FROM . . . Bookstall and Study.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18442, 18 April 1928, Page 12

FROM . . . Bookstall and Study.

Mr George Moore, the novelist and poet, has been ill for some time, and xecantiy underwent an operation. Mr Rudyard Kipling's latest publication, “A Book of Words,” includes the public speeches made by him in the last twenty years. sc « In addition to an official biography ©f Thomas Hardy by his widow, we are also to have another volume of Verse from his t>en. Daylight saving has been made an important factor in a murder story entitled “The Bellamy Trial.” by Frances B. Hart. Opponents of daylight saving in New Zealand might possibly find, in its association with murder, a further reason for its abolition. No fewer than three English authors, Norman Douglas. Francis Brett \oung and Louis Golding, have collaborated in the translation into English of a novel by Edwin Cherio. which is to be called “That Capri It is said that the late Lord Oxford and Asquith, in writing his reminiscences, which are due for publication later on in the year, so far suppressed his cautious instincts that the “revelations” will make very piquant reading indeed . “The Architect's Journal" states that Thomas Hardy, who qualified as an architect, won the RJ.B.A. silver medal in 1863 for his essay on “The Application of Coloured Bricks and Terracotta to Modem Architecture,” but the essay was not published, as is usual, because it was not considered to be good enough for print. •« M 25 Lion Feuchtwanger's novel. Jew Suss,” is published in the United States under the title of “Power.” The reason for the change is to avoid an appearance of Semitic propaganda, with which the country has been flooded lately. Americans also have a liking for one-word titles. % X X Traffic blocks in the streets o'f New York must cause a considerable loss of time, judging by the following advertisement, which appeared in a recent number of the “New York Times Book Review”:—“lndispensable to-day for every automobile, with traffic conditions as they are, is a volume of short stories.” 55 55 55 There is no author of whose book on its appearance Simpkin. Marshall, the groat middlemen of the British book trade, would to-day at once take 10,000 copies, as they used to in the case of Marie Corelli and Hall Caine. XXX From “Putnam Book News”: Old Gentleman: “My little man, you must not say, ‘ain’t goinV You must say, ‘I am not going,’ ‘He is not going,’ ‘We are not going,’ ‘They are not going.’ ” Tommy: “Ain’t nobody goin'?” 25 55 55 The Femina Vie Heureuse and Bookman Prizes Committee have selected and sent to the French Committee for final adjudication the following three book*: “ Good-bye, Stranger,” by Stella Benson; “ The Lovely Ship,” by Storm Jameson; and “To the Lighthouse,” by Virginia Woolf.

