BOOKSHELF NOTES AND COMMENTS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 14, 6 October 1909, Page 47

BOOKSHELF NOTES AND COMMENTS.

The questionable methods of modern newspaper journalese is providing those writers who take for their motto “Satire’s my weapon” with abundant opportunity to exercise that weapon. Mr. Reginald Turner is the latest addition to this class, and in his “Samson Unshorn” (Chapman and Hall) has run amuck of methods that not only savours strongly of yellow journalism, but of the semifraudulent. Mr. Turner has bad much experience as a journalist, and has for the last ten years been on the staff of the “Daily Telegraph,” and is at present the literary reviewer of that paper. But, revenons a’ nos moutons. When the newspaper was the vehicle for the expression of the honest opinions or views of its proprietor or proprietors, on matters that affected the public interest, or the mouthpiece of a party, society, or cult, that had for raison d’etre the dissemination of its or their views, it was comparatively innocuous, if those views ® r ‘°P* n * olW were likely to influence or injuriously affect the public weal, since only its disciples slaked their thirst at its fountain. But modern newspapers—and we include under this head all those magazines and journals registered as newspapers—are becoming more and more mere money-making machines, and cater to that enormous majority that cares not one whit about the welfare of its neighbours, its religion, or its country, so long as the daily dish of news is of generous proportions and its highly spiced. And, considering the enormous appetite of this bird of prey—for we do not hesitate to thus designate the devourers of putrescent matter—there is small wonder that the original lie, or scandal that was half a truth, is so interfaced with embroidery as to have not only enlarged its original proportions, but to have lost its likeness to the original. But, if the re-manufacture of news is necessitous in modern journalism, it is infinitely better that, as in the example shown by Mr. Onions in “Little Devil Doubt,” that.good shall be manufactured out of evil rather than evil out of good. Though we allow that the matter is questionable, it seems to us to have been better to have taken a questionable text out of which to manufacture a moral discourse than to have traversed a good sermon. But what these critics, who often more by fortune than by merit, sit aloft in high places, fail to do, 'before applying the lash of satire to their less fortunate confreres, is to discriminate between proprietors and staffs. There are journalists and journalists, many of whom, if only their own ruin were involved,' would starve rather than sign their name to anything they could not conscientiously approve, but who, like the too idealistic painter of pictures, have to live by pot boiling. The root of the evil of the whole matter lies in the fact that journalism, and, indeed, all the arts, have become commercialised. And the paper that can best cater to the popular demand for the amusing—the sensational, the impossible, the improbable, the scandalous, and the prurient—are the papers that are most successful from a financial point of view. And, as the majority of proprietors or syndicates—and, in justice, we conceive that the deterioration of modern journalism lies nearest to the doors of syndicates—are more concerned about dividends than moral responsibility, thqse journalists who have not offered a sop to fortune must choose between the alternative of starvation or compliance. •And as the journalist, by virtue of his birthright, is nothing if not human, he Complies. And, ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute. Nevertheless, it behoves Journalists to remember the power of the printed word. To quote the late Vreorge Meredith, “Things printed can

never be stopped. Our Jorian compares them to babies baptised. They have a soul from that moment, and go on for ever.” Apart from the book’s satire on journalism, "Samson Unshorn” is absolutely uninteresting, and it can only be likened to a one-star play. And for the life of us we cannot help suspecting that Mr, Turner’s essay into the realms of satire is assumed with a view to making a ibid for that ephemeral popularity which he is strongly condemning in his confreres, and with as little real public profit. The man that can reform the methods of a purely commercial journalism will have proved himself the greatest saviour of man since He of Calvary. Liber, of the “New Zealand Times,” has voiced a plaint that many New Zealand readers and reviewers, if they have not put that plaint into cold print, have frequently voiced it both to their immediate entourage, and to their favourite booksellers. Those readers, or reviewers, who are fortunate enough to be recipients of, or subscribers to, those journals which devote their pages entirely to reviews and criticisms of books and pleasant, informative, and critical gossip of bookmen, often come across reviews of books which incite in them a strong desire to read or possess them. If book borrowers, they apply to their library, and failing to hear of it there, will—so intensified is the wish by the failure met with—go on to another library, only to hear from the polite attendant that it takes so long, “you know,” for a new book to reach the colonies. This, by the uninitiated is accepted as

an only too patent trurn, aim the longing is relegated to the depths of baffled desire. But the initiated are aware that the colonial edition, generally published, simultaneously with the English, is at times published in advance. And so, by them, this statement is received with incredulity, and not a little disgust, that a country, in which education is making such rapid strides, should have its literary appetite, which is becoming fastidious, offered second-class meat, not that a minimum of first-class meat does not come this way, since there are first-class novelists, who are also popular novelists, whose works the reading public will have. An application, or an order to your bookseller for these sterling books, by authors who have not had set upon their works the seal manuel

