AMONG THE BOOKS

Sun (Christchurch), Volume III, Issue 858, 9 November 1916, Page 4

AMONG THE BOOKS

THE JEWISH MARK TWAIN

"There recently died in New York the great Yiddish humorist, Sholem Aleichem, sometimes called the 'Jewish Mark Twain.' Hundreds of thousands of the New York ghetto turned out to pay their last respects to Ihe writer who had embodied in mirthful words the joys and sorrows of their old homes across the ocean.

" But il was in Ihe hearts of the war-torn Jewries of Russia and Poland that the news of Sholem Aleichem's death reverberated most profoundly and painfully, for Sholem Aleichem. which means ' Peace with you' (his real name was Sholem Rabinowich), was a Russian Jew, who had spent nearly all his lifetime in Ihe Jewish 'pale,' and has immortalised the inhabitants of it. The war found him in Western Ku'ropc, and to this country he came only for the duration of Ihe .struggle. The Poet of the Jewish People. "The "Kvreyskaya Zhizn" (Moscow) said editorially: "'There went down into his grave the greatest painter of the life of the contemporary Jew, a keen artist, who has embodied in bold relief a whole streak of Jewish silhouettes and figures, with their traditional, cehturies-ohl modes of life, with the deep sorrows and calm, idyllic joys of that life. The new currents that have appeared in this patriarchal, firmly cemented order of things; the painful transition to new forms of life; the lack of solid foundation, tb* wanderings, full of yearnings; all' that has been imprinted in Ihe kind-hearfecf, line humour of Sholem Aleichem. He was the poet of the people's soul, and it is seldom that one has as much luck as he had in being understood, in becoming near and beloved lo all the different classes of the Jewish people. From the most obscure corners of the Russian and Galician ghettos lo the noisy New York and Buenos Ayres, Sholem Aleichem's stories made hearts tremble, eyes sparkle with joy and lauehfer, evoking tears of mirth and sadness.'

" Sholem Aleichem was a pioneer. He was a champion of the tongue of the masses. He was one of the very few who have succeeded in raising that dialect, once styled 'jargon; to the standard of a literary language. Sholem Aleichem witnessed (he wonderful strides of the Yiddish Press, he saw a periodical and permanent literature spring into existence, develop, and prosper. And he had his reward for his efforts and devotion in that cause. "'There are different attitudes toward life among men of big souls; pathetic, visionary, observatory, tragic, satirical, philosophical, and humorous. The created literal ure of the world shows that rarer than all the other views of life is the humorous view. The number of humorists in the universal literature is very small. From Cervantes to Sholem Aleichem there will scarcely be found more than two dozen. And it is 300 years since the death of Cervantes. Sholem Aleichem was the first and only one among us. And it is no wonder why he has been unique, why he will remain our favourite for generations to .come. Not only because Ihe humorous style of writing is so rare, but also because his humorous style was Ihe healthiest and most accessible style for every mind, for the very superficial as well as the most profound.' His Contagious Laughter.

"The feeling of the Russian Jews at the news of Sholem Aleiehem's death is best expressed by S. Zinberg, Evreyskaya Nedielya (Pelrograd) "'Sholem Aleichem lias concluded his path of life. His contagious laughter is no more. His Kasrilovka (the typical town in Sholem Aleiehem's works) has been swept away by a hurricane of blood, and ils unfortunate inhabitants, driven by Ihe maddening furies of war and human savagery, wander along the roads, in the towns and villages of limitless Russia.'

"Sholem Aleichem was born in Porcycslav, Province of Poltava, on February 18, 1850. Most of his life he passed in Kiev. In recenl years he lived in Italy, Switzerland, and .Scandinavian countries. He left a wife and four children, for whom a fund of 10,000 dols. has been raised among the New York Jews." says the "American Review."

