and that sweet thing Perched near on the bough of a willow tree, Trembling and twittering. When, in the moments that challenged Existence With their deep flood of grief, I saw my dove 4 uest >onings returning home With not a leaf. Oh! We were kindred there, in that mysterious wood Where not a bough stirred, When answering but the echo of its own voice Was that lone bird! —Huw Menai, in ‘John o’ London’s Weekly.’ THE OLD YEW Still bends the shady yew, above the dead, As if in thought: the tallest grass stands still: Even the cuckoo on its colour’d hill Is wordless: not a bee hums overhead. Now for one moment time has stay’d his tread Beside the grave: ’twould seem no miracle To hear a ghost step past his coffinsill Into this ground so deeply quieted. Only in silence are we made aware Of the real world, our holy Yggdrasil, Whose freshness thrusts from out the charnel house. There are no dead: into the lighted air Life’s dark root lifts, ’tis indivisible From the autumnal beauty of the boughs. —William Soutar, in the ‘ Observer.’ BOOKS OF YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY “ Even if everybody read the latest novel, it would still be an inadequate test of its popularity. A more real tost is to take the number of modern books we wish to possess rather than the number of those we merely wish to read. And it is here that contemporary literature is at a discount. The number of books that aro purchased as opposed to those that are merely borrowed is small.”—A writer in ‘ Truth.’ “ Probably at no time in the history of English literature were so many books published whose popularity was purely ephemeral and whose purchasers were exclusively circulating, libraries,” says the writer. “It does mot follow that many people do not derive a great deal of pleasure out of reading modern fiction and twentieth century neo-bis-torical biography. At first acquaintance these things are more attractive than the forbiddingly fat volumes of the Victorians, just as Gershwin is at first acquaintance more acceptable than Beethoven.. “ But'popular music soon palls, and the books that authors write in our day have precisely the qualities of the easyand, tuneful music that grows wearisome with repetition. Yet we can at any time read Dickens or Thackeray, Macaulay and Gibbon. Once we have started, tho many volumes before us do not scare us away, and we never lay volume vi. down without feeling tho inevitable sadness which Dr Johnson attributes to the end of anything. “ For these writers of yesterday absorb us in spite of ourselves in a way that the moderns never manage to absorb. We can come back to them again and again. Their morality is obvious, their history is inaccurate, they never say in one word what could be put in three, their complacency is absolutely maddening. All those drawbacks they undoubtedly possess; from all these drawbacks our contemporaries are engagingly free. THE OLD AND THE NEW. “ And yet the older works have an enduring quality that the others have not. They contrive to be both restful and enthralling at tho same time. They drive our worries away while we aro reading them. Wo do not jump up every moment to put on tho wireless. They have somehow or other for all their pompous verbosity, a quality that is lust as absolutely as the brilliant colours of the old masters. “ Partly this is because writers from Fielding to Dickens could invent and toll a story, while tho moderns seldom take the trouble to produce _ anything beyond a neurotic introspection which may be due to pre-war Russians or post-war conditions. Whatever the reason, it makes the book disturbing for the reader, because it goes along in nervous jerks that are anything but soothing. "If, on the other hand, a modern writer produces a biographical novel, it is usually inferior to tho kind of think that Fielding and Smollett did two hundred years „ago. It is not talent, but energy,'that is lacking, Tho moderns never seem to give either the time "or the effort that their predecessors gave to what they created. That nobody in any walk of life works so hard ns they used to do is a point on which every worker of tho older •generation by hand or brain is agreed. THE SLIPSHOD. “ And literature more than anything else betrays tho specious and the slipshod. These things aro not altogether _ the fault of the contemporary writer. They are the fault of the time ho lives jn. To write as Macaulay wrote, or Dickens or Thomas Hardy, who was the last of them, a man requires a background that is spacious and secure. But such a background no longer exists. Tho uncertainty and restlessness of modern life are reflected in modern letters. A man without confidence in the future can feel no confidence in his future or in himself, and such confidence is essential to really great work. Under the title of * Thirty Years,’ Mr A. N. Smith has written'a history of the first three decades of the Commonwealth of Australia, from 1901 to 1931. Mr A. N. Smith is a well-known Melbourne journalist, who reported the Federal Convention and the sittings of the Commonwealth Parliament for the period of its meetings in Melbourne. The work is in the hands of Brown, Prior, and Co., of Melbourne.

