A Literary Log

Southland Times, Issue 20633, 3 November 1928, Page 13 (Supplement)

A Literary Log

ROLLED BY

IOTA.

ANOTHER ROUND IN MYSTERY. Victor Caryll and Derek Sinclair fought out a pleasantly exciting mystery story in “Scissors Cut Paper,” which resulted in Sinclair’s discomfiture though he was able to regain his liberty. In “Stones Blunt Scissors,” the combatants are loosed again in the arena by Gerard Fairlie and do battle all over again. This time the contest is in France. Young women have been abducted and held for ransom by a gang which uses green matches for signalling to each other. Caryll is sent across from London to assist the French [>olice and he makes contact with John Daly, an American millionaire and Patricia, his adopted daughter, who was abducted also and was released on the payment of a million dollars. Through Patricia Caryll discovers that the leader of the gang wore a green signet ring, a fact which convinces him that the green-hood-ed chief is Sinclair. At the same time the reader learns that John Daly is in league with Sinclair, and that Patricia, whom he controls as a result of a theft she committed in New York, has told Caryll a pack of carefully arranged lies to aid in leading him into a trap. With this double-dealing behind the hero’s back to whet the appetite, the reader plunges into a series of riotously exciting incidents which may stretch credulity but they are full of surprises. Fairlie’s one wish is to load the story with thrills and he is brilliantly successful. “Scissors Cut Paper” was a dandy yarn, but I think that “Stones Blunt Scissors” is even better and I am pleased to note that the finale leaves the way open for a further battle if the author thinks it worth while carrying the series further. I hope he does—Victor Caryll is a pleasant hero. “Stones Blunt Scissors” is published by Messrs Hodder and Stoughton, London, whence my copy came. WISTER AGAIN. I have always said, not without belligerence, that Owen Wister’s “The Virginian” is the best western novel that has ever been written. So far no one has contradicted me. And because Wister has taken so long about producing another book of the same type, I take recourse to it with a regular jenthusiasm that has never abated. It was with all the joys of anticipation, therefore, that I received a second book from his pen' and when I say that after reading “From West'is West” I suffered neither disappointment nor the first pangs of ennui, I consider that in itself a recommendation. A volume of short stories, of course, must suffer in comparison with a full-length novel, especially when that novel has such a powerful central figure as the Virginian. As their title indicates, these stories are of the days when the western provinces of the United States were still beset with Indians, when white outlaws herded together to “hold-ups,” and when what was lacking in veneer was made up in hard living and swift decisions generally backed by a keentrained trigger. W’ister obviously regrets the good old days. His final story is direct reminiscence of the days “when no wire fence mutilated the freedom of the range; when fourteen mess-wagons would be at the spring round-up; when cattle wandered and pastured, dotting the endless wilderness; when roping them brought the college graduate and the boy who had never learned to read, into a lusty equality of youth and skill, when songs rose by the camp fire; and the dim form of the night herder leaned on his saddle-horn, as under the stars he circled slowly round the recumbent thousands; when 200 miles stretched between all this and the whistle of the nearest locomotive. Even without this, that is the west Wister depicts; nor is there at any stage maudlin sentiment for all this, but just honest regret. He allows his sense of humour to be part of himself, not himself of his sense of humour, and at no times does he indulge in those extravagances of depiction and expression which long habit has come to associate with the west. Each story in “When West was West” is clear-cut and complete, and their variety gives one an excellent opportunity of observing the remarkable facility of Mr Winter's pen. Macmillan is the publisher. HOPALONG’S PROTEGE. Hopalong Cassidy was responsible for the training of Mesquite Jenkins so we can be sure of the shooting virtues of that excellent pupil. Evidently resolved to see the world this protege of the picturesque and effective Hopalong, rides off alone and in the journey across the desert between Franklin and Desert Wells in Montana he meets with adventure in the shape of the dead body of the murdered Tobe Ricketts. The adventure is sufficiently interesting to provide Clarence Mulford with one of the best stories of the West he has yet written. “Mesquite Jenkins” deals with the prompt intervention of this ardent young man, who determines to unravel the mystery surrounding the old man’s death and to protect the widow obviously faced with ruin as a result of the depredations of the cattle thieves. The capable Jenkins is quick to move and his tracking of the murderers, 1 who killed Ricketts because he knew they had been stealing cattle, makes a first-class yam with plenty of action and quite a load of excitement. Mulford’s is a practised hand and he builds his situation without effort. “Mesquite Jenkins” is a good Western story written round an extremely interesting personality and it will repay the time bestowed on it. Messrs Hodder and Stoughton, London, publish this story. ENGLAND IN THE SUN. That the Garden of England is still sufficiently attractive to form the background of a charming story has been proved once again by Alice Grant Rosman, who, by ignoring the decadent England that is beginning to atrophy on the palate of the novel-reader, manages, nevertheless, to reproduce the country which centuries of tradition have handed down. Gloucestershire is the scene of “The Window,” where Christopher Royle, who had returned to England on his inheritance of a large estate in Somerset, journeyed while he was waiting to take possession of his new home. He did not choose Dorne-on-Severn at random for its fishing, but because of a letter he had found in the wallet of a man whom he had watched die in Africa, and the hint of tragedy it contained. But there was no tragedy in the Dome he discovered, neither in the inconsequent household of the happy rector and his wife, nor in the pretty home

