AMONG THE BOOKS

Sun (Christchurch), Volume IV, Issue 1012, 10 May 1917, Page 3

AMONG THE BOOKS

REVIEW NOTICES. "Black Sheep"—and their Shepherds. They have lied from a hell of their own making to another, those who hide and fight witb the French Foreign Legion. "Black sheep" from the byways and highways of the world, they gather under the tricolour, desperate men of all races and all creeds, working out their salvation desperately for a halfpenny a day and the chance of a brave man's death at the bead of a charge. Not all are so fortunate —the unlucky have fallen by the wayside on Algerian sands to be crucified by the Arabs, rotted in the Madagascan fever belts, or dropped out overripe from cheap fire-water in French China. Notwithstanding Ihc terrors of its training, the Lesion never lacks recruits. In its hard school the world's failures win out if any fibre is left in them when they enlist, .lust what a hard school it is Captain Pcrcival Christopher Wren enlightens us tremendously in his quasi-romancc, "The Wages of Virtue" (John Murray), a copy of which comes from Whitcombe and Tombs. Captain Wren's phi! scarcely matters. Sir Montague Merlin's amazing return from death to find his wife (believing herself a widow) married again, his refuging in the Legion so that dishonour may not come lo her and her children, and his very convenient decease as he and his comrades are on .their way to liberty and Europe—all this, and little Carmclita, the sprightly and passionate tavern mistress, are not important in comparison with the light thrown on the barracks life of the Legionnaires. In this, the author does remarkably sound work. Across the stage pass Merlin, now Jean Boule, Hiram C. Milton, alias the "Bucking Bronco," the infamous Luigi l'ivoli, the unspeakable Edouard Malvin, , the marvellous Mad Grasshopper '(once of the Belgian (inides, probably the most exclusive mess in the military world—before the war), the Russian twins, Mikhail (a sturdy maid in disguise) and Feodor Kyrilovilch Malekov, and the terrible Sergeant-Major SuicideMaker. And we must not forget Legionnaires Erbiggins (Herbert IHggins, erstwhile of Whitechapt'l), and Ton lon Boil-the-cat, the saratc and knife expert from Apache-land, who slipped a discreel length of steel between Rivoli's shoulder blades when that professional strong man, bully and beast, reeled, back with a shattered arm from the onslaughts of the avenging Bucking Bronco. We partake of {he "breakfast of the Legion"—a meal of which none asks a second helping —and go "footslogging" wit!) these dare-devils across the burning-sands, when, at the end of a gruelling 35inile march, lbcy collapse half-craz-ed beneath their hundredweight of full kit—the heaviest known. A hard school, in good sooth, but these be hard men. Captain Wren has exposed their very souls in "The Wages of Virtue." The narrative has the greater appeal because the average smug citizen is prone to regard these "black sheep" as black through and through. The raconteur shows it to be. very much otherwise. A Remarkable Career.

lii the long history of Ihe British Army lliere is not a soldier on its glorious roll of great commanders lo whom can In- credited such a remarkable career as Sir William Robertson, the present Chief of the Imperial. General Stall", and, as such, the supreme head of the greatest lighting machine the world has ever seen. Greater commanders in the Held there have undoubtedly been—Sir William, although he has served with honour in the face of the enemy in several campaigns, is essentially an administrator —but for steady advancement by sheer merit, application, and innate Illness for high command, his career is absolutely unique. William Hobcrt Robertson was born at Welbourne, in Lincolnshire, on July 11, 1872. In his early boyhood he showed that he was full of ambition of a sterling quality, and when, at the age of 17, he decided lo become a soldier, he did so with the lixed purpose of making the Army his career. From the day he first donned the uniform of a trooper in the Kith Lancers he applied himself to the study of the military ail, and never has an army schoolmaster had a more willing pupil. When he had passed every examination possible, lor a non-com., he returned to school, answering Ihff bewildered question of the master as lo whether he actually aspired to a commission with a matler-of-facl "Why not?" At the age of 28 Robertson was gazetted to the 3rd Dragoon Guards, and from that day on he has steadily risen through every commissioned rank, until now only one step remains between him and the baton of a Field-Marshal. Throughout his career Sir William Robertson has steadily held the absolute confidence of the Army and the War Ollice, and lime and time again he has been appointed lo positions of the greatest importance,jand in every case he has made his mark, lie was one of the lines! intelligence ollicers the War Ollice ever had, and as Commandant of the Staff College al Cambcrlcy made a reputation as perhaps the finest professor and lecturer thai great war school has ever known. Gifted with keen insight, he foresaw Ike present war, and for years his every effort has been directed towards supplying the Army with the brains required to conduct to a victorious end the greatest conflict in the world's history. When the war