A LITERARY CORNER

“A DARK SCOT AND A WILD CELT " Not. many people are familiar _ with the work of Harold Monro, who died in London last year (writes “ in the Melbourne ‘ Ago ’). Of Scottish descent, he was born in Brussels, and at the age of seven came over to Somerset, where he was schooled. He afterwards took up modern languages at Cambridge. His main interest was horse racing, in which he lost much money. He became gloomy, wrote verses and comic operas, married, was appointed a land agent in Ireland, ran a poultry farm, returned to England, took to the company of Socialists and vegetarians, developed into a publisher and author, piled up debt, walked from Paris to Milan and elsewhere, and generally lived an ineffective life. Back in London, he edited, a new review, founded a poetry book shop, lectured on poetry, did duty in the War Office during the Great War, and only death set him free from his romantic, idealism. His better-balanced friends consider that he occupied a midway position between the Georgian poets of one decade and the more “ modern ” poets. Whereas Georgian writers deal largely with what is impersonal and are more or less static in their_ ideas, Harold Monro is essentially original. He is not what is called a mature poet, but a city man, given to week-ending, and certainly be cannot bo ranked as a happy poet. His friend T. S. Eliot describes him as possessing “ a tortured human consciousness.’’ Frankness is in his verso, and also much bitterness; but reading his work as a whole one becomes aware of its claim to a high place among the poets of his generation. The temper of the man appears strikingly in ‘ The Earth For Sale,’ an irregular composition in which he imagines the coming of a time when the world will bo overcrowded, “ and our prolific breed exceeding death ten million times by birth,” will droop and dwindle like an autumn weed. _ We “ shall stand condemned, in serried ranks, and stare at nothing-fearing something may appear.” Large auction boards will cover the earth. At the long last, since no God responds to man’s cry: “Earth, with a smiling face, will hold and smother man in her large arms.” The poems referring to war are as one may expect, the grimmest of the grim. “To what God shall wo chant our songs of battle?” It can hardly bo said that he writes for humanity, expresses its fears and its hopes and faith. He gives, on the contrary, free rein to his own feelings, and they are far from being happy. His friends called him a dark Scot and a wild Celt He was a nojnad in more senses than one, a seeker after something he never found, but also a man with a gift of strong utterance, and with poetic insight into tho unintelligibleness of life. THE GENESIS DF NOVELS “ Good novels never ‘ write themselves.’ When that happens, when words stait tumbling over one another and get out of control, it means that tho self-critical function of the_ novelist --one of bis greatest powers—is out of action. He is writing, then, only to please himself (writes Mr Gilbert Frankau, tho novelist, in the ‘ Daily Mail ’). “ Yet that even this rule has its exceptions 1 am driven to admit as I sit hero looking at the first copy of my own latest novel which has just come in from tho printers. For that novel dictated itself in less than a hundred hours straight to the revolving wax of my dictaphone. And although 1 laboured three whole months trying to correct it nearly all my original words seem to have put themselves back. “ So perhaps tho whole craft is one of inspiration.” MR SHAN BULLOCK In electing Mr Shan F. Bullock to tho place left vacant by the death of George Moore the Irish Academy has given recognition to an Irish writer whoso varied gifts have been too long overlooked, says the London correspondent of tho ‘ Manchester Guardian.’ Mr Bullock, who is a native of Fermanagh, published his first book forty years ago. Ho has written about a dozen Irish novels. _ One of them was done in collaboration with the late Emily Lawless, and with another, ‘ The Loughsidcrs,’ he won a prize offered in 1923 by the House of Harrap. Amid tho nnslackening flood of fiction tho chances of survival, to say nothing of steady popularity, arc, as wo know, slim indeed. If it were not so one would expect a book sucli as Mr Bullock’s ‘ Robert Thorn,’ the story of a London clerk, to have held at least a good place in the thrcc-and-sixpenny reprints. It is in tho tradition of Anthony Trollope’s ‘ The Three Clerks,' and there are good judges of fiction who affirm that no better novel of its type was published