of Patricia Eden and the little boy she had adopted. Michael, to whom Patricia had given her own name, was regarded by the rest of the countryside as the girl’s own son, and the fact that he was a dead soldier’s son was not given credence. Because of the letter he carries, Christopher knows whose son Michael is, and into the lives of Patricia and Michael he comes with charming effrontery. There is much happiness in “The Window,” and it has somewhat the cleansing effect of a sunny day. I enjoyed it thoroughly, and would heartily recommend Alice Grant Rosman to your notice. Mills and Boon are the publishers. THE ABYSS OF MERCY. His mercies are more than we can tell, and they are n.ore than we can feel; for all the world, in the abyss of the Divine mercies, is like a man diving into the bottom of the sea, over whose head the waters run insensibly and unperceived, and yet the weight is vast, and the sum of them is immeasurable; and the man is not pressed with the burden, nor confounded with numbers: and no observation is able to recount, no sense sufficient to perceive, no memory i large enough to retain, no understanding great enough to apprehend this infinity.— Jeremy Taylor. THE TENDENCY TO MEDIOCRITY. Whatever homage may be professed, or even paid, to real or supposed mental superiority, the general tendency of things throughout the world is to render mediocrity the ascendant power among mankind. In ancient history, in the Middle Ages, and in a diminishing degree through the long transition from feudality to the present time, the individual was a power in himself ; and if he had either great talents or a high social position he was a considerable power. At present individuals are lost in the crowd. In politics it is almost a triviality to say that public opinion now rules the world. The only power deserving the name is that of masses, and of Governments while they make themselves the organ of the instincts and tendencies of masses. This is as true in the moral and social relations of private life and in public transactions. .' . . And what is a still greater novelty, the mass do not now take their opinions from dignitaries in Church and State, from ostensible leaders, or from books. Their thinking is done for them by men much like themselves, addressing them or speaking in their name, on the spur of the moment, through the newspapers. lam not complaining of all this. I do not assert that anything better is compatible, as a general rule, with the present low’ state of the human mind. But that does not hinder the government of mediocrity from being mediocre government. No government by a democracy or a numerous aristocracy, either in its political acts or in the opinions, qualities and tone of mind which it fosters, ever did or could rise above mediocrity, except so far as the sovereign. Many have let themselves be guided (which in their best times they have always done) by the counsels and influence of a more highly gifted and instructed One or Few. The initiation of all w’ise and noble things comes and must come from individuals; generally at first from some one individual. The honour and glory of the average man is that is capable of following that initiative; that he can respond internally to wise and noble things, and be led to them with his eyes open.—John Stuart Mill (“On Liberty.”) SAWDUST. Lord Birkenhead’s next excursion into authorship will consist of a collection of “The Hundred Best English Essays,” with an analytical criticism, to be published by Cassell. Arthur Burdett Frost, who was known all over the world as the original illustrator of “Tom Sawyer,” “Uncle Remus” and the “Mr Dooley” books, died in America a couple of months ago. Which is the strangest book title? It would be hard to beat “A’ Ae ’Oo,” which has been chosen by Mrs Jean Baxter for a forthcoming volume of Scots verse. It is translated as “AU one wool.” Rudyard Kipling is writing a new story—- . which may develop into a full-length novel —in which wireless plays an important part He has been collecting data from the wireless enthusiasts among his friends. Charles Barn', the author of mystery stories, was a volunteer in the Imperial Russian Army during the war and won the Cross of St. George, which was the Russian equivalent of the V.C. His name, however, is on the Soviet’s list of those to whom a visa is not to be granted. “Extraordinary Women” is the title of Compton Mackenzie’s new novel, which Martin Seeker published on September 1 in a limited edition of 2,000 copies, price one guinea. The theme Is said to be “unusual” —at any rate it is being kept a close secret. It has been decided that the “Life” of Thomas Hardy by his wife, Mrs Florence Emily Hardy, shall appear shortly. A good deal of it has been prepared from his journals and letters while he was alive, and so it will almost have a touch of autobiography. The book may fairly be described as the study of a genius-gifted spirit whose outwardly quiet life was filled with great creative activity. Robert Keable, the novelist, who died some little time ago in Tahiti, left a “Life” of Christ to which he had given earnest study and care. It is all he left that now remains to be published, and it wiU appear with the house of Cassell. Another “Life” of Christ is that on which Sir Hall Caine has been engaged, and, of course, Herr Ludwig, the German biographer, has just published one. “Ten Years Ago” is the title which Mr R. H. Mottram, the author of “The Spanish Farm,” gives to a book he has appearing with Chatto. It consists of Armistice and other memories forming a pendant to “The Spanish Farm” trilogy. There are sixteen articles, sketches, and stories, and they all look back upon the war from the tenth anniversary of Armistice Day, which will occur on November 11.

George Darley (1795-1846), who is claimed by some to be one of the finest English lyric poets, is to be the subject of a biography by Claude Colleer Abbott (Oxford University Press). He wrote one such perfect imitation of seventeenth-century verse that even Palgrave was deceived and put the poem into “The Golden Treasury,” only to take it out again when he was undeceived.