AMONG THE BOOKS REVIEWS AND NOTES

Sun (Christchurch), Volume III, Issue 828, 5 October 1916, Page 3

AMONG THE BOOKS REVIEWS AND NOTES

ABOUT LEONAINIE. There is something just a shade pitiful that now James Whiteombe Riley is dead every liitle poetaster, each amateur of rhyme, and each purveyor of random biography should turn up "Lconainie." As a hoax it was a success; but as a study in the pleasures of phrase il was even more successful. Roe himself, with his love of beautiful words as words merely—the "viol, the violet, and the vine" for example—might have done "Leonainie." You remember? LEONAINIE. Lconainie angels named her, And they took the light Of the laughing stars and flamed her In a smile of white. And they made her hair of gloomy Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy Moonshine, and they brought her to me In the solemn night— In the solemn night of summer, When my heart of gloom Blossomed up to greet the comer Like a rose in bloom; All forebodings that distressed me 1 forgot as joy caressed m< — (Lying joy that caught and pressed me In the arms of doom!) Only spake the little lisper In the Angel-tongue; Vet I, listening, heard her whisper—"Songs are only sung Here below that they may grieve you, Tales but told you to deceive you, So must Leonainie leave you While her love is young." Then Cod smiled and it was morning. Matchless and supreme. Heaven's glory seemed adorning Earth with its esteem; Every heart but mine seemed gifted With the voice of prayer, and lifted Where my Leonainie drifted From nic like a dream.

Not the older Poe, perhaps. Not the Poe who was a sure craftsman always, and had always something to say. But with Poe all things were possible. Few men passed more quickly into tradition, their shadows spreading with succeeding years until now they are a background to their own work, it was so in 1877, when the young James Whitcombe Riley was working as local editor of the Anderson, Indiana "Democrat." Mr Riley was ambitious, and if magazine editors would not allow him a public for his work's sake—well, he would try another way. "Leonainie," he decided, should go to the world with this foreword:— The following beautiful posthumous poem from the gifted pen of the erratic poet, Edgar Allan Poe, wc believe has never before been published in any form, either in any published collection of Poe poems now extant, or in any magazine or newspaper, and until the critics shall show conclusively to the contrary, the "Dispatch" will claim the honour of giving it to the world. That the poem has never before been published, and that it is a genuine production of the poet, we are satisfied from the circumstances under which it came into our possession. Calling at the house of a gentleman of this city the other day, our attention was called to a poem written on the blank flyleaf of an old book. Handing us the book, he observed that it (the poem) might be good enough to publish, and if we thought so, to take it along. Noticing the initials E. A. P. at the bottom, it struck us that possibly we had run across a "bonanza," and after reading it, we asked who the author was. Then he related the following bit of interesting reminiscence:—

He said he did not know who the author was, only that he was a young man—that is, he was a young man when he wrote the lines referred to. He had never seen him himself, but heard his father, who gave him the book containing the lines, tell of the circumstance and the occasion by which he, the grandfather, came into possession of the book. His grandparents kept a country hotel, a sort of wayside inn, in a small village called Chesterfield, near Richmond, Va. One night, just before bedtime, a young man, who plainly showed the marks of dissipation, rapped at the door and asked if he could stay all night, and was shown to a room. That was the last

they saw of him. When they went to his room the next morning to call: him, he had gone away and left the book, on the flyleaf of which he had written the lines given ,above. Eur'-' ther than this, our informant knew' nothing, and, being an illiterate man, 1 it was quite natural he should allow the great literary treasure to go for; many years unpublished. Riley had not courage enough to! print this in his own journal, but submitted it to the editor of the! Kokomo "Dispatch," giving him both) the fanciful and the true versions; of the rhyme's history. The editor: was delighted to publish them, but; wrote his own account of their his-! lory. Copies of the issue containing; the hoax were sent broadcast. Poe's death had been followed by discovery of more than one unpublished | poem, and the new "find" attracted j immediate attention. Some critics accepted it as genuine; others were' sceptical. Riley himself was among those commenting upon it. The Kokomo "Tribune" exposed the hoax; and criticism began afresh.l Lately the Indianapolis "News" reprinted some of them. In their way! they are delightful, and the spirit ofl Ihem may explain why Roe went to France, and drank while in America.