in tho decade before tho w r ar. The Irish Academy has a membership of twenty-five only. SHAKESPEARE FIRST FOLIO IN SYDNEY A discovery has been made that the Sydney Public Library contains a volume, a First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, printed in London by lsn .laggard and Ed. Blount in 1623, fortythreo years before the Great Fire. It has lain in Sydney for almost -half a century. In 188-1, during a visit to Australia, Sir Richard Tangyc, of a Birmingham firm of engineers, presented it as a mark of his appreciation of tho courtesy shown him by tho library officials. Few people were aware of its existence. A recent message from England stated that a First F ho had been sold in London at Sotheby’s for £14,500, tho buyer being an American. Tho lib- -ian at tho Sydney Library considers tho Folio to ho worth £lO,000. It is tho only known copy in Australia Ago has sullied it l ut little, and it has been bound only twice, the last time about 100 years ago, so that it has been cut by the binders on only two occasions, a fact which is of groat importance, as an eight of an inch in the measurement may mean a difference of several thousands of pounds in tho value.

The Cambridge Press will shortly issue jßibles with zipp fasteners.

NEW BOOKS BREEZY SPORTING REMINISCENCES Probably no sportsman on the turf in Australia or New Zealand has enjoyed such a diversified experience in racing than Samuel Griffiths, who established himself as an authority with dominion racing enthusiasts under his nom-de-plume, “ Touchstone,” the contributor of informative articles to the sporting section of the ‘ Australasian.’ He has been a rolling stone! ho has gathered no moss but a mass of knowledge. In his book, ‘ A Polling Stone on the Turf,’ Mr Griffiths packs in such a variety of topics, observations, and personalties that he has made certain that not a dull page may be found in his reminiscences. As an owner, he raced in New South Wales, Victoria, and South Australia. He was handicapper for leading clubs in Australia and India, shipped horses _ to South Africa, and became a leading stipendiary steward. Air Griffiths knows the racing game from A to Z, but he has not relied on the turf alone as a source of anecdotes. Among the literary men he met on his travels was the famous Edgar Wallace, a notorious gambler, who made £12,000 in a week on the diamond fields of the Rand and lost £20,000 in a two hours’ plunge. When Wallace left South Africa for England he had 3s less than when he landed as a “ Tommy.” A good story of Wallace is told by Mr Griffiths:—“ While Wallace was very broke _ and judgments were out against him in all directions, a young man fresh from Oxford wrote a series of articles on ‘ How the Poor Live.’ This young fellow had done, a little slumming, had slept in a dosshouse, and had had a morning at Covent Garden. It occurred to him that it would be an excellent idea if ho spent a few days as a broker’s man. His father was the proprietor of a chain of provincial newspapers and he himself was fairly wealthy. By the oddest of chances he chose Wallace's neighbourhood for his broker-man exploit. One morning Wallace found a distress warrant levied on his house and furniture for £93 (he hadn’t 93 pence), and an apologetic young man of good address installed in his drawing room. When he found that he was of the same profession as Wallace, he wanted to clear out. ‘ No, you’d better have the experience,’ Wallace said. Reluctantly he stayed. The visitor began to find time hanging rather heavily on his hands, and suggested that they should play piquet, at which, he said, he was rather more proficient than the best man ho had ever foot. It so happened that piquet was also Edgar Wallace’s game. They started at 0 o’clock playing at 3d a hundred, and finished at 6 in the morning. Wallace had won sufficient money from the amateur broker’s man to pay him out, and take £GO to the Kempton Park races!” -, His turf tales are remarkably varied and sparkling. He tells of Fusee loft dead on the track who returned to Trainer Jimmy King’s stables an hour later. When he saw the resurrected horse, King exclaimed: “ Well, I’m d . Another dead ’un has come home on me!” _ The death of the horse had been published, and there was consternation at Caulfield next day when Fusee won a selling race. Before the Tod Sloan style of riding became popular, a light-weight, Tot Flood, rode the “ monkey-on-the-stick ” seat in Melbourne with some success, although he was associated with one or two shady trainers. He