BOOKS AND BOOKMEN A LITERARY CORNER

Evening Star, Issue 22578, 20 February 1937, Page 23

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN A LITERARY CORNER

VERSES A POET DIES In every man a poet dies; and on liis death a clerk is born, Who, set apart from burdened beasts, assumes the sorrowful great gut Of computation. He who thought the clouds’ immeasurable drift To catch and hold, must cease to strive. The witchery of rustling corn , , c He shall not render, nor the need ot children serving wistful-eyed In alien sanctuaries. The pull ot vagrant hawsers to the sea He shall not show, nor yet the shrines - that dwell within a melody. ~ Still, it mayhap a thrush shall call: “How many summers since you died?” In every man a poet dies. Yet he who wrote “ When I have fears That I may cease ” outlived the doom of those who feel the maker die Within the'self. He has not ceased. He sends his Philomel to cry With every moon unwearied adown the woodlands of the years ; And he who slept by Skyros lives as long as Grantchester shall know The benison of Cambridge dawns. It is we moribund who > gird Within this mechanistic cage, to wring a magic from the word We wot of only through the dead, o’er whom the lethal flood shall flow. _C. R. Allen (Dunedin). OH, CRAY AND TENDER IS THE RAIN Oh, gray and tender is the rain, That drips, drips on the pane! A hundred things come in the door. The scent of herbs, the thought of yore. I see the pool put in the grass, A bit of broken glass; \ The red flags running wet and straight, Down to the little flapping gate. Lombardy poplars tall and three, Across the 'road I see; There, js no loveliness so plain As a tajl poplar in the rain. , . But oh, the hundred things and more, That come in at the door! — The smack of mint, old joy, old pam, Caught in the gray and tender ram. -—Lizette Woodworth Reese NEW BOOKS NEW ZEALAND VERSE The name of Douglas Stewart can be added to the small but growing number of :New Zealand poets. His verses in successive issues of 4 Best Poems ’ had shown him of the lineage, and ‘ Green Lions,’ which comes from him now and allows his full performance up to this time to be appraised, confirms the claim. It is close-wrought, slow-to-r Cad poetry for the most part, which this writer gives us; his beauty is hammered out, but it is achieved. It does not hurry, and it does not sing, but there is imagination behind the deliberate utterance; there is also thought. He has a keen eye for Nature and the forms and movements of animals, and a fine feeling for words, neither conventional nor affected, which will describe them. One may say of 4 Morning in Wellington ’ that it is laboured, but when it begins by saying: 44 Thin stone is in this chill wind from the south ” before explaining, for the mind that might still need conviction: “Thin stone, an essence of those bleak, hard hills That bulk between the town and the cold surf,” we know that what we are reading is poetry and not prose. When the thought is expanded in lines that describe how the rawness in the air Is hardened and made sour with those huge hills As, though the sharp spurs gritting through the grass Exhalo their own dank breath into the wind, The preciseness of epithet noted is well illustrated. “ Gritting ” is the exact word • Green Lions ’ begins as a sea piece. The bay is gouged by the wind. In the jagged hollows green lions crouch, And stretch, And slouch. And sudden with spurting manes and glitter of haunches Charge at the shore, And rend the sand and roar. It is a question whether it is helped by the concluding lines, which give these a human application. Largo hopes, after this, will be held of Mr Stewart. The book is published very artistically bv Whitcombe and Tombs Ltd. Discussing St. Paul’s sea voyages, the late Frank Bullen once wrote: — “ The Bible contains a sea story so thrilling, so accurately told, so succinct, and yet so full, that it may safely challenge any well-kept log book to-day. From the twenty-seventh chapter of the Acts of the Apostles any Marine Court of Inquiry in the world could apportion just praise or censure on those in charge of the ship that was wrecked, any underwriters and average adjusters could realise the proportion of loss to be borne. In short, we have here, in the space of an ordinary newspaper column, a classic of the sea, which, in spite of its being written by a landsman, of being translated and retranslated by men naturally ignorant of nautical terras, remains one of the most perfect pieces of nautical description in the world.’l

