A Literary Log.

Southland Times, Issue 19658, 7 October 1922, Page 9 (Supplement)

A Literary Log.

(BY

“IOTA.”)

STANDARDS IN MEDIOCRITY.—A little attention to the progress of events in the literary sphere at Home will quickly convince one that there is setting in a definite reaction in favour of the despised Victorians. Let us hope that the pendulum will not carty us all the way back, but we need not fear any journey which will take us away from the sewer rubbish of the pre and post-war writers. To-day we read about Arnold Bennett putting antimacassars in to his flat, some other modern is openly taking Victorian peculiarities to himseli and though these things may be largely a pre-rent-day “swank,’’ they show the direction of the straws. (By the way, I wonder if mqny folk to-day can detect the derivation of the word "antimacassar' ). One of the factors in this back-to-Victoria movement is the impressive lack of finish in the novels of the modern mediocrities. Pick up any one of them and you have a sense of incompleteness, of unfinished lines and halfdone sketches; of sentences written by pens not certain in their ways and either tremulous in dread of error or brutal in defiance ; of untold things to annoy the reader and undue frankness to scare him. The modern novelist is own brother to the mediocre vers librist and there is nothing on the face of the poetical globe to compare for sheer dreariness with the vers librist who does net belong properly to the top-rung. It is doubtful if there is one of them to-day fitted to be put in the highest form—vers librists, I mean, not novelists. If you want to satisfy yourself about the deficiencies of the modern mediocrities, pick up some of the excellent reprints of the mediocrities of the late Victorian and Edwardian reigns, because in them you will find workmanship which will make the efforts of the later Georgians appear like the scribblings of fourth form schoolboys or half-fledged undergraduates. The modern novelists may be divided into two sections: the one ponderously delineating character with mountains of detail but with no story to hold the work together; the other rushing a story through breathless with no effort at character drawing and less at anything bordering on literary effect. Sailing to the Golden isles on a "plot.” Go back to the Family Herald of noble heroes and gentle heroines and you will find that they will stand well in a comparison with vast quantities of the stuff that is poured out to-day between stiff covers and at a stiff price. I am moved to these remarks by rhe appearance on my desk of three reprints of the novels of H. Seton Merriman, one of the mediocrities of the Victorian and Edwardian reigns. Merriman was a romanticist without any pretensiorflT’beyond the scope of that term, but he could tctl his stories wittily and with a pleasant play of paradox to assist the narrative over the quiet places. I notice, too, in re-reading him that there is quite ar. up-to-date texture in Lis writing, which appears in no way oldfashioned. This is surprising because when the Merriman novels were coming fresh from the author s pen they did not strike me as anything but thoroughly in tune with the conventions of the time and in these late days I naturally expected to find some of the novels 3 little musty. But no, they are as lively and as pleasing as most and better than many of the books of 1922. The standards in mediocrities is lower ’to-day than it was