BROWSING AMONG THE BOOKS

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 76, Issue 303, 23 December 1933, Page 3 (Supplement)

BROWSING AMONG THE BOOKS

THE SCOTTISH TONGUE. What Scotsmen, as Scotsmen, should ever prize most is bound up inseparably with the native language. Ours is a matured country, and the stirring scenes of her history on which the mind of the individual delights to dwell, arc so frequently enshrined in spirited ballad and song, couched in the pithy Scottish vernacular, that, to suppose these latter dead—tlhcy are not translatable into English—is to suppose the best part of Scottish history dead and buried beyond tho hope of resurrection. Fo-r its own sake alone the Scottish tongue is eminently deserving of regard—of cultivation and preservation Scotsmen should be—and so all well-conditioned Scotsmen surely arc—as proud of their native tongue as they are of their far-famed native bens and glens. . . . They have characteristics in common; for rugged grandeur is as truly a feature of tihe Scottish language as it is the dominant feature of Scottish scenery. . . . Don’t go to London for your Scotch, my reader! Listen to it as it may still be spoken at your granny’s Ingleside. Familiarise yourself with it as it is te

| be found in its full vigour and purity jin tho Waverley Novels; in Burns’ I Poems and Songs; in the Noctes Ambrosianae of Professor Wilson; in | Gait’s Tales; in the writings of the j Ettrick Shepherd; in the stories of | George MacDonald, J. M. Barrie and S. ! R. Crockett; in the pages of Mansie iWauch, Tammas Bodkin, and Johnny | Gibb. Don’t learn English less, but, (again I say, read, write and speak Scotch more frequently. And, when doing so, remember you are not indulging in a mere vulgar corruption ot good English, comparable with the barbarous dialects of Yorkshire and Devon, but in a true and distinct, a powerful and beautiful language nf your own, “differing not merely from modern English in pronunciation, but in the possession of many beautiful words, which have ceased to be English, and in the use of inflexions unknown to literary and spoken English since the days of Piers Ploughman and Chaucer.” “Tho Scotch,” as the late Lord Jeffrey said, “is not to bo considered as a provincial dialect—the vehicle only of rustic vulgarity and rude local humour. It is the language of a whole country, long an independent kingdom, and still separate in laws, character and manners. It is by no means peculiar to the vulgar, but is the common speech of the whole nation in early life, and with many of its most exalted and accomplished individuals throughout their whole, existence; and though it be true that, in later times, it has been in some measure laid aside by the more ambitious and aspiring of the present generation, it is still recollected even by them as the familiar language of their childhood, and of those who were the earliest objects of their love and veneration.—Robert Ford. in “Thistledown.” (Paisley, Scotland: Alexander Gardner, Ltd.)