DAVID OF CAMBRIDGE [By Dr H. F. Stewart, in the ‘ Spectator.’] It is no exaggeration to say that the world of letters is poorer by the loss of Davs, the Cambridge bookseller, who died at the age of 7d in the small hours of Friday, November 20. Ever since he set up his trestles in the Market Place some 40 years ago he had been a principal channel through which good literature found its way into the hearts and hands of successive generations of readers, old and young; and his modest stall opened the door _ for many into the dangerous and delicious garden of Bibliophilia. When the lamp of learning burnt lowest, during the dreadful years 19141918, David, as much as anyone, kept the tiny flame from extinction in Cambridge, tempting cadets and temporary officers with the wares there were no gownsmen to buy; and those who knew this determined, when the University filled up again, to find some means of recognising his services. A degree of B.A. “ honoris causa ” would not have been inappropriate, but precedent and practice forbidding this, his friends gave him a gala luncheon in the Hall of Trinity, under the presidcncy of Mr Arthur Gray, Master of Jesus, the college of Charles Whibley and “ Q,” both of whom took active part in the business. David, smartly dressed for the occasion, complete with spats, could not find words to express his feelings, but he was immensely pleased with the compliment thus paid to him. The windows of his shop were long plastered with autograph letters from persons of distinction who wished him well but were prevented from attending his Prytameum.

Gustave David was a Frenchman and Parisian by birth, “ un enfant de la balle,” son of a second-hand bookseller; and it was a pleasure to hear him talk French to a passing compatriot. He brought into Cambridge a flavour of the “ Quais.” Like the owners of the boxes which tempt and disappoint the stroller along the Seine, David had a store from which he drew his stuff, besides the weekly consignment of treasures and rubbish gleaned from London sales. This store was for many years housed in a couple of cottages, chock-a-block with books, down in Barnwell. Later on he either sold the cottages as they stood or transferred their contents to a shop in Green street, whence he presently migrated to St. Edward’s Passage, off the King’s Parade. When the building of the Arts Theatre and the new King’s Hostel demolished all around, David’s shop, like the house of Pindarus, was partly spared, and there, or in an adjacent house, the business will, we nope, be carried on. perhaps with smaller stock, by his devoted son. The stock of David “ pere ” was vast and chaotic—an occasional MS., in better days some “incunabula” (association) books, Elzevirs, masses of seventeenth and eighteenth century literature, jostled first editions of Thackeray, Dickens, Scott, Galt, and all the volumes without which no gentleman’s and no student’s library is complete. From time to time, at rare intervals, a catalogue was issued, but David probably never knew what he had and what he had not, so that shop and stall formed a happy hunting ground for the booklover. He didn’t know, and did not greatly care; he was no expert, no Quaritch nor “ Maps,” though he provided the means by which experts are made. What he really cared for was his clients, whose individual taste he cultivated and fostered, sometimes setting aside for possible future purchase by Mr X., even at a sacrifice, a book which Mr Y. was ready to purchase on the nail. It would be an insult to his memory merely to say that he was an houest bookseller. The charm about him was that you could always be sure that the price at which he offered you a volume was only a slight advance upon what he had paid for it at the sale. If he had had it at a bargain, so had you. This policy brought its reward. Customers came again and again, breaking off their walk to and from work to see what David had on his stall.

A single instance will serve as illustration. A reverend canonist picked up from him a copy of Lyndwood’s ‘ Provincial ’ for, say, 2s 6d. As he pocketed it he remarked, “ I never knew Lyndwood fetch less than 305.” David, being commiserated on the difference between “ esse ” and “posse,” said with a snigger, “It does me no harm, and it pleases him; he’ll soon come back sniffing around for another bargain.” He bad a fine and valuable moral sense. He held no traffic with what the trade sometimes enters in catalogues as “ facetise ” or “ curious,” such as might do harm to youth and offend the guardians of youth. Ho wanted no one’s morals to suffer from what he supplied. He died in harness, “ felix opportunitate mortis.” His weekly custom was to visit London on Thursday (early closing day at Cambridge) for sales or other business, returning thence by the midnight train. It was just after such an expedition that he had a heart attack, and passed away before a doctor could attend him.

Cambridge will miss the old fellow as he sat in all weathers at his post, reading a storybook from his own stall, smoking endless cigarettes, and mildly grumbling at the degeneracy of the age (“ Undergraduates don’t buy as they did in Mr Keynes’s time ”), at the high prices of the market, at the difficulty of making both ends meet. When the fever of collecting had cooled or when crowded shelves forbade further acquisitions, David was gently reproachful, “We don’t sec you often now”; but be understood and he never failed of loyalty and affection towards an old client.

