LITERATURE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 17092, 25 August 1917, Page 2

LITERATURE.

; A CAIISERIE* By Constant Reader. THE FRT£NOJ-I WAR NOTE. (A) When lo the tine litcru-iy sense is joined intensity of a fervent patriot, supremely conscious ot the terrible injuries inflicted upon lik; country and- his nation, the outcome is eloquence of a high order. This i.s tho ease witii the hook entitled "War" which, translated uom {.lie French of Pierre lxitij hag lately been presented to the •British readers. Captain J. Viand, to give tho author his military name and title, was originally attached to the Naval Reserve, but at tho outlet of hostilities he protested against the hardness of Iris lot, urging- "that tho mere hr-i thai, f an* a e-aptain in tho Naval Reserve doom? mo to almost complete inaction, while all France is in arms." In oonsoquenco of this plea Pierre Loti was granted lib'jrty to come and go, with tho result that he has give® his impression* of the war ou the western front from various points, these being embodied in a series of letters, now published in book form, which cover the period from August, 1914, to April, 1916. In these letters tho dominant note is sympathy with the victims of the war, the wounded soldiers and the suffering women and children, both of Belgium and of France. And having come, as he did, into close contact with so many instances of German barbarity, it can scarcely be wondered at that the French author gives expression to a bitterness against and contempt for Germany and everything German—culminating in the person of the Kaiser—which not even his artistic sense enables him to restrain.

Pierre Loti's book is worth reading, if only for the vivid viewpoint it affords of

the war in a Frenchman's eyes, and it is remarkable for the clear note it sounds of Franco's unshaken determination to persevere to the bitter end. It is marked, too, by many fine pen-pictures, the beauty of which not oven the prooess of translation can entirely destroy, and by passages of undoubted pathos. No book on the war can be an unmixed pleasuro to tho reader— tho background is too tragic and the details too horrifying; but Pierre Loti at least can communicate a. thrill as ho reveals tho undying heroism, of his bravo compatriots. At the same time, ho in no wise attempts to minimis© the destructive ravage® of the war. Following a, description _of the "riddled and rent" basilica at Rhoiins—and the words wc.ro penned in October, 1914—Pierre Loti writes:— A whole splendid cycle of our history, which seemed to Jive in the sanctuary, with a life almost tangible, though essentially spiritual, has suddenly been, plunged into tho abyss of things gone by, of which even the memory will soon pass away. Tho crreat barbarism has swept through this place, the modern barbarism from beyond the Rhine, a thousand times worsei than the barbarism of old times, because it is doltishly, outrageously self-satisfied, and consequently fundamental, incurable, and final —destined, if it bo not crushed, to overwhelm the world in a sinister night of eclipse. In truth, it is strange how that statue of Joan of Aro in the ohoir has remained

standing calm, intact, immaculate, •without oven the smallest scratch upon her gown. In one brief pathetic paragraph Pierre Loti oonveys the truth of the poignant sufferings Franco is enduring, while defending. herself against invasion and conquest. Tho story is eloquently told of "a little hussar," Max Barthou by name, "ono of those dearly-loved only sons whose death shatters two, or three lives at least." It is a, story -which enforces a terrible moral:— And- there are thousands and thousands of our sons mown down in this manner— ; sons from villages or' castles, who were all the hope of. all that made life worth living, for mothers, fathers, grandfathers, grandmothers. Night and day for 18 years, 20 years, they had been surrounded with <;Tery care, brooded over with all tenderness. Anxious eyes had watched unremittingly their physical and moral growth. For some of them, of humble families, heavy sacrifices had necessarily to be made and privations endured so that their health might be assured and their minds have scojve to expand, to gain knowledge of the world, to be enriched with boautiful impressions. And then, suddenly, there they are, those, dear prepared for life with such painstaking love; there they are, beloved young heroes, with shattered breast ot brains blown out—by order of that damnable Jack-pudding who rules in Berlin. ' Oh. execrations and curses upon the monster of ferocity and trickery who has unchained all this woe! May his life be greatly prolonged so that ho may at least have time to suffer greatly; and afterwards may he still live on and remain fully conscious and lucid of intellect in the hour when he shall cross the threshold of eternity, where upon that door, which will never again be opened, may be read, flaming in the darkness, that sentence of utmost horror, "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." M. Loti paints some touching pictures of the King 1 and the Queen of the Belgians, and tells of a visit paid to the headquarters of tho Belgian army, and with the objectlesson in full view lie exclaims, "Above_ all, let us never forget.!" He gives two views of trench warfare, and places them in striking contrast. On the part of Germany he writes: "How humiliating! After prodigious efforts in mechanics and chemistry to revert to the custom of the age of cavedwellers; after fighting for more than a year with lethal weapons, perfected with infernal ingenuity for slaughter at long range, to bo found thus, almost on top of one another, for months at a time, witn straining nerve and every sense alert, and yet all hidden away under cover, not daring to budge an inch!" Tlie moral from the side of France is in startling contrast: — Oh, let us bless these trenches of ours, whore all ranks of society intermingle, where friendships have been formed which yesterday would not have seemed possible, where men of the world will have learnt that the soul of a peasant, an artisan, a common workman may prove itself as great and good as that of a very fine gentleman, and of even deeper interest, being more impulsive, more transparent, and with less veneer upon it.