An eminent habitue of the Berkeley Restaurant, London, is Sir James Barrie. Ferraro, the manager, says that the great author’s favourite cocktail used to be a. mild Bronx, which consists chiefly of orange juice. To surprise him Ferraro used the juice of tangerine, ?n even more delicate flavour, and Sir James was delighted. “But we can no longer call this a Bronx, Sir James.” “Very well, Ferraro, what would you call it now?” asked the great little man. “Let it be known as a Thrums cocktail/' promptly suggested Ferraro. 25 55 55 A new story of Mr Shaw appears in the “Manchester Guardian.” “A short time ago Mr Shaw was having his famous beard trimmed, when the barber ventured to inquire if he did not think that Christianity would have been retarded for 2000 years if Germany had won the war. At Mr Shaw’s request the inquiry was repeated. Mr Shaw then thought for a moment and replied: "Do you think. Mr Blank, that there is any Christianity to retard 2000 years?” 25 25 25 Mr Beckles Wilson’s book entitled “The Paris Embassy” teems with salty observations oil the personages of the period, as well as some anecdotes that are not well known. Those who have not read the letters of Queen Victoria will derive much amusement from one of those letters addressed by the Queen to Leopold. Kitig of the Belgians, and republished by Mr Willson. It reads: “My dear Uncle,—l must tell you an anecdote relating to Louis Napoleon’s entry into Paris. Under one of the triumphal arches a crown was suspended to a string (which is very often the case), over which was written, ‘II I’a bien mcrite’ (freely he has well merited it). Something damaged this crown, and it was removed, leaving the rope and superscription. The effect must have been somewhat edifying!” 25 25 25 Commenting on the fact that Durtedin was the only New Zealand city that linked up with the Australian authors Week Movement* Mr Alan Mulgan, late of Auckland, writing in the London “Mercury,” says: “Perhaps it is just as well that New Zealand has not been joined generally with Australia in this development of local patriotism, for she differs in character from her more assertive and more nationalistic neighbour (who inhabits a continent and not two islands the sise of Britain), and as it is, there is so strong a tendency in the outside world to regard New Zealand as a mere suburb of Australia, that in New Zealand the use of the word ‘Australasia’ causes irritation and is officially deprecated.” 25 25 25 For the second time within a few weeks a copy of T. E. Lawrence's “Seven Pillars of Wisdom,” 1926, with numerous illustrations, came into the English market, and was knocked down yesterday at Messrs Hodgson’s, 115, Chancery Lane, at £4OO, but we underatand from the auctioneers that it was unsold (says the London “Times”). The edition was limited to about 100 copies, of which a certain number, each lacking some or other of the plates, were disposed of by the author to friends. The first copy to appear in the sale-room brought £570 at Hodg•on's last November, while another eppy in New York reached only £SOO. There were two natures interwoven in Conrad, one feminine, affectionate, responsive, clear-eyed, the other masculine, formidably critical, fiercely ironical. dominating, intransigent. Often the sweet mood would change in a flash, and with ap upward fling of the head he would stare hard with wideopened, sardonic eyes at the perpetrator of some fatuity or sentimental falsity. His eyes would grimace ironically, and he would boil over suddenly while attempting to conceal hi* violent distaste; and the person who had awakened this mood would go to circulate some alarming legend his intractability.—Edward Garnett, in “The Century.”

Plaques have been placed in Albany, Piccadilly, to commemorate the residence there of Lord Byron, the first Lord Lytton, and Mr Gladstone.. Apart from their having had at different periods the same Albany address, Byron and Lytton shared a series of similar conditions. Both began the literary career by romanticising pirates, highwaymen, debauches, and naughty folk of that kind; both were inordinately unfortunate or unsuccessful in marriage: and both were so completely the children of their respective generations that their work is inadequately appreciated by i generation with a different spirit and outlook (says “The Times”). Neither staved in Albany very long, and each left on the compulsion of matrimony which was to give them reason to regret their departure. “There are four great writers of loveletters in English literature—Swift, Steele, and the Brownings,” writes Mr Brimley Johnson in his introduction to his “Letters of Riehard Steele.” Steele’s love-letters are marked by an entire absence of self-consciousness and of any striving after effect. “I shall affect plainness and sincerity in my discourse to you,” he wrote to his wife, Prue, “as much as other lovers do perplexity and rapture. Instead of saying, ‘I shall die for you/ I profess I shall be glad to live my life •with you.” Again: “I may say I am dead drunk for your sake, which is more than ‘I dye for you.’ ” Another letter concluded with the •words: “I am, dear Prue, a little in drink, but at all times yr faithful husband.” On one occasion Steele endeavoured to placate his sorely-tried spouse with a gift of walnuts! “I send you sevenpen’orth of walnuts at five a penny, which is the greatest proof I can give you at present of my being, with my whole heart, yrs.” Women, according to the author of “Crooks and Crime,” Mr J. Kenneth Ferrier, a former detective inspector at Scotland Yard, are more easily victimised than men; but there are exceptions : Widows, particularly elderly widows and those who are also of corpulent dimensions, have a peculiar charm for the immoral person who treads the earth with fraudulent intent. Thin, hatchet-faced, Roman-nosed widows are not regarded as easy game. Mr Ferrier has several good fingerprint stories to tell, of which perhaps the most welcome in these days of American supremacy is that of the New York official who scoffed at the system, had two copies of his fingerprints taken, sent one to Scotland Yard, called there with the other a month later, asked who he was, and was told his qame in two minutes. From “T.P.’s Weekly”:— I notice an interesting sign of the times in the spring list of one of Dur foremost and up-to-date publishers. Headed “Thrillers and Detective Stories,” is a special list of the new books of this type that the firm is about to issue. No longer apparently is detective literature to be lumped together with the ordinary run of novels under the single title of “Fiction.” For publishing purposes, at any rate, it has achieved the importance of a special section in the catalogue all to itself, like Poetry or the Drama. The rise of the detective story, in what may be termed the literary social scale, is a remarkable feature of postwar fiction. It used to be regarded with a few exceptions, such as the stories of Poe and Conan Doyle, as the lowest-browed type of reading matter. Now there is none of us so high-brow that he fails to do it reverence. Of course, the quality has improved enormously, and some of the most skilful writers of the day are engaged in its manufacture.