The annals of book-collecting are full of romance, and David deserves a niche in the Temple beside Thierry and Panconcke. Andrew Millar, the Dillys, and the adorable antiquaries of Anatolc France. He might well have adopted and adapted the advertisement of William Caxton: “If any man wants a good book, let him come to me in the Cambridge Market Place, and he shall have it good cheap. ’ •

MAURICE BARING Mr Man rice Baring is versatile as a writer and noted as one who brings the results of a keen observation to fruition in his literary work. It is to this keen observation —allied to personal and painful experience—that we are indebted for a very touching description of what it is like to wear a beard. The late Sir Harry Preston, in his recently published reminiscences (‘ Leaves from my Unwritten Diary ’) says that he was surprised to learn that Mr Baring once grew a beard. But it was not a success. “ It is,” lamented Mr 'Baring, “impossible to dry a beard. Mine was damp all day long.” “And,”, he added, shuddering, “at night they are at their worst. They tickle one’s chest, you know, and keep one awake. I used to wake up under the impression that I had fallen asleep in some undergrowth in a forest. It was after one such night that I arose and shaved off my beard.” It was Mr Ivor Novello who was partly responsible for Mr (Baring once ordering a meal of one oyster, certainly a large and luscious one. but still only the odd man out in a baker’s dozen. It happened down in the Brighton that was put on tho map in the Regency days. There, for many years, a little oyster shop run by the Cheesman sisters was well known, both for the excellence of its oysters and the strictness with customers of its proprietors. One day Ivor Novello and a friend fell foul of the Misses Cheesman over the question of smoking in the shop. Mr Maurice Baring, who heard of this, promised the culprits to be revenged on the ladies. , ~,,,, . He went over to the shop. What are your best oysters?” he asked in his soft, gentle voice. They were large and luscious Colchesters, at 13s 6d a dozen. , . “I’ll have an oyster, then, one of the shilling and three-ha’penny ones, he instructed the youngest of the three Misses Cheesman, “ and half a pint of stout, please.” . . . .. All the Misses Cheesman looked at him very hard - , but the eldest opened his oyster, and the youngest brought it, and ho solemnly ate it, and paid, and departed. LYAUTEY, DF MOROCCO, AND SHELLEY Marshal Lyautey, who made Morocco what is is to-day, used to wear a ring inscribed with the line from Shelley; “ The soul’s joy lies in doing.” This ring he wore until his death. It was in 1897, when he was in Madagascar, that he wrote to his sister; “Worry and preoccupation are the inevitable ingredients of action, splendid, divine action, from which 1 must never more be freed. And now, you are to make me a present. I have just found the following line in Shelley which I wish to make my motto: — ‘ The soul’s joy lies in doing” Have this engraved on a ring and send it to me.” Lyautey’s memory is worshipped in North Africa by Europeans and natives. You cannot be long in Morocco before you hear how deeply touched all were by the action of England when Lyautey left for France, his administration ended. Two British warships came out of Gibraltar to salute the great coloniser as he passed. It was spontaneous, a salute to a brave man, but it touched the hearts of all French colonists. Again when his mortal remains were carried back to lie in Morocco, British warships formed part of the escort. Lyautey saw big. He said once: “I want to do things on so big a scale that no one who comes after me will dare do things little.” Every town in Morocco is a tribute to him; broad avenues, tall buildings, and order everywhere, side by side with native quarters which have not changed in their centuries—old Eastern picturesqueness. THE ILLUSTRATED NOVEL Charles Dickens and George Bernard Shaw are collaborating in a book to be published by the Limited Editions Club m 1937. The book is ‘ Great Expectations,’ and Mr Shaw’s part will be a preface—he writes a good preface, that to his ‘The Shelving Up of Blanco Posnet ’ is longer than the play—in which.he will maintain that the original ending of ‘ Great Expectations ’ as it appeared in magazine serial form, condemned _ by Bulwer-Lytton as too gloomy, is a better ending than the one we know. In fact, Mr Shaw holds that, in its original form, ‘Great Expectations’ is the best of the Dickens novels. Are we to have a return of the illustrated novel? The signs are not wanting. We have an example in our own midst in Miss Isobel Ann Shead’s ‘ Mike,’ which Messrs Hutchinson’s published in London with five full-page illustrations in the body of the book by Noel Syers. The ‘ Great Expectations ’ edition referred to above is to be .illustrated with 40 pictures by Gordon Ross. And he also is illustrating a new edition of ‘ Pickwick Papers,’ published in America by the Heritage Press. This house is publishing a complete set of illustrated Dickens. The first to be published was ‘ David Copperfield,’ illustrated in colour by the English artist, John Austen ‘ Pickwick ’ is the second volume in the Heritage edition. Two more titles on the spring list for 1937 are: ‘ A Tale of Two Cities,’ illustrated in colour by Rene ben Sussan, and ‘ Oliver Twist,’ illustrated by Carlottn Petrina. The illustrated novel should be welcomed back by authors, readers, and artists alike. * Manuka Blossoms ’ is a collection of pleasant poems by New Zealand writers, very pleasingly bound. Pride of place is rightly given to some stanzas on Lake Manapouri by Phyllis Young, of Dunedin, which, however, are perhaps least successful when they attempt to rise above prettiness. The poems generally do not lack feeling and naturalness. but they lack distinction. Published by “ K ” System, Auckland.

