FROM. . . Bookstall and Study.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18629, 5 December 1928, Page 4

FROM. . . Bookstall and Study.

I am in the habit of reading reviews of poetry, not for instruction, but because these provide me with a simple amusement. It is often impossible to deduce from the help the reviewer gives us the nature and flavour of the poetry we are being asked to buy or not to buy. The impression we receive is that the reviewer had thought it his duty firstly to conceive an utter loathing for all poetry, and secondly to try to adopt a just attitude towards the book he is reviewing, an attitude of obvious, creaking, and unwilling justice. If he quotes, he quotes all the worst lines, and says how good they are, and then ends the review by saying that Mr Shakespeare has no message, that the book is not poetry, and that Mr

Shakespeare should go far. —Eaith bitwell. Charles Dickens, it seems, cannot be defamed. Writing in the “Saturday Review” Mr J. B. Priestley says: — Strictly speaking, there has not been a famous writer since Dickens. Everybody knows about Mr Bernard Shaw, we say, and most people do know his name, but that is only because they have seen it so often in the papers. Ask 99 people otit of every 100 who John Tanner is and they will stare at you. Kipps and Mr Polly, Clavhanger, and Denry Machin, Soames Forsyte—who are these people? Not one person in a hundred, perhaps two hundred, perhaps five, could tell you. and yet we imagine that everybody knows Wells, Bennett, Galsworthy. I wish somebody would stand at the corner of a London street and put a question or two about authors to every passer-by. I have met educated people, who were in the habit of using libraries and called themselves readers, and they did not know the names of some of our best living poets and novelists. To understand the colossal fame of Dickens you have to go outside literature altogether now: Charlie Chaplin is the only rival worth considering. But is this kind of fame worth having? Of course it is. and worth more than all the statues, titles, dedications, memorials, commentators, volumes of So-and-so and his Age, put together. And here is a question for those fellow scribblers who do not like these innocent remarks, who are even now bridling and putting on peevish airs. Who said that every man should sit down to write as if he had a million readers? Was it said yesterday by Nat Gould, or to-day by Ethel M. Dell? No, it was said the day before yesterday, by Goethe. 5c «

Alcibiades, the famous Greek general and politician, who was bom at Athens in B.C. 450 has always been a favourite subject for writers. As a youth he possessed great abilities and was very wealthy. His youth was disgraced by his amours and debaucheries, and Socrates, who saw his vast capabilities, vainly attempted to win hm to the paths of virtue. After a stormy existence, he was killed by his enemies at the age of about fifty-four. Two new books dealing with Alcibiades are announced.

Mr E. F. Benson, familiar as the novelist who wrote “Dodo,” has recently written a “Life of Alcibiades.” Mr Benson remarks that there is more information about the boyhood and youth of Alcibiades than about that of any other person, famous or infamous, in history. After the success of “The Immortal Marriage,” dealing with Pericles and Aspasia, Mrs Gertrude Atherton has now written “Vengeful Gods” wherein Alcibiades leaps upon the stage as the maddest spirit of Athens. Arrogant, intolerant, dissipated, at times unscrupulous, he is the antithesis of Pericles in everything but brain power and gift of leadership; but he is even more beloved by the people, and receives the highest honours of the State at the age of thirty. In this book we meet Socrates, Aristophanes, and other immort als of the time.

“Undiscovered Australia” by Captain Sir George Hubert Wilkins, is an outspoken work. The author speaks of the disgust with which, as a born Australian, he heard the professor of a leading Australian university say to him, “I have dissuaded several promising young fellows from joining your expedition. There is no money to be made in expeditionary work to-day, or even in the study of natural history. Young fellows may earn a decent living at other things. They can get well-paid commercial jobs as soon as they leave the university;' there is no need for them to gain experience in the field.” Sir Hubert Wilkins adds that, in their “absence of expressed desire for culture and for higher things, and in their contentedness with the mediocre,” Australians are “perhaps the poorest rich people in the world to-day.”