Lafayette "Courier." —A cheap John poet from a neighbouring classic burg. Anderson "Herald."—We might have forgotten for want of veracity, but it is hard to condone "Leonainie."

C.rawfordsville "Journal."—The verses were written by a young man named 3. \V. Riley, of Anderson, who has obtained a local reputation for writing queer poetry. Baltimore "American."—The composition is wild enough to have been written under the influence of Egyptian or Terre Haute whisky. It is safe to aflirm that the gin mills of Maryland and the Old Dominion never turned out liquor bad enough to debase the genius of Poe to the level of these dreadful verses.

Peoria (111.) "Evening Call." —The poem was the production of an amateur verse carpenter named Riley, who lives ill the neighbouring village of Anderson. Norristowu (Pa.) "Herald."—Poe must have been wrestling with one of the bigge.t drunks of his life when he wrote It.

New York "Post" (William Culleu Bryant). —To get drunk was one of Poe's habits, to leave an Inn without paying his bill was a thing not at all impossible to him, and to write a poem on the fly-leaf of a book was a natural tiling for any emotional poet to do. The trouble was in the poem itself. It was so manifestly the work of a man much lower in the scale of intelligence than anybody ever suspected Poe of being, even when he was drunk. The poem effectually sets at rest whatever suspicion there may iiave been that the author had the material out of which a poet is made in his composition. Roston "Transcript."—lf Poe really did write it, it is consolation to think that he is dead.

Riley felt compelled to make a public statement, admitting the deception, and offering his justification. But he resigned from the "Democrat." The old Ainsworth dictionary, on a flyleaf of which "Leonanie" was actually transcribed, was from an old library at Anderson. The transscription was an imitation of Poe's handwriting, based upon a fac-simile in a magazine. Riley was content to allow the poem to go its own way for some years, but at length it made its reappearance in a collection of his poems called "Armazindy," and again in "Love Lyrics." It remains distinct, however, from his other work.

REYIEW NOTICES

Britain Awakened.

From time to time cable messages and articles reprinted from English papers have told the people of these islands that England has, at last, taken up the manufacture of munitions in grim earnest. The "Big Push," so long delayed by lack of munitions, has also told of Britain's awakening. But occasional newspaper articles, cable messages, and even the steady advance of the Allies on the Western battle-front cannot make anyone outside of England realise just what the Old Country has done. Here, however, comes an unpretentious, but deeply interesting little book, which lifts the veil upon a miracle of war-industrialism. It is entitled "Doing their Bit," by Boyd Cable, and it has a brief preface from the pen of the Right Hon. Lloyd George.

When Boyd Cable, a well-known Australian writer who had been in khaki for over a year, visited England at the end of 1915, he was filled with the anxiety that permeated every man "out Front"—anxiety as to when the, long-promised ample store of munitions was going to materialise. He was filled with amazement at the tremendous organisation of the Ministry of Munitions and satisfaction at the output. It is a wonderful tale, this story of Britain's awakening at last to the almost despairing cry for more munitions, and still more. The awakening was slow, but when it came the response was inspiring. "Bad starters, but darn good finishers," said a Yankee journalist once, in speaking of the British people. And the truth of that verdict is impressed upon the reader of this story of how the Ministry of Munitions evolved a gigantic organisation, gathered "live wire" men from all quarters of the earth, induced famous contractors whose contract prices in times of peace were calculated in hundreds of thousands of pounds to take hold of a job of rushing up great munition factories, roused lesser business men into converting all sorts of manufactures into plants for the production of war material, made munition workers out of milkmen and carters and grocers and the like, and tore up and flung to the four winds of heaven all the old canons of carpentering, masonry, and building construction. English builders once thought that they could not lay concrete in frosty weather. The "live wire" men from the ends of the earth have shown them how to do it. Everything has been rushed at lightning speed. A building that once would take six months in construction has gone up in less than six weeks. Then there is the story of how tobacco factories were turned into shell-making works, of how "gramophones" became "shell fuses," and of the remarkable development of automatic machines. Now one reads of a vast new factory, with its buildings covering a stretch of land 12 miles in length and a mile in breadth —and then of a little one-lathe "factory," its sole workers an elderly mechanic and his wife, in a room so small that a hole had to be knocked in a wall to take the length of brass rod that feeds into the lathe. Nothing has been too big, nothing too small, for the staff of the Ministry of Munitions to organise. Again, there is the splendid story of the women of England and' the way they have "buckled down" to the making of munitions. It is a fascinating little book, is this tale of many thousands of men and women "doing their bit" in England, and one that every colonial should read. Besides the satisfaction of knowing that England can now give her troops the munitions they need, there is left also the impression that manufacturing Britain, rooted up, shaken and dusted, and put down again in a finer atmosphere, will not again be the same as it was before tho war. It has learnt new methods, and if it applies those methods in post J war days it will have little to fetor from American or German trade rivalry.

