DOWN GRUB STREET

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 72, Issue 291, 7 December 1929, Page 18 (Supplement)

DOWN GRUB STREET

It is often said that the child of today is being brought up without a knowledge of the stories and legends of the past which ought to be the birthright of every one. The busy parent, or the parent who still hesitates to turn his small son or daughter loose to browse at will among the shelves of his own library, should welcome the publication of a series of which the first eight volumes are now ready. The Children’s Library is intended to provide a liberal education in the world’s favourite stories, and its ideal is to create an instinct for the best in literature and book production. The volunie s are graded into four series, the first for children who are just beginning to listen to stories and rhymes in the nursery, the fourth for children of about twelve to thirteen. The publishers will gladly send further particulars to anyone interested.

Dr. Barker Fairley, Professor of English literature in Toronto University, and the author of a critical estimate of Charles M. Doughty, has expressed in a Canadian literary paper his opinion of Mr H. A. Manhood’s volume of stories, Nightseed, he says: ‘lt is no use recommending these talcs to the enormous army of spiritual dope-fiends who want every book they read to be a comfortable variation on the one before it, like an old jazztune done over, another hand at bridge, or the latest Edgar Wallace. But to the little band that really cares for the new thing and knows it when it sees it, this volume must be treasuretrove. Its sixteen short stories are full of faults. They are immature, uneven, stiff, sometimes intolerable. But they are something else —they are the work of genius, by which I mean that they are the work of a man who sees life passionately in a new way. This is the phenomenon that keeps literature alive. It shows up every now and then and is not usually welcomed. But woe betide us if it disappears for good.”

Horse-racing has the widest appeal to Australian readers, who take especial interest in past turf happenings. Anything relating to the heroes—human and equine—of years gone by is avidly absorbed. In the smoking rooms of luxurious city hotels and at camp fires in the bush conversation often turns to the cross-country achievements of Jim Scobie and Tom Corrigan, the flat race victories of Tom Hales and Mick O’Brien, and the undetermined question as to whether Carbine was superior to Abercorn. It is regrettable that famous Australian trainers and jockeys have passed away without leaving any autobiographical records. Mr Frank H. Hart, a Melbourne sporting journalist of over 20 years standing, who uses the penname of “Khedive” had the good fortune to obtain from the lips of James Scobie, a comprehensive narrative of his experiences as jockey and trainer. Scobie has prepared more winners of big races than even W. S. Hickenbotham, who handled Carbine. “My Life on the Australian Turf,” by Janies Scobie, and just published by Robertson and Mullens (Melbourne), is full of intimate stories of men and horses. Besides being richly entertaining, it possesses great historical value, pains having been taken to ensure accuracy in every particular.

Miss Lizette Woodworth Reese, whose book of reminiscences, “A Victorian Village, ” has just been published by Farrar and Rinehart, feels strongly that the Victorian age has been much maligned. In an interview given during her recent visit to New York she said: “Queen Victoria may have been a dumpy little woman, but she was no fool. ’ ’ Wc paid more attention to taste in those days (Miss Reese went on) than to morals. Th c women wore low-neck dresses and nobody fainted. We could drink like ladies and gentlemen. At least where I lived we called a leg a leg, and I don’t remember ever having heard it called a limb. The individual was mor e important—and individual taste. We chose our own books. ami wc had a real affection for our authors, for Dickens. for example, ami for Thackeray. Moreover, don’t think we wcr c any more sentimental than you are to-day. Not half so much. We didn’t have the radio and a dozen means of propagating sentimentality. Miss Reese. by the way, is 73 years old. not 8.1. as her publishers stated on the jacket of her book. She has graciously forgiven them for the unintentional over-statement.