In support of his opinions Sir Hubert Wilkins tell this story:— A station-owner told me that he was driving along a road and picked up a sundowner (swagman) in order to give him a lift. When they came to a gate the sundowner sat tight, and the sta-tion-owner 'got down and opened the gate. At the next gate the sundowner sat motionless until the station-owner said, “Here, you get down and open this gate.” The swagman obeyed. He was taken to the station and given his meals and a bed for the night. In the morning, after his “tucker” bags had been filled, he presented himself to the

station-owner and demanded his cheque. “Your cheque?” he was asked. “What for?” “For opening the gate. You ordered me to open the gate, and I obeyed. That constitutes hire and service. According to our union rules you can’t sack me under a week’s notice, and I want eight days’ pay.” The sundowner was a “bush lawyer”; legally he was in the right, and he got his cheque.

The “ Spectator ” offered a prize for the best true “ lost-and-found story.” The following won the prize, the author being Mr W. Buchan, Isle of Mull:— A motorist .gave his small son a hedgehog as a pet. One day he took his son for a drive, and the hedgehog went too. After the drive the hedgehog was nowhere to be found. A few days later the motorist heard queer squeakings behind the dashboard of the car. Imagining it to be the engine, he sent it to a garage. The next day he received a bill from the garage for overhauling the car and removing one large and five small hedgehogs. Among the stories offered in the competition was this, sent in by Mr Edward M. Very, Chardonne-sur Y’evey, Switzerland:—

Some twenty years ago, on an Atlantic liner, two days out from New York, eight gentlemen lingered over their coffee while one of their number, Sir Arthur P——told the history of the latest addition to his famous coin collection. A brilliant speaker, and an authority on coins, he made much of the tale, while the priceless bit of metal itself passed from hand to hand for examination. The story done, the coin was nowhere to be found. In vain the table and floor were searched; in vain napkins were shaken, cups examined, questions asked; in vain it was suggested that each man p-esent should be searched; seven assented, but one, a Mr S , refused, politely but firmly Of course, after that, for the rest of the trip they cut him dead; the other

passengers, too; except Sir Arthur, -who generously acted as if nothing untoward had happened. The night after land was sighted, a steward, stooping to pick up a spoon, found the coin on end, between the carpet and wall. He laid it at once on the table in front of Sir Arthur, and as the news flashed through the room, apologies were made to Mr S for unjust suspicions entertained towards him. “ I will tell you now why I refused to be searched,” he said, when the excitement died down. “ Like Sir Arthur, I have made a hobby of coin collecting for some 3*ears, and I should have confessed as much, the other night, if Sir Arthur’s fascinating story had not ended so abruptly with the unfortunate disappearance of his coin. After that I was reluctant to speak, because—he paused, smiling, then reached across the table and laid beside Sir Arthur’s coin its exact duplicate—because this was in my pocket at the time. Even Sir Arthur,” lie added, “ would have found it hard to believe that, with only two coins of the kind in existence I should have had the other that evening in my possession.”

Thirty years ago the life-story of a woman who took the wage of shame was considered obscene, says an English publisher. Instruction in the processes of nature was decried as putting nasty ideas in young people’s heads, and the revelation of so much as an ankle below’ a skirt by a young woman, unless on the stage, was considered likely to provoke a young man to horrid thoughts. To-day we live in a cleaner age. Freer social contacts among the young, short skirts, games, equality of young men and women has produced a far healthier condition. Scientific curiosity has broken into many dark places; Freud, Jung, Adler and Havelock Ellis are studied when at one time they were taboo. “ Nothing is worth preserving that knowledge can destroy ” w'ould be a good national motto and a change from “ Honi soit qui mal y pense ” to which people are so accustomed that they now. ignore it. The new generation means to know, if it cannot learn from books then it will learn from experience. Its motto is to try everything once. The abnormal and unusual have been studied by scholars and their conclusions are of great value. Thw is all to the good. We want light in dark places. Their work is useless, however, unless their conclusions are appreciated by the world in general.