Mr J. A. Spender’s “Life, Journalism and Politics” contains the following Irish journalistic story:— There was once an acting editor of a Dublin paper, “United Ireland,” whose Christian name was Matthias. Matthias was a man of will and courage. He opposed Parnell to such purpose that the latter, with a bodyguard of resolute men, stormed the office of the delinquent paper. Matthias, like Horatio on the bridge, held the editorial fort single-handed; but, alas! the door to the holy of holies was broken in, and poor Matthias was dragged out, thrown down, and beaten with umbrellas and sticks. A witness of these dramatic proceedings was Father Ilealy, who described the struggle in a message to his curate, in Bray. The curate was referred to the Acts of the Apostles, chapter i., verse 26—“ And the lot fell on Matthias.” “Some diarists deliberately write for publication —some few leave instructions that their diaries shall be destroyed. But the great majority leave their records without any instructions whatsoever, and it is in connection with these that the disputable question of publication arises. The temptation to publish sensational indiscretions is great,” writes Mr Arthur Ponsonby, M.P., in the “Daily Herald.” “There is a considerable difference between immediate publication and eventual publication. Immediate publication means, in some cases, disclosing the inner recesses of the diarist’s mind to those who knew him personally, and risking giving offence by publishing his comments and criticisms on people still living. It is likely to damage the reputation of the diarist, and it only ministers to a passing cravirjg for disclosure and scandals on the part of the diarist’s contemporaries. Eventual publication of a diary is quite another matter. All the unhealthy element of shocking. offending. and tickling contemporaries is eliminated. You receive a first-hand bit of human history, a record of human character, possibly some sidelights on history, and, in all cases, a psychological study of profound interest.” 25 25 25 Sir Edmund Gosse, at the conclusion of a long review of “Memoirs of Mrs Letitia Pilkington” in the London “Sunday Times,” has this to say of the editor of the memoirs:— The name of Miss Iris Barry, who signs the preface of this reprint, has not hitherto been familiar, but it was appended only the other day to an agreeable romance about Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, half fact, half fiction. Miss Barry is evidently attracted by the eighteenth century, and has already considerable acquaintance with it. She is clever, and writes with vivacity. But I wish she would avoid rash generalisations. She takes Letitia Pilkington’s venomous attacks on the clergy far too seriousb'. That she should think journalism, “cleaner flavoured” in 1750 than it is now is strange. That “no one was the least ashamed of being locked up in the eighteenth century” is a daring remark. She declares that the little corpses of unwanted children were to be. “seen strewn along the roads leading out of London.” This is sensational writing with a vengeance! Perhaps one corpse was seen once on one roadside. But when Miss Iris Barry restrains her violence, and her affectation of admiring what is disreputable, she writes well, and will write belter. What she needs is

less Pilkington and more Berkeley or Cowper. At present she is too rash in her judgments. She calls Colley Cibber “the vilest of laureates.” There was nothing “vile” about Cibber; he wrote wooden odes, but good comedies and an autobiography which is a classic, and he was both respectable and benevolent. But her strangest aberration is to say that Dr Samuel Johnson was “an animated wax-work.” Tut, tut! The marked disinclination of the British reading public to buy the books they read—a disinclination which has resulted in the building up of many circulating libraries—is troubling the National Book Council, which has set about to find a remedy. The council, which is composed of authors, publishers and booksellers, held a dinner recently, at which advice on how to proceed was given by a number of eminent diagnosticians. Dean Inge praised the valuable small bibliographies which the council issue, as a guide to readers who are puzzled by the present huge output of books and periodicals, and suggested that it might go further and tell the people how to read.