BOOKS REVIEWED. "Ginger Mick." The thousands of Australasian readers who found "The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke" so novel, so human, and so piquant in their philosophy, will approach MY C. J. Dennis's new verses. "The Moods of Ginger Mick" with considerable anticipation." Ginger Mick, it will he recalled, was best man at Hie wedding of Rill and Doreen and lie was like this:— 'E was Hie sort ~• lilofcc to watch when V come in ycr Rale; 'F. 'nil a narsly fi(dilin' face (hat orl nice people 'ate. There's men oo never knoo ole .Mick, an' passed 'ini in the street, An' looks away and sez: "See 'im? ,\ narsly chap to meet! 'E'll 1)0 mi utfly customer alone an' after dark!" An' Mick, *e'd Iwileh 'is jor at 'cm, 'aii' earnest, 'arf a lark. Tlniswise lite sentimental bloke "intrajuices" bis "cobber." The war lakes hold of Ginger Mick with both hands—the pride of the "push," the paladin of Spadgers Lane, gets himself into khaki and is present at the landing on Gallipoli. lie finds himself in adaptable company. For instance, Private Snifty Thompson, an erstwhile Sydney rat, little Smith

REVIEWS AND NOTES

of Collingwoo'd, "wiv' fags stuck i 'is 'at," "Privil" Trent—

They reckon when 'c starts to bleed "■•'II stain 'is Khnrkl blue; An' 'is lingo smells uv Oxford- but Vs good Australian too.

One Keith, wlfo "wears per jar triers sOots an' cleans his teeth,'' becomes the "soljer cobber" of Ginger Mick after a tierce dust-up between Ihe pair of them. And so we

come to the "singing soldiers," as depicted by Ginger Mick "on a dirty scrap o' paper wiv Ihe writin' 'ard lo sec."

"Strikel" sez V. "II sounds like, sidling"; but they're singin' while they're flglitiii'; An' they socks it into Abdul to the toon o' 'Nancy l.ce.' An' I seen n bloke this moi'iiiii' wiv 'is arm blown lo n rag, Tnunin', 'Break the Xoos to Mother' v.'ile V sucked a soothin' fag."

It was perhaps only natural thai trench life should inspire in the mind of Ihe ex-rabbit hawker the! idea of living in a burrow. In "Hab-; bits," Mr Dennis pans out good gold, fi) Ihe dish. The fancy is deftly I handled. Says the "old 'wile' rabbee" man;— "'I sees me finish! .. . War? Why, this

ain't war! It's I'errclin"! An' I'm the bloomin' ganu Me skin alone is worth the 'untin' for

That tart's in blame! Before we've done, I've sot a silly scare. Some trnppin' Turk will catch me in a

snare. "K'll skin me, wiv the others "e 'as there. An' shove us on a truck, an' bung us "round Constantinople at a bob a pair—

Orl frosli and sound! 'Ends down, 'eels up, VII 'awls us in a vow Around the harems, Vwlin' 'Rabbce-oh!'" Rose of Spadgers Lane—the girl (perhaps we should say the "clinah") in the ease—loses her hawkersoldier lover at last—"Look after Hose," 'c scz, "when 1 move on. f.ook after . . . Rose . . . Slafcesh!" An' 'e was gone. So Ginger Mick died, "a gallant gentleman," according to his"cobber" Trent. His is an appealing history as recorded by Mr Dennis in the quaint argot of the "push," but, except in patches, "The Moods of Ginger Mick" is not equal to its predecessor. The verses are uneven in merit, the philosophy they contain often trite and the poems are, in several instances, overlong. Mr Dennis has beaten out his precious metal into too thin a sheet. His pen has wandered too much, his strength is 100 often diffused. Still, there is enough of good in this volume to make it popular. Hal Oyer's illustrations in black and while are more or less lifeless. Our copy of "The Moods of Ginger Mick" is from F. H. East, Ltd., Chrlslchurch. The publishers are Angus and Robertson, Sydney. A Tale of Malta.

"The newer the writer, Ihe older the subject" is one of Ihe commonplaces of talk about books. Captain Oswald Dallas may have written before, but no volume by him comes to memory, nor is there anything very new in the subject matter of "God's Child." Still, the book is distinctly readable and if the paternity of Ihe child is guessed many pages before the author discloses it, few will be'able to anticipate the intricacies of the father's villainy. The girl. Primrose Easter, was a servant in the house of one of die canons of the cathedral of Chesterbourne, when her sin found her oiit; and the gossip of that cruel and detestable town gave the blame to the Rev. Alfred Leedes. She slips easily lo greater depths, not even ceasing when she has seduced Sergt. Dangerfleld, of the Green Rangers, into marrying her. The talk drives the Rev. Alfred Leedes from his parish, lo lake service as chaplain to that regiment then stationed in Malta. With him goes his sister Margaret, who is broader-minded than he, and bigger in every way. The sketching of life on the island in peace limes is done deftly enough, and the characters introduced ihcre are better made than those which hold the larger places. The contrasts are drawn very shandy between those who have spent their life with Ihe Army, and have grown broad and strong under ils discipline, and Ihe power of its traditions, and those who have become sodden wilii the olmospherc of Ihe cathedral close. The final chapters seem lo suggest that in another volume we may hear more of Ihe sad time? that must lie before one of Ihe little boy's character and petulant temperament. When that other book comes out, it should he read eagerly, because already Captain Oswald Dallas has shown thai he has a flair for incident, and a feeling for character. "God's Child": London, Casse.ll and Co.. Lid.; Christchurch, Simpson and Williams. Ltd.