twenty years ago, when Merriman was giving these works to the public and that is why he repays reading now that the years have gone past him. He gave a fairly large number of excellencies, too, and to anyone who desires to sample him and taste of his wares. I might suggest "The Sowers,” “In Kedar’s Tents” and "The Isle of Unrest,” but, of course, there are also "Barlasch of the Guard.” "The Vultures,” "With Edged Tools,” “The Velvet Glove.” "The Last Hope,” "Roden’s Corner,” and the collection of short stories ‘’Tomaso’s Fortune.” These have all been issued in John Murray’s cheap fiction library, from which came the three volumes that started me on this chattering. AT THE WAR OFFICE.—Sir Guy Fleetwood Wilson in his "Letters to Somebody” has got together a rich melange of humour. He is a man who has gone through an interesting life with eye cocked for fun, and he had found it in all sorts of places. He was at the War Office for years and of course there found much to tickle him, so that one marvels he was able to remain at the August home of Red Tape—the only explanation is that he never laughed loudly and not in the public view until these letters were published by Cassells. The letters are full of good fun and are sure to enliven the evenings of a large number of people. At the VV ar Office Sir Guy was associated with three Commanders-in-Chief, the Duke of Cambridge, Wolseley and Roberts, and he tells three excellent stories of the Duke whom, he says, it was impossible sot to love: He did everything thoroughly, swearing included, but I never heard him use a really foul word. The three best outbursts I had the privilege of listening to were once when Sir Reginald Gipps, his military secretary, announced his engagement. The Huke furiously relented any of his staff getting married. After Gipps, who was well on in middle age. had broken the news to him there was an ominous silence. Then the Duke roared at him, with trimmings: Paralysis, my dear Gipps, paralysis! That is what you will come to. (He lived to an advanced age and had two fine children.)” The second occasion on which the atmosphere became super-heated was when 1 was showing the Duke a new 7 pattern magazine rifle. The ejector was new 7 and powerful, and the dummy cartridge struck the Duke, who was leaning over me. on the cheek. I am afraid he got a black eye. I certainly got both mine thoroughly well damned. The third time we were treated to fireworks was when an attic of the War Office caught tire. Some fool, instead of letting the wretched old place burn down, raised an alarm, and a retired sergeant of the Guards, who rejoiced in the highsounding name of “firemaster,” turned on the waier-hose. As soon as he heard of the fire the Duke, who was corpulent and gouty, but who was the personification of pluck, insisted on climbing up a breakneck corkscrew staircase (known as Nell Gwynn’s staircase, because it led to rooms supposed to have been occupied by heri to assist in extinguishing the fire. The sergeant was so astonihsed at finding him. -elf nez-a-nez with His Royal Highness that he turned the hose full on to the royal waistcoat. There were two fires burning for a while. But the Duke’s tempers were very short-lived, and he always tried to make one forget them snd always succeeded. He tells another good one of a Colonel Barjog, well known as Bob: At the Travellers’ we once had a case of suicide. One of our members had passed most of his life in Japan, and had