In trenches, communication trenches, littlo dark labyrinths, little tunnels, where men suffer and sacrifice themselves, ■ there will be found established our best and purest school of socialism. But by this term socialism, a term'too often profaned, I mean true socialism, be it understood, which is synonymous with tolerance and brotherhood; that socialism, in a word, which Christ came to teach us in that dear formula which in its admirable simplicity sums up all formulae, "Love one another."

In the spirit of Christ, Pierre Loti confesses to a prompting in the hearts of the men in tho .French trenches to say to the Germans in theiir trenches, "Come, truce to this game of death! Are we not men and brothers? Come out of your shelters and let us shako hands." Mournfully ho admires the impossibility of this pacific course, since the Germans "lack the vital moral sense, loyalty, heroism, vemorso, and that sentiment especially, which is perhaps noblest of all and yet most elementary, which even animals sometimes possess, the sentiment of pity."

M. Loti's conviction is couched in the form of a tremendous accusation: "Oh, let ua never forget that this predatory race is incurably treacherous, thievish, murdorous; that no treaty of _ pcaco will over bind it, and that until it is crushed, until its head has been cut off —its terrible Gorgon head, which is _ Prussian Imperialism—it will always begin again." The book concludes with a thoughtful exhortation, addressed no less to the Allies than to the neutral nations:—

Oh, everywhere let tho tocsin clang,' a {nil peal, ringing from end to end of tha oarth; let the supreme alarm ring out, and let the drums of all tho armies roll the charge! And down with tha German Beast! THE RED CROSS IN ITALY, (n) Mr E. "V. Lucas is one of tho most cultured amongst modern raconteurs. He also knows hie Italy well, as his Wanderer books—on Venice and Florence—eloquently testify. These and other reasons probably explain the selection of Mr Lucas to make a tour of the Italian front, comprising the Carso, Gorizia, and the Carnic and' Julian Alps, in tho interests of the British Red Cross in Italy. The object of the tour was to inspect the work for the wounded

(a) "War." By Pierre Loti. Translated [ lom Hie PreneJi by llarjorie Laurie. London: T. Werner-Laurie. (2» Gd net.) (li) "Outposts of Mercy." The record of a visit ic November and Deoexnber, 10Hi, to tlie varions nnite of the British Bed Gross in Italy. By E. "V. Lucas. With 1G illustrations. London": MfiUmcn and <3b. (Is not.) C. " lullingtloii Downs, and Other ,Poems, with Sonnets." By Jbhn Masefield. London: W. Heiuemann. (3s 6d.) D. " The Philosophy of William James." Br Th Flournov, Professor in tlie Faculty of f-eicnoe's nt the [Tniversitv nf Genera. Authorise translation by E. B. Holt and W. .James, jun. Loudon: ConaM&le sad Go. (,5s tutL)

which is being carried out by a Joint Wa, j Commit,toe of tho British Red t'roxs, th> I Order of St. John, and of tho Italian j siimta; hut Mr Lucas testifies that u> hiu: ' personally it proved both a holiday jizn a tonic. owit it/ to (ho wintry condition: which prevailed at the time of his visit Mr Lucas saw but little lighting, but h< gives testimony to n state of affairs reveal iug the secret of tho victory which Italy i.even now achieving over Austria, anil which also proves (lie permanence of the alliance between Italy and Britain. The spectacle of the indefatigable Italian soldiers performing astonishinp engineering tasks, and cheerfully overcom mg the most appalling difficulties, would alone have been bracing; but to see also ono s own countrymen untiringly and selflorgetfnlly doing such humane and adrnir able work, often under conditions that are not only harassing, bat as perilous a', those of tho fighting men themselves, was even more invigorating. The union of enthusiasm and efficiency must always be impressive, and both are here. Mr Lucas always writes interestingly, and usually instructively. In tin's little brochure of scarce 60 pages he contrives to give th*--reader a comprehensive idea of the marvellous organisation of the British Red Cross in Italy, and of the indomitable spirit of u soldier, sandwiching in between those scraps of literary lore and .Lrtistic and antiquarian gossip, which he knows so well how to handle. It is a timely little book, since upon every page it emphasises the needs of tho Fighting Men, and points

