A Literary Log.

Southland Times, Issue 18963, 9 June 1923, Page 9 (Supplement)

A Literary Log.

(BY

“IOTA.”)

BETTER THAN 0. HENRY.— NeiI Lyons as a teller of stories has a direct, terse method which in him means strength. He does not trouble to spread himself on •tylish elaborations and atmospheric divagations. With him it is the story that matters, and his method is to tell the story as plainly and as succinctly as possible. In this he is, of course, far from the Donn Byrne process, which aims at using literary artifice in giving the story atmosphere. Neil Lyons is effective alike in humour and pathos, and he knows his Londoners through and through. His “Sixpenny Pieces” consisted of short stories illustrative of Cockney character and the sureuess of his touch was shown with great effect in its pages. “Cottage Pie” took us to the country outside of London, but “Fifty-Fifty” takes us back to the capital. His ckver use of the anticlimax is reminiscent of 0. Henry, but he does not work as hard with phrases as the American did, and he is not so blatantly mechanical. 0. Henry took America by storm and during the war, Britain discovered him in exchange for the presentation of Nat Gould to the American troops. The Old Country got the better of that exchange, but if Neil Lyons had been given in place of Nat Gould the advantages would llave been with the visitors. Lyons can be read in book form with more sustained enjoyment. 0. Henry taken by the bookload becomes stereotyped and the wheels tan be seen revolving too easily: with Lyons It is different because he is not dependent on the mechanics of style. In “Fifty-Fifty,” half of the stories are new and half are published for the second time, but all of them come with such freshness that one never thinks of the inferred apology of the title. Obviously it is unwise to go selecting one or two of this collection of stories as a means of fixing Lyons’s position. There is such variety and such an even standard of excellence that one dare not make a positive choice from the forty-two titles, but one can safely say that the author in this collection can afford to seek a challenge with O. Henry, whose admirers so noisily hail him as the genius of the short story of New York. Lyons will last longer, and in “Fifty-fifty” there is more solid enjoyment, and a vaster sum of reality. “Fifty-fifty” is published by Thornton Butterworth, London, whence comes my copy.

IN MANY PORTS.—When Donn Byrne wrote ‘Messer Marco Polo” he put the story into the mouth of an Ulsterman and thus gave it a lilt which otherwise would have been inexcusable; but he did something else: he put into the mind of the reader the suspicion that here was an artful manoeuvre to enable the author to cover up any mistakes in local colour. Dick Heldar -rated. Maisie because she put cattle in long grass to hide faulty drawings, and one wondered if Donn Byrne had put the story into the language of an Irishman for a similar purpose. “Messer Marco Polo ’ was slight and was not worth the fuss made over it, but “The Wind Bloweth” is a different proposition. Here we have Donn Byrne away from China toys and trickery, telling a story that is worthy of the effort and telling it in a way which makes one gasp at the riotous colour and romance. Sygne captured the poetry* of the Irish idiom in his short plays, but Synge dealt in shadows, he loved monotones, and his mysticism was always brooding. brooding. Byrne is fonder of bright colours. Life for him is a gayer thing, it has more blood in it, life is less subjective than it was to Synge, who never seemed to escape from the decadence of Baudelaire and as a result we find Shane Campbell a mystic because he is full of Gaelic lore 'and Gaelic poetry, a man of action because he is a sailor. Donn Byrne handles the Irish idiom as no man has done since “Riders to the Sea” and “The Playboy of the Western World ’ startled Ireland, and he knows how to sketch in a character with a few brief strokes so that there is nothing more to be said of them. Ireland to him is an open book and he puts on paper so much having the ring of truth about it that one is left halted in amazement at the sheer beauty and reality of some of the scenes. Shane goes to sea and becomes master of a sailing vessel. Byrne has smelt the salt in the air; he has seen the seas racing foam-flecked’ from the pitching bows of a wind-jammer; and he has sung

a« I came a-tackling down Paradise street— Yo-ho! Blow the man down! Ai I came a-tackling down Paradise street— Give us some time till we blow the man down