Invercargill, October 7, 1922. . acquired that indifference to life which is supposed to be a characteristic of its inhabitants. To add to the amenities of life he deliberately lived on his capital, and blew out his brains in the topfloor biiliard-room of the club when his capital came to an end. Baring and 1 happened to be the only members in the club at the time, and he expressed the greatest indignation at what he called “an outrage.” He concluded a furious outburst by saying to me, “I’ll take damned good care he never gets into any other club I've anything to do with.” Sir Guy can tell his stories well and he also reveals an excellent taste in things otner than reminiscence. It is interesting, of course, to find that in his young days he was associated with Walter Savage Landor in Florence, where Wilson was born. Sir Guy describing the Landor of this time writes: The literary character most closely associated with my boyhood was Walter Savage Landor, whom I saw very frequently. He looked like a satyr and was possessed of the most vitriolic tongue and pen. Also he had the vilest of tempers. On one occasion I was sitting with him when his dinner was brought in. Something about it displeased him, and he took up the tablecloth by its four corners arfd threw the whole bag of tricks out of the window int the street, utterly regardless of the risk to those below; and he lived on the fourth floor in the Via San Gallo (Florence), a crowded thoroughfare. POETIC AND JUDICIAL PROSE.—Possibly it may not be true to say that prose fiction can do all that poetry can do; it is sufficient for my purposes if we admit '.hat it can do most of the things that poetry can do and if we remember that prose fiction is still very young. But I want, if I can, to persuade you to conceive it as a medium analogous to the medium of poetry; as an instrument on which the experience* and emotions that lay behind Antony and Cleopatra could find a different, but no less complete, expression. The forms of literature change, but not the form of creative literary genius. A Shakespeare and a Chaucer would have been perfectly happy with our modern fashions and our modern tools; but they would have written things that looked, to the superficial eye at least, very different from the work we know them by. If you find this idea not intolerable, or perhaps even persuasive, you will discover a good reason to those who deciare that obviously “poetic” prose is the finest prose, and those who maintain that judicial prose must have the pre-eminence: supreme effects are possible in both kinds. But our conception of prose as an analogous instrument- will lead us to suspect that even these two kinds are net exhaustive, but that there are achievements in prose fiction, of description, of dialogue, oi dramatic crisis, which fall under neither of these heads, and of course escape the attention of the anthologists; yet their style may satisfy all the requisites of perfection.—J. Middleton Murry in “The Problem of Style.” A LOVE LETTER.—In 1887 Mrs De Morgan picked up a letter on the beach at bidmouth. It was a love letter from William Taylor to his “Marey,” which she evidently had dropped. How fortunate that accident! Because now we have this delightful expression of a man's affection preserved for us in “William De Morgan and his Wife.” All that one needs to complete the value of this letter is one from “Marey” to make us certain that she was worthy of her William. Here is the letter: My dearest Marcy,—’i be verry well and appey to inform you that I be very well at present and 1 hope you be the same dear Marey—i be verry sorry to hear how as you don’t like your quarters as i chant be able to look on your.dear face so offen as i have done dearest Marey pure and holy meek and loly loveley R°-e of Sharon., Dear Marey, dear Marey * hant got now know particler noose to tell ye at present but my sister that marryd have got such a nice lettel babey, and i wish how as that our littel aflare was settled and we had get such a nice lettel dear two. Dearest Marey i shall not be appy till then Dearest Marey pure and holy meek and loly lovely Rose of Sharon. Sometimes i do begin to despare as i am affraid our not will never be tide but my Master have prommist i how as that I when i git ye he will putt ye in the Darcy yard to feed the Figgs and ge ye at in pens a week Dearest Marey puer and holey meek and loly lovely Rose of Sharon, i be comming over tomorrow to by the Ring and you must come to the stayshun to mete me and bring a peso of string with you the size of your hnggar and be shure you don’t make A miss take dear Marey. Father is A going to ge us a beddsted and Granny A 5 lb note to by such as washin stand her irons mouse trap and Sope, and wee must wayte till wee can by carpetting and glass crackery ware and chiny. Dearest Marey pure and holy meek and loly lovely rose 01 Sharon, i be ver appy to say our old Sow As got 7 young uns laste nite and Father is a going to ge us A roosester for our Weding Brakefast Dearest Marey pure and holey meek and loly lovely Rose of Sharon. So no more at present from your fewture and loving husband. William Taylor. FLEXIBLE STANDARD OF ENGLISH. —A distinguished writer some years ago started a crusade in favour of pure English. He wished to counteract those influences which are forever at work debasing the standard" of language; whether, as he seemed to think, that standard should be inalterably fixed, is yet another question. For in literature as in conversation there is a "pure English” for every moment of history; that of our childhood is different from to-day’s; and to adopt the tongue of the Bible or Shakespeare, because it happens to be pure, looks like setting back the hands of the clock. Men would surely be dull dogs if their phraseology, whether written or spoken, were to remain stagnant and unchangeable. We think well of Johnson’s prose. Yet the respectable English of our own time will bear comparison with his; it is more agile and less infected with Latinisms; why go back to Johnson ? Let us admire him as a landmark, and pass on! Some literary periods may deserve to be called good, others bad; so be it. Were there no bad ones, there would he no good ones, and I see no reason why men should desire to live in a Golden Age of literature, save in so far as that millennium 'might coincide with a Golden Age of living. I doubt, in the first place, whether they