drifted. Towards the end of the ’ninetios, an American company presented a melodrama, ‘ The Country Fair,’ at the Theatre Royal, Melbourne. The principal scene was an exciting race in which, of course, the hero’s horse won, beating the villain’s representative. Real horses ridden by ex-jockeys galloped on 'a moving doorway. On'a Saturday night, when the house was packed, something went wrong wjth the machinery and the hero’s horse, ridden by Flood, was beaten by a length. Pained surprise and indignation were ‘ registered ’ on every face; you could have heard the proverbial pin drop, so tense was the momentary silence. Then a raucous voice rang out from the gallery; “ Ha, ha, Tot Flood, up to your old games again!” These two anecdotes are samples of the quality of Mr Griffiths’s reminiscences. They are worth reading not only by sportsmen but by others who enjoy a cheery raconteur who has travelled far and met many interesting people. Our copy of ‘ A Rolling Stone on the Turf ’ comes from the publishers (Messrs Angus and Robertson). ‘ A WATCH IK THE NIGHT *. ‘ A Watch in the Night,’ by Helen C. White (Macmillan), is an unusual novel - with a vivid historical setting. The chief character is a famous poet of the Middle Ages, Jacoponc Da Todi, author of many canticles and of the ‘ Stabat Mater,’ which is still occasionally performed. Jacoponc was on the threshold of what promised to bo a highly successful career in the Umbrian country of Italy. Rich and handsome, ho was in favour in Rome, and all seemed well. Then tragedy suddenly fell on him. His young wife was tragically killed through the collapse of a stand at a knightly tourney. Torn with grief, Jacoponc renounced the world, gave away his great possessions, joined the Franciscan order at Assissi, and took the vow of poverty. It was no sudden impulse, lie not only remained faithful, but when a great split came between the primitive Franciscans and those whoso thoughts turned to worldlincss and the intricacies of statecraft lie stood firm for the ideals of St. Francis, who had died fifty years before. Jacopone, in toil, in hunger and exposure, in attendance on the lepers who wore numerous in those days, followed the spiritual path without faltering. In the final scone, when Jacopone is an old man, an outbreak of plague occurs. Ho answers the call to service and makes the supreme sacrifice. By the force of his personality and the inescapable logic of Iris example Jacoponc did much to bring before men’s minds the first dream of St. Francis and his companions of wandering over the countryside bringing the message of the Gospel in the most convincing of all forms, the actual pattern of the daily life lived in complete self-abnegation and devotion.;

‘ ART IN NEW ZEALAND ' ‘ Art in New Zealand ’ is a national medium fulfilling a national function. This journal is now entering on its sixth year of publication. It was launched as a labour of love, and it has appeared every quarter since jirompted by the same spirit. The publication was steadily gaining support and recognition when the economic cloud enveloped the dominion, and it was inevitable that a venture of this kind should suffer. Now that the atmosphere is becoming clearer the editor appeals for further support, and it may well be believed that it will bo forthcoming. This is a case in which praise can be given without stint. The journal is admirable from every point of view. The illustrations in colour and in black and white are beautifully done. Each one is a picture in itself. Oil this occasion they are nearly all repi'oductions from the work of that talented artist, Nugent Welch, striking examples of whose skill with the brusii are to be found in the Dunedin Art Gallery. The first colour plate in this number is entitled ‘ The Green Peninsula,’ and it is a characteristic and delightful piece of painting. There is an interesting article on Mr Welch’s work by Mr T. D. H. Hall. The literary contents of the number include as usual contributions on a variety of topics relating to art, literature, and the drama by some of the dominion’s most capable writers; and verses by Eileen Duggan, Eve Langley, Dora Hagemeyer, and M. A. Innes are a feature of the issue. It is sincerely to be hoped that the editor’s appeal foxsupport will meet with a quick response. The annual subscription to the journal is a very small one, and hi return it gives much that is pleasing to the eye and stimulating to the mind, and it encourages devotion to those cultural arts in which the dominion is now taking a lively interest. • PATHWAYS OF THE SKY * Mrs E. M. Baily has written another pleasing novel of outback life in Australia, the title being ‘ Pathways of the Sky.’ The central figure of the story is a doctor about whoso early life there is a cloud. He is stationed in the back country of Queensland, and by means of an aeroplane attends to patients on the Central Australian stations. On one of these sudden calls he meets the daughter of. the station owner, and all at once becomes rosy for him, but there are many obstacles to be overcome before a happy ending is reached. The story is well written, and the atmosphere of the vast outback country, with its aboriginal inhabitants, is truly portrayed. The book has an insistent appeal, and adds greatly to Mrs Baily’s reputation as a novel writer; The Macquarie Head Press, Sydney, are the publishers. NOVEL BY OTTWELL SINKS ‘ Doc Churston ’ is another story of the North-West from the facile pen of Ottwell Binns. It is a splendid tale, with plenty of excitement and a good strong dash of romance. Mr Binns can always bo relied upon to supply outstanding chax-acters for his novels, and this is no exception. Mr Binns has captured tho atmosphere of the North and transferred it faithfully to these pages. The plot itself is intriguing. Dr Churston, a fugitive from justice (so he believes) makes for the Alaskan bprder, but on the way has ,to choose, between safety and admitting the claim of some Indian fever victims upon his medical services. He makes the right choice as events turn out, and profits thereby. Readers xvho like outdoor stories will certainly enjoy this one. Qur copy is from the publishers, Messrs Ward, Lock, and Co, (London). NOTES Some other Bronte relics—two waxheaded dolls belonging to the sisters — fetched only £4 10s at a recent London sale. Charlotte’s red morocco workhox went for £2B. The bequest of £25,000 which the late Mr Kenneth Grahame, author of ‘ The Wind in the Willows ’ and ‘ Dream Days,’ left to Oxford University is to be devoted to the Bodleian Library extension scheme. Sir John Hennikcr Heaton, who has written a volume of reminiscences, is the son of the Sir John xvho xyas mainly responsible for tho introduction of Imperial penny postage in 1898. A first edition of Fitz Gerald's translation of ‘ Omar Khayyam,’ originally published in 1859 at Is, and afterwards thrown into Quaritch s 2d box, has been sold in London for £B9O. A copy of Plato’s ‘ Republic,’ borroxved fifty years ago from St. Andrew’s University Library by a student, has been returned xvith the apologetic explanation that though he has kept it so long he has been too busy to finish reading it. Sir Emery Walker, the authority on typography, who has died at the age of eighty-txvo, was a friend and disciple of William Morris. Between them they founded in 1891 the famous Kelmscott Press, which turned out books that were models of line printing. With Walter Crane and others they also established the Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society, which is still in existence. Mr Robert MacDonald, tho novelist and dramatist, xvho died recently, xvas the son of the Victorian xvriter and mystic, George MacDonald, and the father of Mr Philip MacDonald, xvho rivals Edgar Wallace in the production of detective stories (says ‘ John o’ London’s Weekly ’). His elder brother, Dr Greville MacDonald, xvrotc last year a delightful volume of memoirs, entitled ‘ Reminiscences of a Specialist.” Miss Janet Beith, xvho xvon the £4,000 prize offered by Hodder and Stoughton and Frederick A. Stokes Company of Nexv York xvith her first novel, ‘No Second Spring,’ is a niece of lan Hay, being tho daughter of his brother, Mr Donald Beith, managing director of the Manchester and County Hank. She has based her story, xvliich deals xvith tiie western Highlands, on a diary kept by her great-grandfather, the Rev. Dr Heith. A number of important original manuscripts have been added to the British Museum’s collection, including Charlotte Bronte’s ‘ Jane Eyre,’ 1 Shirley,’ and ‘ Villetto Broxvning’s 1 Tho Ring and tho Book ’; Elizabeth Barrett Broxvning’s ‘ Sonnets from tho Portuguese ’; and Thackeray’s ‘ The Wolves and tho Lamb.’ All those belonged to Mrs George Smith, the xvidoxv of the famous publisher. Thackeray wrote in txvo distinct styles—upright and sloping—and both are admirably slioxvn on his manuscript, sometimes on the same page. Another valuable acquisition is Nelson’s personal log book, the last entry in xvliich ho made on the day before Trafalgar. It is a gift of Lord Wakefield to the nation.

