BOOKS AND TIMES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3518, 16 August 1921, Page 54

BOOKS AND TIMES.

THEIR R HAL I’J I,ATI( >XS!iIP.

By

G. A. COLLARD.

A fen days ago 1 took two books with I | me to the slopes of a hill nearby, and ! | spent a long morning m their company. ! j 1 lwi read la te over one of them on the ! | previous evening, deaf and blind to the i I clock ; it was the ‘-Lavengro” of ra . e I j borrow, that sane and friendlv I ; scholar. ] had been enthralled bv its I ! wanderings between the powers of I i ‘hud-mess and literary London of a ceu- ) tul X between its hard-iiehlhpr I j gtp.-ies and the intricacies of the Anne'’- ! j man alphabet. But. on this mormiw- I 1 wandered away from the tale; as Borrow 1 I La iked with Ja per Petulengro on the 1 o lfn .y of "the wind on the heath” I raised l *“>' ‘‘cad to breathe in the warm sea wind tnat was already beginning to rustle the | gra-ses on the hill ; and as 1 read of the dingle wherein he wrestles with the evil one f fitted my shoulders still more smigiy into the warmth of the mosscovered rock under which I sat and let the pleasant eartliy gusts of tobacco smoke blow back into my face, reasonin''thus: licre is no place for such a tale | of tiie roads and tiie country-side and the! | freshly-blowing wind, my friend ; the e ! good things are all 'about you in' actuality. And it would take a ‘ greater j ! artist than Borrow even to make you feel I ; the warmth of the sun as well as'the sun i i io-elf can do. You are doubling your ini- | ; press-ions., as it were. So you will keep • I tne remainder of the book to read in a : i smoky restaurant, at the end of a jaded ! j edv day, with a weary evening in ''front ! ; of you. Then you will taste it: carthli- ! i ness with hungry lips.” And 1 closed ' my book and opened the second—Haunt- j ! '»>«»'>. with ••Hatmele” and 'The Sunken : , , Ye ‘ 1 was no better pleased in j this place of misty romance. I found | myself cavilling eternally at the Ameri- | tenism of tlie translation, the clockwork j mechanism of the angels, and the drawI ipg room taint of many of the l.ric pa.s- ---; sages. In final desperation I shut mv j book and contented myself with looking I dov n over tne harbour, silkeulv grev in j i the quiet autumn light, with an incoming I j steamer moving so slowlv that one hul : to re. ort to measurement bv eve a nd ' ' linger to make sure that she moved. And i I continued to deliberate sadly upon a : mind that was so lacking m control that it couid not vise above tile every-dav blandishments of the out-dors. Act I kept a certain credit for mvsolf. Undoubtedly my book should have removed me from all earthly ties; yet I was at fault in overlaying the spirit of the morning with a fainter picture of the same kind ; while there was no place for angels maudlin above a child's deathbed in this pleasant sun-baked place of tufted grass and warm stones, with a prosaic collier in the distance and cheerful people gardening beneath my feet. Had I chosen, perhaps, a tale of sordid realism, such as “Crime and Punishment,” f should have found the correct attitude towards both : a calm detachment, with eyes lifted quietly from the terrible pageant of Sonia's progress to the pleasant colours of our suburbs. T should then have said. “Here is life as it exist-, wrought into a surpassing work of art: 1 marvel at the art and am regretful for the life." Or else a tale of high adventuring. to rouse me from my gentle stupor ; but. as the song goes “ Alas, my sleepy soul, it will not roam; It is too comfortable, warm, at home." 1 could not decide on a perfect attitude of mind towards myself on this particular morning. Dispassionately 1 wa.s entirely content to sit there, my mind in a quiet backwater. My duty, then, was to enhance this pleasant torpor by something meditative—a gentle appreciation of some tempestuous artist, some singer who mourns comfortably over his uncertain woes. Of I might enjoy my state of repose by delving into some tempestuous philosophy some ardent “slice out of life,” enjoying it by contrast, as a cat preens itself bv the lire while the wind cries out side. But then -and 1 found myself once

| more against the eternal problem of all I those who love their lwmks are they a mere retreat from the things of every day, • or are they a refining an 1 vitalising force I working upon these selfsame things ? And ; oilre more I could fm i no answer. I This problem becomes more acute as | books take a more prominent place ill our national life. I hey < ante first from the ; cloistered quiet of abbey and monastery, laying gradual lingers upon the hearts of | the wealthier members of the community. Leaving behind the moss-tinoping baton j who boasted that “no so.i of his could j write his name, there appeared a race of ! men wh > were scholars, soldiers, and I statesmen ; who moulded their finely-tuned !-lives upon those of tlie classic heroes j whom they revered. They sharpened their swords with high-ringing phrn-e from j Homer, and they administered their law .upon the just principles of ,1 ustinian. Their gift 'of song was broadened, purified, and strengthened by their man!’- ad- ■ venturings in field and court. lsivelace j could sing of love and war in the happiest i mingling ; then the beautiful gravity of : Raleigh and cf Sydney, soldiers, scholars, | and singers in the highest degree. Never I did learning stand in higher repute than lin these gallant times. No:-, for these j men who went into battle with a sonnet | upon their lips, was there anv stinging ] cry of ‘book-worm.’ ” But this age of gold was doomed. on < i::-e the distinct division into two camps—men of action, men of letters. The first sneered at the others as emasculate, thin-blooded phantoms of manhood : the men of letters stood in the seat of the scornful in regard to the fox-hunting squire, as one degree higher than tlie beast. Literature and life were divided. But, with the coming of the war came another time of “New Elizabethans” who sang and fought with equal facility and skill. Y’et the gulf remains. In theory, of course, one’s path is open; let your reading help you to a deeper appreciation of the life that you are destined to lead ; let it. make you aware of its possibilities and its peculiar advantages and help you to live more fully, more vehemently. An admirable plan, indeed; but what is to be the lot of the cripple who delights in the martial swing of j Scott’s veise, the derring-do of the heroes j of American novels. They must needs | discontent him with his fortune; but shall j we replace them with works of the “Holy | Living and Dying’ genus? They repre- | sent to him an inner life, untouched bv I shortcomings of body and temper: they ; arc his sole alleviation in a drab world, j When he turns their pages lie can swine gallantly along beside Deloraine or some ; hero of the bushes, unmindful of withered j limbs or a faintly-beating heart. And will | any of us. rejoicing in our fnil strength, i deny him this tragic happiness?