to the kindliness and helpfulness with which the British Red Cross is striving to meet these needs._ It is a book for everybody to read, as it points the path along which everybody may render practical help, and thus endeavour to assuage the suffering and minimise the pain which war inflicts upon ■ , whc L, go .t'° thc . front to fight for the right. The illustrations, from photographs, are a feature of the book. Mr MASEFIELD'S SONNETS. (c) The war is compelling manv writers tc strike a new note, and this 'is especially truo of the poets. An almost blind groping after the meaning and truth of things is the keynote of Mr John Minefield's latest volume, which, curiously enough, is called "Lollingdon Downs and Other Poems, with Sonnets,' although no poem with the title Lollingdon Downs" is to bo found within its covers. Mr Masefield has been experimenting with the sonnet form for some time past. Some of his attempts were issued in a ? , Rr,can edition bound up with his play Good Friday"; others have been privately printed. In this new book these sonnets, with several additional numbers are interspersed with, other noems, the whole being evidently designed as a sort of sonnet-sequence dealing with the meaning of life. Mr Masefield has been to GalJipoh, and has witnessed the war at close quarters. The effect is furnished in reflections such as those:

Here, where we stood together, we three men, Before the war had swept us to the East, Three thousand miles aw,ay I stand agen And hear the bells, and breathe and eo 'to feast. We trod the same path, to the self-same place. Yet hero I' stand, having beheld their graves. Slkyros whose shadows the great seas erase, And Sedd-el-Bahr that ever more blood craves.

So. since we communed here, our bones have been Nearer, perhaps, than they again will be; Earth and the world-wide battle lie between. Death lies between, arid friend destroying sea. Yet here, a year ago, we talked and stood As I stand now, with pulses beating blood. These sonnets and poems, although technically of unequal merit and scarcely destined to prove as popular as much of tho poet s previous work, will bo found of unusual interest as revealing the wakening of Mr Masefield's mind and illustrating the gradual development of his thought. A philosophy of life—nebulous, but suggestive— unflolds itself in this sonnet-sequence, which commences with a question: So I have known this life, These b"ads of coloured days, This sc-lf the string. What is this thing? Not beauty, no; not greed, O. not indeed: Not all, though much; Its colour is not such. It has no eyes to 6eo, It has no ears; It is a red hour's war Followed by tears. t It is an hour of time, Ah hour of road / Flesli is its goad; Yet, in the sorrowing lauds, Women and men take hands. O earth, give us the corn, Come rain, come sun; We men who have been born Have tasks undone. Out of this earth Comes the thing birth, The thing unguessed, unwon. Commencing thus with life in the cradle, Mr Masefield adopts the method and many of the ideas imposed by Edward Fitzgerald upon Omar Khayyam and immortalised in the paraphrase of the Rubaiyat. The poet pens some linos, haunting in their beauty and pregnant with thought, tho outcome of meditation. As for instance: Dust footed Time will nover tell its hour Though dusty Time its rose will draw men on, Though dusky Time its beauty will make plain Man, and Without a spirit scattering pain. One hour, or two or three, in long years scattered Sparks from a smithy. that have fixed a thatch, Are all that life has given and all that mattered; Tho rest, all heaving at a moveless latoh. Throughout Mr Masefield's note is one of pessimism and uncertainty, born of the unrest in which the world is enveloped. This finds full expression in the concluding sonnet of the series:— Let that which is to come be as it may, Darkness, extinction, justice, life intense; Tho flies are happy in the summer day, Flies will bo happy many summers hence. Time with his antique breeds that built the Sphinx, Time with her men to come whoso wings will tower. Poured and will pour, not as the wise man thinks, But with blind force, to each his little hour. And when the hour has struck, oomes death or change, Which, whether good or-ill, we cannot tell, But tho blind planet will wander through her range Bearing men like us, who will serve as well. The sun will .rise, the winds that ever movo Will blow our dust that once were men in love.