roaring in chorus to the blast of the winds crashing about the yards and canvas; so that from the opening pages one is gripped by the spell of the real thing. The author has given us the picture of Shane Campbell who has his loves in various ports and comes back finally to his own land, to Antrim to wait for the death that is not death. This is the full length portrait of the development of the man within the habiliments of Campbell, as moved by the wind whose coming and going were beyond his understanding, he found love and adventure in different parts of the globe. These adventures are not sordid. Byrne has a poet’s touch and he goes too far beneath the surface for sordidness to appear. The death of his wife, Moyra Dolan, and the greed of her relatives, set him off and it was when he took his ship to Marseilles that he met Claire-Anne, whom he loved so that he saw her in everything while he was away. His return sweeps him into high tragedy. Claire-Anne’s past comes out of the mists on the tip of a consul’s tongue, and the woman declines to go on with the the lover she loves, and his pleadings are vain. Marseilles he hates:

Forward across the Atlantic to where the sou’east trades blew, then south’ard reaching under all sail—the fleecy clouds, the bright constellations of the alien pole, the strange fish-like birds, the fly-ing-fish, the bonita, the abbacore; the chill gust from the River Plate; the roar of the gales of the forties; the tremendous fight around the Horn, with a glimpse of the land now and then as they fought for easting—the bleak rocks of Diego Ramirez and the Udefonsos, and perhaps the blue ridge of Cape Horn, or of False Cape; then northward to Callao . . .anywhere, anywhere. . . New seas, new lands, new cities. . . but never again Marseilles. And he would never see her again. La Mielleuse—couldn’t if he wanted to. . never again. . .irrevocable. .Her head, her dark, Darling head! And last night he had seen it for the last time, dark, smiling in sleep, on a snowy pillow.

Claire-Anne, who was not strong enough to resist, was to be for no one else. This scene in “The Mouth of Honey” is one of the finest in the book, a high moment. The story goes on in episodic leaps, but the continuity is not broken. Shane turns his back on Europe and Byrne through him gives us this barbed shaft which one must quote,

Invercargill, June 9. even though it shut out other passages which might be extracted: * England and its Queen mourned the sudden death of the Prince Consort, but it mourned him with a sort of middleclass domesticity, and no majesty. So a grocer's family might have mourned, remembering how well papa cut the mutton . . . .He was so damned good at everything, Albert was, and he approved of art and science within reason. . . There was a contest for a human ideal in America, and in the ports of England, privateers were being fitted out to help the South, as the Greeks might, for a price. . .And Napoleon, that solemn comedian, was making ready his expedition to Mexico, with fine words and a tradesman’s cunning. . .And the drums of Ulster roared for Garibaldi, rejoicing in the downfall of the harlot of the seven hills, as Ulster pleasantly considered the papal States, while Victor Emmanuel, sly Latin that he was, thought little of liberty and much about Rome . . Shane was a romanticist and sought the places where passions unbridled. These he found in Syria, where a wrestler from Aleppo came to break up his domestic bliss, but not till the two had had a first-class bout in the streets, a bout which Byrne describes with tremendous effect. Onward he goes, all the time being moulded and prepared for the ending. Froken Hagen told him that he was looking for things, not making them, not giving anything as she discussed her own calling, and back to Ireland went he, to engage in gun-running for a woman and then to find peace in Antrim with her. It is difficult to reproduce the effect of this novel. There is incident in abundance, revealed in the flashlight, feverish method which has become so popular in the younger American school, but over all in the glamour of Byrne’s lilting phrases, drawn from the soil of Ireland, and the romance of the sea. It is not a “great” novel, but it is a mightily interesting one : Byrne’s “great” work has still to come, for come it must—“ The Wind Bloweth” is a definite promise of it. The novel is published by the Australasian Publishing Company, of Sydney, whence fomes my copy.