POLISHING A POEM. We know by Longfellow’s own statement to Mr. W. G. Lawton, that it was • his rule to do his best in polishing a [ poem before printing it, but after- , ward to leave it untouched, on the principle that “the readers of a poem ac- • quired a right to the poet’s work in the form they had learned to love.” He thought also that Bryant and Whittier hardly seemed happy in these belated revisions, and mentioned especially Bryant’s ‘ * Water-Fowl,’ ’ , “As darkly limned upon the ethereal sky,” where Longfellow preferred the original reading “painted on.” It is, . however, rare to find a poet who can carry out this principle of abstinence, at least in his own verse, and we know too surely that Longfellow was no exi coption; thus we learn that he had made important alterations in the “Golden Legend” within a few weeks of publication. These things show that his remark to Mr. Lawton does not tell quite the whole story. As with most poets, his alterations were not always improvements. Thus, in “The Wreck of tho Hesperus,” he made the fourth verse much more vigorous to the ear as it was originally written: “Then up and spoke an old sailor Had sailed the Spanish Main.” than when he made the latter line j read: “Sailed to the Spanish Main,” as in all recent editions. The explanation doubtless was that he at first supposed the “Spanish Main” to mean the Caribbean Sea; whereas it actually referred only to the southern shore of it . . . It is to be noticed, however, that Longfellow apparently made all these changes to satisfy his own judgment and did not make them, as Whittier and even Browning did/in deference to the judgment of dull or incompetent critics. . . . It will always remain uncertain how tar Poo influenced the New England poets, whether by example or avoidance That ho sometimes touched Lowe 1 and not for good, is unquestionable, in respect to rhythm; but it will always remain a question whether his influence did not work in the other direction with Longfellow in making him limit himself more strictly to a narrow range of metrical structure. It was an admirable remark of Tennyson s that ‘ every short poem should have a definite shape like the curve •sometimes a single, sometimes a double one assumed by a severed tress, or the rind of an apple when flung to the attemnipTV 8 ° f VCrSC Was rarc, Y d by Lo . n « fc,l hut he chose and n appropriately for “Seaweed” and in some degree succeeded. p oe adhere f ti n -t h,S h Wa < WardneSS could not adhe re to lt whcn he reachcd an J “ I en/?r l o V 1 “ S ori £ ina -l form of eer ” nJ h ** p ? bh * hed i” “The Pioneer perhaps the finest piece of lyric measure in our literature, made it ’ nevJ rhvTh ni ?r jinglin S and ha ck. , nejed rhjthm, adding even the final commonplaceness of hx s tiresome “re- ! pretend. Lowell did something of ‘ S T’® ln ® ut ‘ in g down the original p fine strain of the verses beginning: Pino in the distance,’’ but Longfol- ■ low Showed absolutely no traee of Poe -1,“.? warnin g “gainst multiplying tried rhythnnc . “periments as he once - tried successfully in “Seaweed.”I m ro ™, K H^ ry Wadsworth Longfel- ■ .n lhom as Wentworth Higginson (Boston Houghton Mifflin.) j A WELL-ROUNDED TALE. P i n he d i st i u guisliing feature of a t well-rounded tale has been defined in ! various ways, but the general reader , need not be burdened with many definitions. Briefly, a story should be an or- ! ganism. To use the words applied to I , ~e P l e. Addison, whose artistic , reeling in this kind was of the subtlest nothing should go before it, be inter--4 mixed with it, or follow after it, that is [ not related to it.” Tested by such ; considerations as these there are obvi- ; ously many volumes of fiction remarkable, and even great, in their charactcr- ( drawing, their feeling, their philosophy, , which are quite second-rate in their ( structural quality as narratives. In- . stances will occur to every one’s mind; ( but instead of dwelling upon these it is I more interesting to name some which . most nearly fulfil the conditions. Their , fewness is remarkable, and boars out , tho opinion expressed earlier in this I essay, that the art of novol-writing is , as yet in its tentative stage only, i Among them << ’lom Jones” is usually , pointed out as a near approach to pcr- , fcction in this as in some other charac- • toristics; though, speaking for myself, I do not perceive its great superiority in artistic fonn over some other novels of lower reputation. The “Bride of Lammormoor” is an almost perfect specimen of form, which is the more remarkable in that Scott, as a rule, depends more upon episode, dialogue, and de-scription for exciting interest, than upon tho well-knit interdependence of • parts. . . . Herein lies Richardson’s real if . only claim to be placed on a level with Fielding; tho artist spirit that he i everywhere displays in the structural parts of his work and in the interne- | tion of the personages, notably those of (“Clarissa Harlowe.” However cold, even artificial, we may at times, deem the heroine and her companions in the pages of that excellent tale, however numerous the twitches of unreality in their movements across the scene beside those in the figures animated by Fielding, we feel, nevertheless, that we are under the guidance of a hand which has consummate skill in evolving a graceful, well-balanced set of conjectures. forming altogether one of those circumstantial wholes which when approached by events in real life, cause the observer to pause and reflect, and say: “What a striking history!” Wo should look generously upon his deficiency in the robuster touches of nature, for it is the deficiency, of an author whose artistic sense of form was developed at the expense of his accuracy of observation as regards substance. No persop who has a due perception of the constructive art shown in Greek tragic drama can be blind to the constructive art of Richardson.—“ From Life and Art,” by Thomas Hardy. (New York; Greenberg.)