It is the function of the novelist to widen and deepen our knowledge of life and the individual. The taste for reading is universal, but preferences are illimitable. The duty of the publisher, therefore, is to publish his books so that they may reach those w-ho will appreciate them. He has to sell to the right public. This, together with his ability to attach the right authors, and his competence to choose the right books to publish, are the criteria on which to judge his ability as a publisher. He must be judged to have succeeded or to have failed by his ability to find not merely readers, but the right readers. A recent advertisement which appeared in a London periodical devoted to science will probably rank with Dr Samuel Johnson’s letter to Lord Chesterfield, says “ John o’ London’s ” Weekly.” The fact that the advertiser had thirty-one 3-ears previously made one of the world’s most notable discoveries in medical science would alone lend to it an enduring interest; but this is not the whole story. Here is the advertisement:— FOR SALE.

SIR RONALD ROSS’S ARCHIVES. Connected chiefly with his own work on malaria and mosquitoes, and containing MSS. of his papers and notebooks dealing with his original discovery in 1897, and correspondence with Manson, Laveran, Koch, Lord Lister, Daniels, Nuttall, Giles, Osier, Leishman and many other distinguished scientific workers; reports and much correspondence connected with the progress of anti-malaria work in many countries during thirty >’ears, especially with his thirteen expeditions to malarious countries; thousands of newspaper cuttings during the same period; also Sir Ronald Ross’s mathematical works, especially on Pathometry and other matters.

Dr Johnson’s famous letter, like a mighty bugle blast in one of John Bunyan’s dreams, blew down the walls of casual patronage and neglect which shut out a writer from professional reward. Sir Ronald Ross’s advertisement seems to have shocked an apathetic public into the realisation that we do not treat our great scientific discoverers either justly or intelligently. In one sense, Sir Ronald's advertisement was a private matter, but the public must be asking why it is that in a country* which is among the leaders of civilisation a man whose devotion to arduous and unprofitable work in dangerous malarial districts resulted in a discovery of immense importance to human welfare in the tropics, should need to sell such a valuable collection of original manuserpits in order to get £2OOO. The national conscience may further consider the refusal of a succession of its political leaders —namely, Sir Austen Chamberlain, Mr Lloy’d George, and the present Earl Balfour—to make a State grant to the man who told us how malaria was caused and could be prevented. John Masefield has written a book of poems entitled “Midsummer Night and Other Tales in Verse.” It deals with the times of King Arthur. x a x The Prince of Wales has accepted the dedication of a forthcoming anthology of stories and verse by Empire writers, edited by Hector Bolitho, the young New Zealand writer. « ss « Housebreakers have demolished the entrance to Hanging Sword Alley, just off Fleet Street, London, where Jerry’ Cruncher lived. Those who have read “A Tale of Two Cities” will remember

that this worthy worked at a Fleet Street bank during the day and went body’-snatching at night.

In a recent (and remarkable) tennis match at Cadogan Square, London, A. G. Gardiner defeated H. G. Wells 0-2. He was, however, later defeated by Arnold Bennett. The game was the result of a wager, and all three play-ers were over sixty y r ears of age.

The birth of Baron Munchausen is to be commemorated by the erection of a monument at Bodenwerder, on the Weser. It will stand in the garden where the Baron used to entertain his friends with his fantastic stories. a x x

The old coffee-stall at Greenhithe, known as “Henry’s Hut,” has been burned to the ground. It was celebrated as having sheltered Charles Dickens from a storm, and Dickens is said to have commended the proprietor for his coffee. ' a ss x

The new Archbishop of Canterbury is a great admirer of R.L.S. While an Inner Temple student he wrote a romance of Bonnie Prince Charlie, “The Young Clan Boy,” which showed traces of Stevenson’s influence.

The King of Italy is an author. He has just published the tenth volume of a great work on the coins of Italy’, which he has been engaged on for many years. This volume illustrates 5000 specimens, 1200 of which are sketched by the King himself. His personal collection of coins—the largest in the world—contains 100,000 specimens. King George also has a fine collection.