This generation of poets swamps us with stuff which is quite incomprehensible without footnotes and not very comprehensible with them.—Sir J. C. Squire. Hugh Walpole is struck by the large number of volumes of reminiscenes appearing in the last few years. It is as though many persons feel that the world of yesterday is so completely swept away that any authentic record of it must have value. It is suggested by Basil de Selincourt that the present world chaos is partly due to the diffusion through books of ideas that have no relation to any possible realisation in practice, so that people live in a 11 haze of book notions.” The English Book Society’s choice for September is the forthcoming novel ‘ Woman on the Beast,’ by Miss Helen Simpson, the Australian novelist. It is, a fantastically imaginative novel dealing with the aerial extermination of the Australians in 1999, followed by the end of the world. A new Bernard Shaw book is about to be published. It is the text of the lecture which Mr Shaw delivered to a shocked but delighted audience at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, together with an explanatory preface. Mr Shaw is calling the book ‘ The Political Madhouse in America and Nearer Home: A Lecture with an Explanation.’ The Oxford University Press has just issued a book which is now published, for the first time, 157 years after the proofs were corrected by the author for the Press. This literary curiosity is a translation of Spanish songs made by Bishop Percy, of ‘ Reliques ’ fame. Though set up in type, it never reached the stage of publication. The proofs were recently discovered among papers belonging to the bishop’s family. In the edition now issued the twentiethcentury printer has faithfully followed the style of the eighteenth century proofs, and the engravings have been printed from the Original copperplates. The dominion’s scenic attractions, history, and practically every activity associated with this country have been written about, but it has been left to a Wellington pilot to record the romantic story of our skyways (‘ Skyways of Maoriland’). The author is Mr F. H. Gardiner. A foreword has been written by Sir Charles Kingsford Smith, who describes the book as “a delightful story, at the same time being a valuable treatise on sound and safe flying.” The book is being published by Messrs MTSenzie, Thornton, and Cooper, Wellington. It is not generally known that Queen Victoria contemplated, or at least threatened, abdication. In one of the 1,500 letters edited by Mr Philip Guedella and printed in ‘ The Queen and Mr Gladstone,’ appear these words, written in August, 1871;—“The Queen will not remain where she is, worked and worried and worn, if she is to become the servant of Parliament and to be responsible to them for all she does! This must be stopped. . . . It is really abominable that a woman, a Queen, loaded with care and, anxieties, public and domestic, which are daily increasing, should be unable to make people understand that there are limits to her powers, . . . She must solemnly repeat that unless her Ministers support her and state the whole truth she cannot go on and must give her heavy bm - den up to younger hands.” New Zealand features largely in an attractive book which will be published this autumn by Messrs George Allen and Unwin Ltd. It recounts the doings of Mr Stanley Unwin, the well-known publisher, when as a very young man he made a trip round the world with his future brother-in-law, Mr Severn Storr, Although the primary object of the journey was the study of bookselling conditions overseas, the two young men had many adventures and saw a great deal of life in very out-of-the-way parts —e.g., they worked as “ rouseabouts ” on a farm and did all the cooking. The book, which will be entitled ‘ Two Young Men See the World,’ consists of a selection from the journals kept by each traveller,, and will, it is said, make most amusing arid lively reading.