IN THE LIBRARY

Northern Advocate, 15 September 1934, Page 7

IN THE LIBRARY

NEW CANTERBURY TALES

By Maurice Hewlett. Romance, pure and unsmirched by history, . real or so-called; romance, first cousin, if the relationship is not even closer, to the faii'y-tale, the folk story and the sage; romance that stirs the heart and carries the fancy as far afield as do the best Scotch and English ballads; romance of such a family has and will always have its votaries, its true admirers. As it happens, at present, the soil which produces it is lying wholly fallow, awaiting at some future date a new and rich harvest.

Maybe the last of the true minstrels of this order which we have seen appear in England was Maurice Hewlett. In his writings there is a rich strain of the mediaeval, attuned though it is to modern tastes, albeit not to so great an extent that its old-worldliness is in the least spoiled. “Little Novels of Italy,” “The New Canterbury Tales," “The Forest Lovers,” “Fond Adventures,” are all more or less of this order, and even in such historical ventures as “Richard Yea and Nay” and “Brazenhead the Great” all is steeped in, if it is not actually subordinated to, the yein of pure romance. Of the “New Canterbury Tales,” despite its title, it must be frankly conceded that its contents are fine olden stories redressed, tricked out anew in fine habiliments, living in a merry and irresponsible world, yet a world where swords were soon out, and death and danger lurked everywhere, expected or unaware. And love came then, quickly and insistent, or hesitant because of fancied or real inferiority of station. Adventure lacked not, nor yet good rough laughter and friendliness.

Quarrels were quick, and so were blows, but good comradeship quickly succeeded to the sound of sword and buckler play, cries of fear or the hallo of onset. All this needs a language of its own to carry it well, a language so easy to err disastrously either in bombast or finicalhess, Wardour Street English or sentiment. It is one of Maurice Hewlett’s xhief successes that he so completely escapes these pitfalls, and especially so after his first book or two.

A good, opening has but one danger—that there may be a falling oft ere the word “finis” is met—still a good opening holds promise. What then think you of this? The manner of the beginning of these tales was this. Percival Perceforest had sung a good part of the Romaunt de la Rose, and sung it well, in a high, clear, unfaltering voice which was neither proper man’s nor, certain boy’s, but of the sort we cal] alto. This intrigued, before it wearied, Smith the Shipman, but delighted Captain who had (in a sort) adopted the youth. At the end of his recital, “Is this young man your nephew, soldier?” asked the shipman. Captain Brazenhead flicked upwards his moustachios. “I would like to see the older man who denies it,’.’ he said with a glitter in his eye. For Percival was by no means his nephew. “I have nephews,” says the shipman, “who sing tenor, and nieces who sing treble. And the Pope. I hear, hath nieces. How now, master?”

Captain Brazenhead was meditating, stroking his nose. “Now,” said he quietly, “now would I cut thee in half, thou shotten herring.” “Let me go. wife, let me go!” cried the shipman, who Was strangling. Captain Brazenhead had stroked his nose till it burned: there might have been bloodshed within three miles of Winchester. Here the scrivener intervened.

“Madame,” said this worthy man to the Prioress, “instead of singing by rote, instead of hot debate, I perceive another pastime. I propose a tale from one of the company, all in the manner of that noble clerk and fellow of my mystery, Master Geoffrey Chaucer, of whom doubtless you have heard. What is more tb the purpose I (if your ladyship please) will begin with one of the most fruitful narratives* you ever heard; and although rhyme shall be lacking (for I am no rhymster for choice), I promise you the other elements of art, as balance,

[BY “THE BOOK-MAN.”]

careful heeds to longs and shorts, pro

portion, exquisite choice, these things (I promise you) shall not be lacking. If that will content your ladyship and this amiable company, I shall myself be contented. More than that I can scarcely say.” “I see on the hill the good town of Alresford,” said Captain Brazenhead, “There should be beer there, for my poor nephew’s dry throat." “I shall be done ' before we reach that town,’ replied ■ the Scrivener. They were now out of that open country where Kingsworfhy stands, and in the deepening valley of the Itchen. Itchen Abbas, with a grange of the Abbot of Hyde’s, Was past. They saw the grey downs on either side of them, a long white hill in' front, with dust where stray ed a flock of-.sheep; beyond that New Alresford must be hidden in trees.

The Scrivener was bid tell his tale. Percival’s hand rested oh Mawdleyn’s stirrup, touching Mawdleyn’s foot. ..

The Scrivener tells aneW," with variations and well, the story of Edward 111 and the Countess of .• Salisbury. Then, each in turn they tell a tale. There are complications -amid the setting of course. Percival is there to follow Mawdleyn, with whom he is in love. The Shipman •is sure he_ is a girl in disguise, and in truth charges him with being Captain Brazenhead’s “mye.” Of all the stories here recorded perhaps none is better than! the Shipman’s tale, but each will have his preference. Unfortunately we ; >- end rather abruptly, with the telling of Percival’s story, and we are left to our own devices and imaginings: and uncertainties. Does Percival . wed Mawdleyn? We told. However, those who have travelled thus far and desire to go still further afoot in the same company may do SO in either “Fond Adventures” of. in “Brazenhead the Great,” for the. same story will be found in them ‘both, with much more concerning the great Brazenhead, and some little anenf the shipman, to.say nothing of other folks, great and small. "H '