A BOOKFELLOW'S GOSSIP. Lan Hay, the author of "The First Hundred Thousand" is under orders Io join the forces on the Continent at once, and so "Garry On," which is a continuation of "The First Hundred Thousand," will probably be published soon. When Gapt. Beith —he's lan Hay Beith, you know—was recalled Io England to act as an instructor in machine gun practice at one of the training camps work on the book had to slop.

Cosmo Hamilton, author of "The Sins of the Children" wrote his first novel when he was 21, and it was accepted by the first publisher to whom lie sent it. In five consecutive years (here was never a time when one or more of his plays was not running on the London stage. He lives in the United Stales now.

W. Somerset Maugham, author of "Of Human Bondage" went to America Io attend the rehearsal of his new comedy, "Carolyn," which Mar-f-'arel Anglin will play in this season, lie is a novelist and a dramatist only as a recreation. In (iicl, he is a surgeon. He has been

serving on (he medical staff of a French hospital at the front, and part of the time acting as an ambulance driver, which occupation he confides, "as a whole, was better than being a doctor.*'

A very intimate memoir of '"Master" George Pollock, Senior Master of the King's Bench and King's Remembrancer, is contributed to the "Cornhill" by Mr E. S. P. Maynes. This eminent judge, who died last year, aged 03, was the son of Ihe still more eminent Chief Baron Pollock. Mis memory was remarkably retentive, and his talk of the early part of last century was always entertaining. "I remember (writes Mr Haynes) being startled by his remarking one day how delighted be was to see G.R. on the mail-carls. It made him feel 'quite a boy again." He had not seen any of the Georges, but bad been astonished, walking down Whitehall as a youth, lo see a genial gentleman suddenly look out of his carriage window and put out his tongue. This turned out to be his Majesty King William IV., who wished lo indicate to some old naval friends on the pavement that his elevation to the throne had not made him too proud. No wonder thai my eldest daughter, on being taken lo sec George Pollock, promptly asked him for his impressions of the execution of Charles 1., and was sadly disappointed to find that her great-great-uncle had not attended the cercmonv.

Some stirring versos addressed "To a Soldier in Hospital," by W. M. Letts, appeared in the "Spectator." Some of Hie stanzas are as follow: Courage came to you with your boyhood's

grace Of ardent life and limb. Each day new dangers steeled you to the

test. To ride, to climb, to swim. Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death With every breath.

So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave; An Empire's team, a rougher football field, The end -perhaps your grave. What matter? On the winning of a goal You staked your soul.

Yes, you wore courage as you wore vour youth. With carelessness and joy. But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy? How did you learn to bear this long drawn pa i.i And not complain?

Greybeard philosophy has sought in books And argument this truth, That man is greater than his pain, but you Have learnt it in your youth. You know the wisdom taught by Calvary At twenty-three.

Death would have found you brave, but braver still You face each lagging day, A merry Stoie, patient, chivalrous, Divinely kind and gay. You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate Of unkind fate.

If is one of Ihe many vagaries of authorship that, while one man will spend a laborious year, or more, over a single book, another will produce a volume of equal length in a week of feverish industry; and that while Mr \V. W. Jacobs, as he confesses, often sits, pen in hand, a whole morning without putting a solitary word on paper, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has written a story of 12,000 words without once leaving his desk. Even such a painstaking writer as Ihe late Robert Louis Stevenson'had his spasms of lightning work, in one of which he completed his famous "Jekyll and Hyde" story within seven days, and Mr Hall Caine has told the world that he wrote the first and last lines of his "Life of Coleridge" in three weeks. The late Dr. Andrew Lang, when in the mood, has more than once written 5,000 words of a book between breakfast and late luncheon before returning to his normal work of leaders, articles, and book reviews, and it is said, remarks the "Sunday Companion," that S. R. Crockett wrote the last half of "The Stickit Minister" in forty hours, eating and dozing at his desk.