REVIEWS AND NOTES

broke out he was appointed Quarter-masler-Gencral to the British Expeditionary Force, and the marvellous manner in which the supply of stores and munitions never failed the "contemptible little army" of Lord French during the unprecedented situations arising from the great retreat from Mons set the seal for ever on his genius for organisation. To those who might desire lo learn more of this great soldier's career Ihere comes a little book, "Sir William Robertson: The Life-story of the Chief of the Imperial General SlailV by (I. A. Lea.sk (Cassell and Co., Ltd.). The book is a plain, unvarnished title, giving the facts only, but all Ihc facts. It has little literary skill, and at limes is exasperatingly diffuse; but so thrilling is the story itself thai the book rannol bul inspire all who read it. Our copy comes through Whitcombe ami Tombs. "The Sheltered Sex."

"The Sheltered Sex" is a second book, and, as far as The Sun is concerned, a first. Yet it lifts Miss Mears at once to a very respectable place among popular novelists. If she is neither a Bronte nor an Eliol nor an Austen —for which she probably thanks her gods—and not even an Atherton or a Mary Johnston, she is a very much bigger woman v . than many long high in popular favour. She is bright and fresh and sane, and amounts in her way to a thinker as well. She is original without being profound, cheerful without blindness, and very deliberately frank without being a fool. With her deliberate recognition of woman's body as well as of her soul, she may carve oul yet a special little niche of her own. But don't misunderstand, "The Sheltered Sex" is essentially a light book. Wcro and there among the chaff are a few genuine grains oftruth, enough, but certainly no more than enough, to weather a wind or two. The plot is just a little trite and thin. In short, the "cribbed, cabined, and confined girl" begins to be fictionally dull. We know exactly what she is going to do, and how she is going to do it, and we read on doggedly, wondering if she will reveal new parts. We gol tired of Ann Veronica before Wells shuffled her off, and, as Miss Mears is not vet a Wells, we get sooner tired of Ruth Charlton. That is fo say, we gel tired of the "sheltered" —rebellious phase. Merely as a girl she is entirely interesting and fresh. None of the other characters, unfortunately, amount to very much, though Frank Jolivard is a very good foil to the robust, rebellious Bulb. As l'<)\- Jimmy Doyle, "poor old Jimmy," as they invariably call him, and his very respectable wife, they flit harmlessly across the pages, but leave no real impression—unless, perhaps, we recall the pious lady's "An' now what (he 'ell am I to do?" the day her good man was "sperritcd awav."

The real defect of the book, however, is that it is overloaded with explanations and reflections. Instead of keeping the narrative going, leaving its philosophy to come out by the way, the authoress throws in tracts, sensible enough in themselves, but obvious, and annoyingly out of place. It is, of course, the { fault of the 'prentice hand. If, like the heroine when she learned to I skate, Miss Mears could be spurred j to write by the tragic pressure of an evil fate, spurred on to prune and, clip and suppress, the result might make us rub our eyes. (London: John Lane; Christchurch: Whiteonibe and Tombs.) "He Maharatansa." To honour our dead, while at the! same time raising funds for our disabled and sick, Miss Betty Rhind has compiled an attractive little booklet on New Zealand al Gallipoli. From the dispatches of Sir lan Hamilton and the poetry of Rupert Brooke, as well as from ihe descriptive letters and journals of numerous official and unofficial correspondents, she has culled, with entirely satisfactory taste, those passages that more particularly evWwytc our own kith and kin. The booklet is attractively produced (by Messrs Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent and Co.). An interesting feature, ill view of the memorial nature of the collection, is the inclusion of eight or ten pages for additional cuttings. We have delected, however, one or Iwo slips in punctuation, while on page 22it, in Ihe poem by I). M. Stuart, the word ''cerements" has been printed as "cements." In an aesthetic thing like this it is a pity that there should be evidences of careless proof-rending. Our copy has come from Whitcombe and Tombs.