Our copy comes through Leonard M. Isitt.

Trench Yarns.

"Trench Yarns," by "Peter," sets out in its first sketch that its writing was nothing more than the pastime of an amateur, a series of vignettes of the newest sort of British officer, at work and at play. "Peter" seeks to disarm all critcism of style by a quotation from Field Service Regulations: ""Clearness of expression, and freedom from any possibility of misunderstanding, is more important than literary form." Then he goes on to detail happenings, grave and gay, in the curious argot of his sort—rather irritating to one who has not squandered youth about Piccadilly. In fact, he is at such pains to point out that he and his fellows were loungers and of expensive habits that therein he gives the only impression of falsity the 10 tales hold. At his best "Peter" is as amusing as Mr Bairnsfather, with whom he seems to have much in common, notably the ability to make everyday incidents of the front

so vivid that the person who has not seen them is able to realise that they arc inevitable, true, and amusing to those most intimately concerned—after they are over. Slight as the whole little book is, it is worth reading and should serve as a tonic to those who believe that during war time each should "sit like his grandsire, cut in alabaster; sleep when he wakes: and creep into the jaundice by being peevish." (Cassell and Company, Ltd., London; Simpson and Williams, Ltd., Christchurch).

A BOOKFELLOW'S GOSSIP

The regettable death of Lieut. R. G. Garvin, son of Mr J. L. Garvin, editor of the "Observer," who was killed in the battle of the Somme was recently chronicled in an English paper. Lieut. Garvin was beloved by all who knew him, and with his fall at the age of 20 went out a life of high promise. His Colonel wrote: —"I thought he would live to be a great man." His last essay, as yet unpublished, was a tribute to "Turenne" as the father of modern war and the most perfect type of that "Graver Genius of France" which is no new thing, but has always been part of our Ally's greatness. This essay was writcn in the trenches on odd bits of paper when the author was 19, but he had hoped to devote himself to historical work and to write some day a book on Turenne and his age.

Captain Theodore A. Flatau, who has been killed in action, had already given great promise as an author, and the critics had highly praised his clever and original ideas and literary treatment of his themes in the three novels he had published—"The Soul of the Dancer," "The Sun-God "Girl, "Thrice Born." Fratau, who was born in New South Wales and schooled at the Sydney Grammar, was for a while the editor of "The World" in succession to Lord Winterton. He also edited for a time an Egyptian weekly—"The Season." He had travelled extensively in the Middle East, and was a highly cultivated and amiable gentleman. That he was brave and full of the true spirit of courage his fellow officers and men testify. He returned to the front (after a spell in hospital from a gas attack) against medical orders, because he wished to be with the men he had trained. No higher words of praise of any soldier in this war can be uttered than those of the oflicer commanding Captain Flatau's regiment: —"He was killed on the parapet of the German front line when he was standing up cheering his men on. One can only say of him that he was a very gallant gentleman."

"Blackwood's Magazine" has from time immemorial been the home of articles in lighter vein written by military officers. Lord Wolseley forgot whether it was £lO or 40 guineas that he received for his account of a visit to the Confederate Army. Sir Henry Brackenbury must have made £IOOO out of "Maga," and Major General Charles E. Callwell seems to have inherited his reversion, says an exchange. Lord Sydenham's heavier metal would be berthed aboard the "Fortnightly" or the "Nineteenth Century." Sir Charles Warren occasionally wrote for the "Fortnightly." But "Blackwood" is the soldierofficer's favourite reading.