E. F. BENSON Mayors ami manuscripts—other than those from which a be-chaitied dignitary reads when opening something or proclaiming something—dre not usually bracketed together. But Mr E.h . Benson, the novelist, has for the third time been elected Mayor of Rye, the ancient Sussex town in which he lives. His house formerly belonged to Henry James, the American novelist —author of ‘ The Wings of the Dove,! ‘ The Ambassadors,’ ‘ The Golden Bowl,’ and many other novels and sketches, besides nearly a hundred short stories—who became' a naturalised British subject in 191.5. , ~ Henry James lived for more than Z U years in London, and in 1898 moved to Rye, where, in Lamb House—now Mr Benson’s home—his later novels were written. Rye appears as Tilling in two of Mr Benson’s books, ‘ Miss Mapp ’ and 1 Mapp and Lucia.’ Lamb House, with its garden room, is minutely described as the home of the heroine. NOTES What will probably he the biggest book in the world is now being written in Johannesburg, South Africa. By the time it is completed it is expected that it will contain 1,000,000 entries. The book’s title, ‘ The Golden Register of Visitors to the Empire Exhibition Heidi in 1936-37 in_ Honour of Johannesburg’s Jubilee;’ is inscribed on a plate of real gold extracted from the Witwatersrand mines. Reading G. K. Chesterton’s autobiography, J, B. Priestley has come to the conclusion that, compared with their rollicking elders, present-day writers are a gloomy group. Mr Priestley feels that Chesterton, Belloc, Wells, Baring, and others enjoyed higher spirits and higher jinks than he and his contemporaries do. He cannot imagine T. S. Eliot, Richard Aldington, and Ivor Brown up to such larks. Miss Marion Tennant, writing in ‘John o’ London’s Weekly,’ has discovered the probable reason why Miss Dorothy L. Sayers writes such good murder stories. Asking the creator of Lord Peter Wimsey about her personal likes and dislikes, her hobbies and her collections, she got the reply: “ I have no Robbies. I collect Wilkie Collins’s manuscripts, I dislike vegetarians, teetotallers, cakes, pastries, and fizzy drinks. And I like my steaks bloody!” Some who have read Must Advertise’ will perhaps’have wondered if Miss Sayers’s background of an advertising agency was true to life. It was. She; Was a'copywriter at a Avellknorvn London agency. And visitors to the agency office still ask to see the spiral staircase down which the victim in the story was supposed to have fallen. In-somewhat dramatic circumstances a fragment of carbonised bone from Shelley’s funeral pyre was discovered recently in Rome. For some years the key of a drawer in a steel safe in the Keats-Shelley Memorial has been lost, and when, in the presence of the authorities, the steel drawer was forced by a locksmith two cardboard boxes were brought to view. One of the boxes contained the gold pen which King Victor Emmanuel of Italy used when he inscribed his name at the opening ceremony of the memorial in 1909. The other box contained the pathetic relic of Percy Bysshe Shelley. The presumption is that this fragment of bone formed part of the ashes which had been presented to the memorial by a descendant of Leigh Hunt. Leigh Hunt, together with Lord Byron, Trelawny, and Captain Shenley, was % present when the body of Shelley was burnt, so that it is probable that the fragment now in the Keats-Shelley Memorial forms part of a handful of ashes taken by Leigh Hunt himself.