“The real advantage of reading a book, ’ he said, “begins w r hen you put it down and begin to think about it, which some people never do. The majority of people read too fast, but for a good book the proper speed is about that of reading aloud. My wife and I read to each other the first thing every mdrning. and we get through a great deal of literature. I occasionally go to a circulating library and. see some young woman come in with an armful of novels. She puts them down on the counter and picks up four more at haphazard, which she takes away. That is a sort of intellectual dramdrinking. With good advice people could get a great deal more out of it than that.” Miss Clemence Dane said that booklovers knew books to be not only an anodyne, but a compensation. Few. she said, could travel about the world or meet the people they would like to, or experience the great things of life, and were it not for what books give them, they would feel cheated. She added that what these millions wanted was to keep in touch with wheir fel-low-men and women, and this they did through books. “ The Lacquer Couch,” by Anne Duffield. Published by Mr John Murray, London. Tn this book the stage is set in China, and the author gives us the story of an English household, into which the Manchu princess, Ming Yun, has been adopted. Dr Carrington’s wife is slowly dying of a painful disease, and Ming Yun, in addition to acting as nurse, has to take the place of the hostess in entertaining. The doctor’s aunt, an elderly spinster, comes out to assist in the management of affairs, and develops unsuspected qualities. The story works up to the regard of Ming Yun and Dr Carrington for each other, and the final passages really leave the reader to arrive at his or her own solution of Ming Yun's future. The rescue of a Russian refugee princess, and the story of her trials and sufferings, is cleverly introduced. Perhaps the most noteworthy feature of the book is the excellent manner in which the characters are drawn, but it has other good points besides, and makes very fair reading. 25 25 25 “ The Silent House,” by John G. Brandon. Published by Cassell and Co., Ltd. Copy from Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd., Cashel Street. Those who appreciate “ thrillers ” are sure of plenty of excitement in this book—the story of the play of the same name. Richard Winsford. a rough dia mond in business in China, takes a long shot and despoils a temple by robbing the joss of Chan-fu’s ancestors of its priceless array of jewels. After an exciting time, he manages to reach England with his servant or slave, Hofang, but only after his partner falls a victim to the wrath of Chan-fu. Arrived in England, Winsford builds the “ silent house,” but after several years dies from an “ accident,” leaving all his property to a nephew on certain conditions. The story goes on to relate how the nephew, with Ho-fang’s assistance, fulfils the conditions, and incidentally rescues a lovely maiden from the bloodthirsty Chan-fu. The book contains some thrilling situations, and is of the type which makes a good screen serial. The hero and heroine get into some awkward corners, but, as usual, they emerge safely.

“ The Love Letters of a Husband,” published by Cassell and Co., Ltd. Copy from Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd., Cashel Street. The author gives us, by means of a young husband’s love letters to his wife, who has run away because she. thinks he has tired of her, the story of his desire to get her back, and the manner in which he works quietly but effectively to accomplish this end. The letters are very cleverly written, and are full of wit and anecdote, while there is occasionally a subtle reference neatly introduced. The volume provides much better reading than the title might suggest to many. "The Snake and the Sword,” by P. C. Wren. Published by Mr John Murray. London. This is another of Mr Wren’s wellknown books which Mr Murray has

now issued in his 3s 6d library. The story concerns the difficulties of a young man who suffers from an extraordinary prenatal influence, but who finally overcomes his weakness. The scenes are practically all laid in India, a country with which Mr Wren is very familiar.

Who goes there? The challenge bold: Have you cough, or have you cold? Halt; The simple countersign Give at once, oh, friend of mine: “Woods* Great Peppermint Cure!” ’Tis 1-ass! All's well, my friend, with you.