WILLIAM JAMES ONCE MORE, (D) Perhaps the most concise, comprehensive, and illuminating- interpretation of the philosophy of William James—to which Professor Dunlop recently directed attention in a lceturo before . the Otago Institute—is contained in a volume by Professor Flournoy, of the Geneva University, an English translation of which has just been issued from the press. This book should prove of intense interest to all concerned in the coming reconstruction. The applicability of Professor Flournoy's exposition to the present crisis may be gathorcd in one brief extract: — If James changed and did not appear to eettla definitely tho special problems that interest professional (philosophers, tho case was quite different in all that he called popular philosophy, wiiioh was, after all, to his pragmatio eyes, the only important one which it is the sole business of all other pliilosophies to support and fortify. Here he never changed, save in details of form and exposition. Hero we find him quite the same through his whole career, from the first article that- appeared under his name to the closing pages of his posthumous work. To him we are free beings in spite of the chains of heredity, education, and habit which bind us; the universe of which we are a part, at present a sorry mixture of "good and bad, is an unfinished reality in process of creation, to whose destiny we contribute by our voluntary moral and religious attitude; finally, this confident attitude is the only one to which wo are truly conformed, because it alone enables us to support the tragedies and appreciate tho joys of life.

A NEW BAIN BOOK. In his introduction to his latest Hindoo 6tory—" Tho Livery of Eve/' which is the twelfth in a unique series, —Mr F. W. Bain remarks: " Upon strange days _ and evil have we fallen, when it is well-nigh criminal to bo anything, for the moment but a soldier. Hail I all nail to the fighting man I And what apology is it possible to offer to tho reader, who is,, or was, or will be, fighting for the Old Country, for presenting him at such a time with anything so trivial and inopportune as fairy tale ?" There .follows a characteristic passage which I may reproduce only in part: I was sitting upon a rock, among the mists of Mahabaleshwar, adding tho last touches to the toilette of my Hamadryad, when all at once, like Wordsworth, I dropped my pen and . listened to the wind. . . . , And so, in this atmosphere of silence and seclusion and peace of the forest incommunicable. _ I looked away through a gap in tho hills, away over tho mists that were creeping and drifting and jostling in the valley, towards the Western sea; and I said to myself: Can it be that at this very moment a continuous thunder of "high explosives" is actually rolling over there, where the _ destiny of the nations is now trembling in the balance? And what, then, can those contribute, whom ago and duty chafe and chain far from the scene of action? Must they serve only by inaction? Can they do nothing else but stand and wait, or. wait and see? Is this a time for dreaming?

The only thing that matters is to contribute another unit to the legion in the trench. : But the answer to this thorny question ! came to' me a little later! What if the dream were itself a contribution, not without its use? "A few moments snatched from the contemplation of political crimes, bloodshed, and treachery are a few moments gained to all lovers of innocent illusion. Nor need the statesman or the scholar despise the occasional relaxation .of light reading. ' When Jupitex and the great deities are represented bv'Homer as returning from scenes of havoc and carnage to visit the blameless ■ and quiet Ethiopians, who were the farthest removed of all nations, the Lord knows whether, at the very extremities of the ocean, would they have given ear to manifestoes or protocols? !No, they would much rather, have listened to the tales of Mother Goose" (Beckford's '"'Travels in Italy," 1854). If, then, this little "digit," like some of her elder sisters, should help some wounded hero to forget his troubles for but an hour, the work of a blameless and - quiet Ethiopian, far removed from the Tohu Boliu and hurly-burly of Arma- : geddon, will have its worth and its reward. And are not the swans of Manasa, and Kailas at least the equals of the geese of other lands? Nay, who knows? Maybe Mother Goose herself is of Indian origin, and had a great-streat-grandmother who listened to the private conversation I of the Moony-crested God with, the I Daughter of the Snow. EDWARD EASTAWAY. Who is Edward Eastaway? The question has frequently been put since the appearance of "An Annual of "New Poetry, 1917." to which this poet "was one of the contributors. A tragic answer has been forthcoming since the death at the front of Second-lieutenant Edward Thomais, who, well known under his own name as essayist and critic, used the pseudonym of "Edward Eastaway" for his published verse. One of his poems, entitled "The Bridge," runs as follow®: — I have come a long way 1 to-day; On a strange bridge alone, Remembering friends, old friends, I rest without Bmile or moan. As they remembar me without smile or moan. All a<re behind, the kind And tho unkind, too, no more To-night than a dream. The stream Runs softly yet dreams the Past, The dark-lit stream has drowned the Future and the Past.

No traveller has rest more blest Than this moment brief between Two lives, when, the night's first lights And shades hide what has never been, Tilings goodlier, livelier, dearer than will be or have been.