AUSSIE CHILD VERSES.— AIex. C. Welsh has a collection of verses to his credit in “Musings,” and now he has given us “Nancy in the Bush,” which attempts to reproduce the Australian child’s mind in verses. Welsh writes simply, but at times he is inclined to crowd his metre and to seek a way out with inversions and constructions of a disturbing character. One finds this in— Little flower, like priest of old. Patens of the purest gold In thy hands dost thou uphold. Lo! the bread in mercy broken We partake in mystic token; Learn the truth by sage unspoken. Here the hallowed vintage poured By the hand of heaven’s Lord Thy gold chalice doth afford. Thus I hold communion, flower Of light divine; am from this hour One with nature by thy power. There are some beautiful ideas in “A Fairy Song,” but the use of such phrases as “vermeil splendour” and “damask-winged butterfly” does not fit with the character of the lyric. “Lisping” on the other hand is excellent all through and “The MatchBox Boat” is good reading. The best thing in this little collection is, I think, “Gonda’s Pie,” which I cannot resist quoting as an offset to the “Butterfly” I have given above: When Gonda made that little pie, Its dainty shape quite took my eye; Its fragrance, better than a rose. Gently tickled my small nose. To hear its crisp crust gently crack A quiver sent right down my back; But oh.' there never was such paste As that which melted at my taste! Yet silly Tommy, with his curls, Asks everyone the good of girls! Miss Minnie I. Rowe increases the value of this book with her pen-and-ink drawings. “Nancy in the Bush” is published by Sydney I. Endacott, of Melbourne, whence comes my copy. "THE CRlTlC.”— lnspired by the success of The Forum in Australia, some enthusiasts have launched a sixpenny fortnightly in Auckland on the same model. The Critic aims at being a “popular New Zealand Journal of informative and reflective opinion on matters of vital interest and importance.” It is well printed with a wide measure and in a bold format, thus in appearance it is undoubtedly attractive. The contents make an interesting show, but a weakness in the publication is the predominance of Auckland. In a journal aiming at a national audience, the sections devoted to the Arts should not be so restricted. One also notices that there is only one signed article in the issue, but this will probably be changed in later issues, with the infusion of a little more boldness. There is a welcome spnghtliness in the articles contained in the opening issue, but we require them to be more out-poken in a journal of this type. One should not judge The Critic on its first issue, of course, the third is a better one for the real test, and I shall certainly do my best to get hold of the second and third numbers at any rate. This is an effort which deserves success. My copy comes from the publishers. SHAKESPEAR EAN A,. — On Shakespeare’s birthday, April 23, the first three volumes of a new edition of his works, illustrated bj Albert Rutherston and other artists, was published in London. This, which is under the general editorship of Victor Gollancz, is to be known as The Players’ Shakespeare. The text is based on that of the First Folio, and the definite idea of the new edition is to bring the student and the playgoer together, bringing, as it were, the theatre into the study. An introduction to each of the preliminary volumes (“Macbeth,” “The Merchant of Venice,” and “Cymbeline”) has been written by Granville Barker. The edition will be in two forms, one “limited ’ to 100 signed copies, and the other to 450 numbered copies. A remarkable catalogue of “Shakespeareana” is being issued by Messrs Maggs of Conduit Street, London, in commemoration of the First Folio Centenary. This extends to over 1000 separate items, and is the most comprehensive of its sort ever published. It contains three copies of the Second Folio and four of the Fourth Folio, and includes a great rarity in “The True Chronicle of King Lear.” This, priced at £2BBO, appeared three years before Shakespeare wrote his “King Lear” drama. There is also an interesting Bacon-Shakespeare section, together with many autographed letters and historical documents dealing with persons who have figured in his plays. Among

the source-books” are three copies of the Bills, one of which dated 1568, belonged to Queen Elizabeth.

A Shakespeare Memorial Theatre special edition of the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald has been published, and a copy is received from its editor, specially addressed to “Journalists throughout the World.” The editor writes: “For years, through these columns, I have tried to advance the honour and glory of our great national dramatist, to whom every wielder of the journalistic pen must fain do homage for the debt of English that we owe him. Witnessing, as I have done, the struggles of this little town of just over 9000 inhabitants to maintain the annual Festivals in homage to Shakespeare, I have been amazed that there has been no great effort on the part of the English speaking peoples adequately to endow the Memorial Theatre, and to make possible the realisation of the dream of the founders that around it should arise what, in effect, would be an international university of dramatic art and literature. At last an attempt is being made to raise such endowment, and as my contribution I have produced this special edition and presented it to the Governors. Had I the circulation I would appeal to the millions who use the phrases of Shakespeare to ‘trick out’ their everyday manner of speech to send their donations to a shilling fund, whether they be single shillings or counted by thousands.” Fully £lOO,OOO is wanted for the endowment fund