HORSEBACK IN MOROCCO. I was always glad that I saw occo when it was untouched by civilisation. Within a stone’s throw of Europe, life in the coast towns had scarcely changed for over 2000 years I in the interior, not at all. At the time we lived there, there were no railways, no tram-cars, not a single motor-car; and in Tangier the Minister’s wives went out in sedan chairs in the evening, while less fortunate folk had to be content with horses or donkeys. Soon after 1 arrived Billie bought njc a beautiful horse, a Barb, whom I christened “Beau Lillywhitc,” after a character in one of my father’s plays. He had belonged to Sergeant Balding, the English instructor to the Sultan’s army, and when Abd-ul-Aziz’s troops were routed he carried two men on his back nearly 60 miles into Casablanca. When I left, the Laverys bought my horse, and Sir John painted his daughter, Mn Semphill, sitting on “Beau Lillywhite.” This picture was called “The Amazon” and it was a great succest when exhibited at the Royal Academy, My husband only paid £l2 for that horse, but the price for good ambling mules was very much higher, £6O to £7O being not an uncommon sum to give in those days. . . . Tho lovely rides in Morocco are among my most precious memories of those long-past years. In the spring the whole country was a carpet of wild flowers, narcissi and anemones almost i hiding tho rich brown earth; but it was on the long stretch of sands I loved best to ride. At sunset it was a picture of almost breathless beauty and hushed peace—low rolling lines of sand-dunes, tufted with grass and heavy sweet-smelling lilies, afar off, the white walls of tho town, with a few tall palm-trees, the minarets of tho mosques outlined against a flaming sky of orange, red and green—suddenly. but quietly, a group of mounted French officers would appear in the near distance, General d’Amado in his pale blue and red uniform, his AJD.C. in dark green, with attendant SpaJiis in their flowing white robes, outlined against the darkening sky. long, long stretches of pale yellow sand, and on the deep blue and purple waters of the ocean a warship rocking lazily at anchor—afar off from the distant town the wailing but musical cry of the Muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer. —Doris Arthur Jones, in “What a Life!” (London; Jarrolds, Ltd.). A RANCHER RETURNS HOME. The sun was very low when John and his man set forth again; the brown, undulating Wyoming hills were casting long exaggerated shadows across the calm, hot plain. Rapier-like, gray yucca and clumps of feathery mountain sage vied with each other in casting beryl-tinted silhouettes athwart tho trail as the two men jogged steadily upward. A cooling wind sprang up and murmured over the broad range in tuneful whiffs and pulses, like snatches of music from a far country. John bared his head to the strengthening breeze and the old feeling of pleasure and content filled his very being. Tho penetrating odour of a burning, open wood-fire mingling with the tang of sago and upland pine, rose over the land, adding a pleasurable fragrance to the clean freshness of the May evening. The shrub-filled gulches, to the right and left of the travellers, grew steadily darker and filled with purple shadows, while tho tops of choke cherry trees and bitter bush flashed with gold and amber in the last bright flicker of day. The wide plain below grew suddenly radiant with tihe hue of molten gobi, and then dimmed to bronze, a scintillating and beautiful effect produced by the sinking sun. John turned to look at the land he loved and found it transformed and fairy-like in the end-of-day splendour. As they entered the lane leading io the home ranch, the hills below were sunken in a hazy, pearl-like grayness, while here and there jn protective draws, lights, like red stars, twinkled Irom the kitchen windows of the neighbouring ranchers. A pale moon swung slowly skyward above the filmy leaves of the quaking aspen trees as John alighted once again at his own quiet ranch house—J. M. Danford, in “Western Sketches.” A VILLAGE SCHOOL OF THE 90*s. nl hlie lower school the morning religious instruction and exercise were followed by the recital of what we called “Manners.” We even used the word in its singular form. The ophorism or injunction for which each was responsible we termed a “manner.” For the searching out and the composition of his daily “manner” each child was a law unto himself; perhaps, indeed, it was the one part of the day’s inflexible programme which can be called entirely self directing. We culled these “manners” from books, from parents, from memory, or in cases of the 11th. hour from our own heads; there was no rule against reasonable repetition provided the same child did not too frequently recite the same “manner” or that the same “manner’’ were not proffered twice on the same morning bv two different children. The philosopher Epictetus, who objected to the laying down of rules, pai” ticularly rules of etiquette, would have been sadly annoyed at the enjoyment we derived and the glibness we displayed in this peculiar exercise. As tho teacher called tho roll, each child rose, stood by his seat in the prescribed position, and delivered himself of his “manner.” Even the littlest were not excused. The subjects of the “manners varied from the high affairs of ethics to the more practical concerns of decent and decorous living. A few examples will suffice to suggest their limitless scope and range. A serious, frail little girl, whose general makeup denied an ounce of drama, was given to crying out in impassioned tones “In case of shipwreck, save the women and children first!” A fat little boy in very tight trousers, who has since become one of the financial props of Boston, furnished proof for the once popular contention concerning the New England morning meal by his reminder, repeated as often as possible and always with a suggestion of regret: “Never ask for two pieces of pie at breakfast.” The most popular “manner of a drab, prosy child who usually remained for weeks on mid at the foot of, the spelling-class, echoed her mother s widespread talents as a housewife: “In sweeping a room, never forget the corners.”—From ‘‘ A Goodly Heritage. ’ by Alary Ellen Chase. (New York: Holt.)