I would be- even aware of their privilege; secondly, every Golden Age grows fairer when viewed from a distance. Besides, and las a general consideration, it strikes me ■ ! that a vast deal of mischief is involved in ' these arbitrary divisions of literature into ’ golden or other epochs; they incite man to admire some mediocre writers and to disparage others, they pervert our natural taste, and their origin is academic laziness. Certain it is that every language worthy 1 of the name should be in a state of peren- ' nial flux, ready and avid to assimilate new elements and be battered about as wc ourselves are—is there anything more charming than a thoroughly defective verb?— fresh particles creeping into its vocabulary from all quarters, while others are silently discarded. There is a bar-sinister on the Escutcheon of many a noble term, and if, in an access cf formalism, we refuse hospitality to some item of questionable repute, our descendants may be deprived of a linguistic jewel. Is the calamity worth risking when time, and time alone, can decide its worth Why not capture novelties while we may . . . why not throw them into the crucible to take their chance with the rest of us? An English word is no fossil to be locked up in a cabinet, but a living thing, liable to the fate of all such things. Glance back into Chaucer and note how they have thriven qn their own merits and not on professorial recommendations; thriven, or perished, or put on new facesl I would make an exception to this rule. . Foreign importations which do not belong i to us by right, idioms we have enticed i from over the sea for one reason or anI other, ought to remain, as it were, stereoI typed. They are respected guests and canI not decently be jostled in our crowd; let ! them be jostled in their own; here, on 1 British soil, they should be allowed to retain | that primal signification which, in default j of a corresponding English term, they were originally taken over to express. —Norman Douglas, in "Alone.” THE ROVER’S CREED.—Sir Robert Baden-Powell has written “Rovering to Success,” and if the first word of the title puzzles you, let the Chief Scout define the term for you. The “Rover” is a boy too old to be a Scout but who nevertheless obeys Scout laws, and wears a Scout uniform with distinctive badges. He is in •-fact an “Old Scout.” ’‘Rovering to Success” (Jenkins) is designed for the young man of nineteen or twenty, and properly it is not like a text-book or a collection of rules. In this book the Chief Scout gives us an idea of what he thinks constitutes “being happy.” Happiness seems to be partly passive, but largely active. Passive, because the appreciation of the beauties of nature, of the glory of the sunset, of the majesty of the mountains, of the wonders of animal life under the scent of the campfire, coupled with the joy of a happy home, produces a sense of gratitude to the Creator that can only be satisfied by some active expression of it; the effort to be helpful to others largely supplies the want. It is the active doing of good that counts. A joyful home coupled with ability to serve ot.'.irs gives the best happiness. According to Sir Robert the war has worked some improvements and he couples them: Certainly there are more people who save money now—and fewer who spit. I don’t know that the two points have any connection, but they just happen to be facts. From that remark on the post-war conditions one expects to find in the Chief Scout a champion of the post-war young men and young women, one who believes in them and says so. I believe in the rising generation of young citizens. The war has done something in opening the eyes of you lads to the more serious side of life. You have ambition. You want to be manly fellows, you want to be fit to play your part successfully, whether in games or in the work of life, or in the service of the community, and you see that if you mean to do it with any success you have no use for drink with its waste of time and money and wealth. SOME CHIPS.—In the 11th edition ofthe Encyclopedia Britannica, Lloyd George’s career covered 21 columns. In the three supplementary volumes issued to cover the period 1909-1921, his career swells to twelve columns. Mr Hugh Walpole, writing in the Daily Mail recently on “The Truth About American Literature,” said: “There is a new American literature. Let no one make any mistake about it. . . . It is urgently necessary for us to understand this.” Dealing with "exaggeration as wit” a writer in John O’London’s Weekly recalls a story. Charles Lamb was wont to tell a charming story (of his own invention) about Coleridge. He chanced one day to meet the sage of Highgate, who, as usual, seized him by the button and burst into a flood of words. Lamb, who was pressed for time, quietly cut off the button, and resumed his way into the city. Returning some hours later, he found Coleridge stationed on the self-same spot-, with the button in his fingers, still pouring forth the torrent of his speech. As is well known, the late William De Morgan took to novel-writing at the end of a long, busy life. He wrote his first novel, “Joseph Vance,” with only a few words on each page of the manuscript, with the result that it was of such huge dimensions that the publishers were frightened to read it. When the book was eventually published by Messrs Heinemann and proved a real money-maker, the rejectors wished that they had had more courage. Mr A. G. Gardiner has now completed his Life of Sir William Harcourt, but it is not expected that Mr Garvin’s Life of Joseph Chamberlain will be published before next year. Another collection of Stevenson’s juvenile writing has been discovered. Among it is a play called "Monmouth,” which Mr Gosse says is an absurd and crude production and ought certainly not to be published. There is a poetic touch about the following Japanese advertisements: “My products are forwarded with the speed of a bullet.” "My marvellous paper is as solid as the skin of the elephant.” "My vinegar is sourer than the spleen of the most diabolical mother-in-law.” To the writing of “memories,” there is no end. Lord Haisbury, Dr Dillon, and Sir Basil Thomson are busy writing theirs. So is Mr W. B. Yeats, the Irish poet, who has chosen as a title "The Trembling of the Veil.” Dr Jowett, who recently retired from the pastorate of Westminster Chapel, has been urged by several publishers to write his memories. Dr Jowett was for some time in Birmingham, and was on intimate terms' with Joseph Chamberlain.