Discussion arising from reviews of Mr Robert W. Service’s new book, “Why r Not Grow Young,” has made it clear that “the Canadian Kipling” is not a Canadian, but a native of Lancashire. He was born at Preston, of a Preston father and a Preston mother, and he received his education at Hillhead High School, Glasgow. For a time he served as a clerk in a Glasgow bank. He went west as a young man at the time of the Yukon rush. It was his “Songs of a Sourdough” that earned for him the title of the Canadian Kipling.

“Britain seems to me at present the most pacificist nation I have ever encountered,” writes Mr Sinclair Lewis, the well-known American novelist, in the “Evening Standard.” “It is not that there is any diminution of pride, any willingness to endure insult or injury, but that there is a universal conviction that war is the stupidest and least efficacious as well as the most horrible way of accomplishing anything whatever. This opinion about Britain I derive from talking to scores of the most varied people.”

The copy of “Alice in Wonderland” which fetched £15,000 in London a lew months ago has now been sold in America for £30,000. The purchaser, Mr Eldridge R, Johnston, is the founder of the Victor Talking Machine Company. Included in the price were the manuscript and two copies of the first edition of “Alice.” These three volumes have reposed since last June in a glass case in the Philadelphia Free Library, where it is estimated they’ have been viewed by over half a million people.

To an interviewer who asked Edgar Wallace which of his novels took him the shortest time to write he replied, “A firm of publishers asked me on Thursday for a novel of 70,000 words by noon on Monday. Working eighteen hours a day\ dictating it all to a typist, with my wife doing the corrections, I delivered ‘The Strange Countess’ on Monday morning. If anyone wants to give me a present he might send me a copy. I should like to read it.”

Ernest Raymond, the novelist, has confessed that his earliest literary contribution published was a poem on the subject of King Edward’s illness, just before his coronation, and it began:— There will be no coronation; The King is stricken down. O who will occupy’ the stands, O who will fill the crown? Though not good, he admits, it was no worse than the outburst of a distinguished poet on the same theme:— Along the line the electric message* came: He is not worse, but much the same. XXX

The truth about life is much more romantic than any fiction can possibly’ be, said Miss R. Crockett, the author, in the course of a recent address. English fiction at the moment is realiy turning the shield both ways. On one side we see the romantic element, and on the other the realistic, and both appear in turns. The fight between romance and realism is really’ not a fight at all. Romance is just another side of life. There is alway’s romance stalking us. Scratch a realist and you find a romantic. Romance is as much alive as ever it was, and while fiction reflects the tendency of the movement of the times I think it always will be.” X 55 X For a man to write well, there are required three necessaries. To read the best authors, observe the best speakers: and much exercise Of his own style. In style to consider, what ought to be written; and after what manner. He must first think and excogitate his matter; then choose his words, and 'examine the weight of either. Then take care in placing, and ranking both matter, and words, that the composition be comely; and to do this with diligence, and often. No matter how slow the style be at first, so it be laboured, and accurate; seek the best, and be not glad of the forward conceits, or first words that offer themselves to us, but judge of what we invent, and order what we approve.—Ben Jonson. ss ss :? “ The House at Pooh Corner ” (A. A. Milne). From the time that “ Winnie-the-Pooh ” was published, A. A. Milne has been an accepted children's writer, and the fourth and last of the “ Pooh ” series maintains the same delightful standard as the others. Mr Milne thoroughly understands the art of children’s narrative, and has a happy little trick of introducing quaint paradoxical sayings that a child’s mind delights to fathom. Juvenile readers will be sorry’ to bid good-bye to the little forest animals who have wandered over the pages of i his four books in very happy com-

panionship with mortal Christopher Robin. Mr Milne has been acclaimed already as a classic, and there is an instant appeal about his work that is hard to define. Whimsical, but. never far-fetched, daintily presented and very human are the chief qualities of his writings. He contents himself with the world of reality’, never launching into the land of myth or fable for his .hemes. That is what the child of 1928 demands, something in its own domain. The book is attractively printed on glossy paper, and very finely bound. An ideal Christmas book for those under the teens. (Methuen and C 0..)