One cannot help contrasting the £lB paid to Milton and his heirs for the copyright of "Paradise Lost," with the £looo—or, as some reports have it, £6oo—paid to Mr Winston Churchill for four articles in "The Sunday Pictorial," comments C.K.S. in '"The Sphere." Truly Cromwell's secretary was born several ages too early from the point of view of the material rewards of penmanship.

Mrs Thomas Hardy is engaged upon a bibliography of her husband's writings, which may be long in coming but is certain to be interesting, says a London scribe. Mrs Hardy has had experience in book compilation as well as in authorship. She compiled many antholoi

i gics for Children in the days before her marriage, and she is the author | of certain books for the young, of I which one very pretty story is cn- ; titled "Tim's Sister," and is publish;ed by the S.P.C.K. Altogether five j books by Mrs Hardy havo been writI ten under her maiden name of Florj ence E. Dugdalc.

At Sotheby's auction rooms, London, recently, when 200 lots of autograph letters, original documents, etc., fetched £1127, the highest price was paid for a letter closely associated with Burns. Addressed to him by "Clarinda" (Mrs Maclehose), and dated Sunday, January 27, 1788, it consists of five pages quarto, and includes the following:—" . . . Sylvander, vyhen I think of you as my dearest, most attached friend I am highly pleased—but when you come across my mind as my lover—something within gives a sting resembling that of guilt! Tell me why is this? It must be from the idea that I am another's—what? Another's wife! Woe! Cruel fate—l am indeed bound in an 'iron chain.' Forgive me if this should give you pain—you know I must (I told you I must) tell you my genuine feelings or be silent. . . . While I breathe these fervent wishes think not of anything but pure disinterested regard prompts them—they are fond but chimerical ideas—but they are never indulged but in the hour of tender endearment, when—'lnnocence Looks gaily smiling on; while rosy pleasure Hid young desire amid her flowing wreaths. And poured her cup luxuriant, mantling high The sparkling heavenly vintage, love and bliss!" The letter, once in the Gibson Craig collection, was bought for America by Mr Marks at £GG.

Which is the passage from English literature that might most appropriately head the "Roll of Honour" which fdls so many columns of the newspapers in these days? asks an English commentator. The "Daily Telegraph" used to preface the casualty list with Kipling's line, "Who dies if England lives?" but has apparently discontinued the practice. No less fitted for the purpose are Rupert Brooke's lines:—

There's none of those so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts thun gold.

And a correspondent suggests for the purpose the beautiful passage frpin "The Pilgrim's Progress" describing the death of Mr Valiant-for-Truth:— "Mr Valiant-for-Truth was taken with a Summons. . . . Then said he: I am going to my Fathers; yet now I do not repent me of all the Trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. My Sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my Pilgrimage. My Marks and Scarrs I carry with me to be a Witness for me that I fought His Battels, who now will be my Rewarder. ... So he passed over. And all the Trumpetts sounded for him on the other Side."

If it be a "popular mistake" to refer to Bacon as "Lord Bacon," it is a mistake founded on the very highest authority. The old controversy was recently revived in the "Literary Digest" of New York. A letter from that city to a contemporary in England by Mr Frank Vizetelly is as conclusive as may be as to the rights and wrongs of the matter. Macaulay's great essay on the statesman and philosopher is entitled "Lord Bacon," and he is called "Lord Bacon," both in Macaulay's "History" and Green's "History of the English People." James Spedding's standard work is entitled "Letters and Life of Lord Bacon." There are also works by Hepworth Dixon and Woodward which have "Lord Bacon" in their titles. In his "Apophthegms," Bacon referred to himself both as "the Lord Bacon" and "the Lord St. Albans." Mr Edmund Gosse has summed up the matter thus: "Lord Bacon is the name by which contemporaries and succeeding generations have agreed to speak of the aggressive intellectual reformer . . . who by etiquette and the rules of the peerage should rather be spoken of as Lord Verulani.". "Lord Bacon," clearly, has it, declares a literary light, and "Lord Bacon" he will remain.