A BOOKFELLOW'S GOSSIP. Tlio original of "Huckleberry Finn" has died, slates Hie "Dial," in obscurity, and, wind is far worse, in poverty. A man capable of inspiring so great a work of fiction ought in his old age to have been supported in luxury, if be eared for it, by those who admire the unflaggingly popular book. As a mailer of fact, bis declining years were passed in the county almshouse at Paris, Mo. His name was Barney Farthing, and be lived to the age of 80, having been horn in INlitt, the year after his hoyhood friend first drew breath in the town of Florida, near Paris. But so closely was he identilied with the hero of the novel that for years he had answered to the name of Huck Finn as to his own. "An original genius in later life, as lie had been during the eventful earlier period chronicled by his friend, he made the coll in in which lie was buried—made it in protest against the outrageous prices of the 'Collin Trust." "

America just now is booming a 'writer named "Jack Lait," who, in iaddition to other literary work, is I said to have written for months and years together a "fresh, snappy, huI man story each day"—about 45,000 words a month. Each day brought its new plot and its fresh circle of characters. His stories were published daily in the "Chicago Herald." jStarting as a newsboy, I.ait became 'a "crack" baseball player, a college j student, a book agent, police reporter, political writer, sporting writer, dramatic critic, editor, war | correspondent, press agent, news- | paper proprietor and playwright, land is finishing up with all-round authorship. A selection of his short 'stories is published by Doubleday, I Page and Co., of New York, under the name of "Beef, Iron and Wine."

Mr Joseph Healing has become a prosperous novelist and playwright, bul popularity was a long time reaching him. In "My Struggle for Life," just published, he pictures a light almost as hard and painful as George Gissing's. "By the Faster of 1911 my poverty had reached ils cruellest stage, and I wondered whether it was worth while trying lo exist at all. For nearly ten years I had been writing, always writing and always against time, in order lo buy food and shelter, and that frightful task seemed to have stunned my inspiration. I felt as if, for ten years, a steam-roller had been passing and re-passing over my brain, flattening out its ideas in the same way as the stones of a road were crushed to a smooth surface." Soon afterwards his novels began to make their way with the reading public.

Lord Cromer was. not a man about whom many anecdotes in lighter vein could be related, but that he was capable of taking a humorous view of public affairs is proved by his annual reports on Egypt. Describing in one of those documents the judicial system of some Arab tribes, he stales that they have a sheikh "who decides by the light of the dreams that may occur to him whether a person accused of a crime is guilty or not." He adds, with grim irony, "It will not, perhaps, involve the too rapid introduction of civilised processes if this functionary is requested for the future to decide by (he light of any information which may reach him while he is awake."

When Robert Hitchens was in Greece, absorbing atmosphere for "In the Wilderness," at the beginning of the last Balkan war, he was arrested on suspicion of being a Turkish spy, found guilty, and sent under guard lo Athens, where he finally provedJiis identity and was set free. GEORGE WASHINGTON (New Style). "I have never lied to a newspaper correspondent since I have been at Washington. Sometimes I have not told you all I knew, because in the position I occupied that was impossible; but whatever 1 haye told you has been Gospel truth."—Count Bernstorff, in an "informal talk" to New York journalists. George Washington— lie never told a lie (So say the history hooks, at least)- shhl I Now rank beside U.S.'s greatest son--I've never told a lie at Washington. Yet half a moment what f really mean Is when the U.S. pressman's on the scene. To hint the representative of Ruthlessnes's lias never spoken aught but truth. Yet half another moment—understand I do not say I ever showed my hand: Of course with no intention to deceive I'd many an ace and joker up my sleeve. For instance, take the promises we gave When Sussex passengers sank 'neath the wave, We kept those pledges, as I often said —Until we wished to break them all instead. Statue of Liberty, a long farewell! Shall I be carved for Truth? Well, who can tell? Meantime, for all that's past a thousand Thankyc's, Good-bye, you charming "idiotic Yankees"! —"Westminster Gazette."