of a general popularity, is fruitless, as we ourselves can testify. So we are delighted to echo Liber’s complaint, and trust that every reviewer throughout New Zealand will give this plaint the fullest publicity, and like Liber, call upon the “Publishers’ Circular” and “Book Monthly” to please copy. Though the Balkan crisis lias been safely got ovex, any history of that stormy region irrust be of keen interest to readers owing to the great conflict of interests centred there. Mr. Howard Flanders has written, and Elliot Stock has published, at 2/6 net, a condensed history of the Balkan States, which dates from the beginning of the Christian era.

“A Story of the Caves,” by Mrs. Ambrose E. Moore, illustrated by Miss E. G. Harris, is now in the hands of the Brett Publishing Company, and will be ready for November, in time for Christmas gifts, for which purpose it will be specially suitable, being got up in a very attractive manner. This story is one of a series which will follow in due order, namely “Pelorus Jack,” “The Fairies of the Lakes and Mountains,” “The Fairies of the Gold Mines,” and others. In writing these stories the authoress has endeavoured to introduce as many objects of interest as possible, and everything being strictly true to New Zealand, they will thus commend themselves to tourists as a memento of their travels through this country. Tiie Maoris —long before they had ever seen or even heard of a white race —hid their fairies, and they were white. AU older countries have their fairy lore, and

why should not New Zealand? A country with such manifold beauties lends itself to such imaginings. Its magnificently snow-clad mountains, its hikes, caves, forests and flora, all claim to be peopled in some such graceful and fantastic manner which will help to draw the attention of our rising generation to the varied and grand scenery around them. The book will be a novelty, and we wish Mrs. Moore every success in her enterprising undertaking.

EPIGRAMS FROM NEW BOOKS. The Wanton: Frances Forbes Robertson. (Greening. June, 1909.6/.) God made the lovers and the devil married them. God didn't make demons, you know; man made them to play with.

Honour the heart’s desirro above thy (brains. The brain is a treacherous crucible that turns out false coin. Be friendly with thy enemy, and wary of thy friend. Be brave enough to be a coward. I have a sneaking regard for the optimistic fools, the very simple conceited beings who are devoid, it would seem, of all power both physical and mental except this strange belief in the wonder* of their own untried ability. Love not women, but one woman. Short cuts are never short; that is life. A poet is most fearless, yet full of fear. There is always redemption for one who can honestly hate; it betrays the presence of an ideal somewhere.

From Hampstead to Holloway : W. Burton Baldry. Ouselev, .lune 1909.1/ net. A woman never reveals a secret. She reveals dozens—seldom less than two at a time. And the difference between a man and a woman in this respect is that a man will reveal his own secret, but keep all others; while the woman will reveal every one she has—except her own. The easiest way to escape a difficulty is to ignore it. People in this world do not seem to realise that you should never ask anyone for anything unless you have proved to them beforehand that you are in a position to take it should they refuse to give it to you. If we waited till the cold light of the morning before we said many things, there would be more bachelors in the world at present. To 'be whispered about is to a woman far worse than being tried for murder. It is quite easy to find something someone has said somewhere, to fit any views you like to expound. Men only say such things to save lazy people the trouble of thinking. That is why dictionaries of quotations, and books of epigrams, have such good sales. A Platonic friendship is the refuse of the disappointed lover.

Other Things Than Love. Handasyde. Hutchinson. June, 1909.6/. There are no rules of conduct in love. All men like being embraced at a crisis. Nothing makes people so conspicuous as to lie enjoying themselves. Variety’s the spice of every woman’s life; that s why the second husband's always the antithesis of the first. A man never fully realises he’s married . . . until he has fastened his wife’s blouse up at the back. It's the true test of marriage, and the man who has never done it knows nothing of what marriage really implies. The woman who lets herself <w has the charm that takes men’s breath away, but the woman who could let herself go if she would has further attractions to a thoughtful mind. Genius as often as not lies in concealing genius. Women manage to conceal many more things than the most diligent man could ever know. Domestic affection and jingoism are the two things that never fail to fetch an audience.

Studies in Wives. Mrs Belloc Lowndes. Heinemann. June, 1909. 6/-. It is a bad sign when a beautiful young woman becomes indifferent to how she looks. A sign that all is not right with her. Baulked of certain instinctive rights, the human heart seeks compensation as surely as water seeks its level. As is, perhaps, more often the ease than those who despise human nature believe, many have the grace to reverence the qualities in which they know themselves to be deficient.. After all, jesters are men of like passions to their more melancholy brethren. If a man had been wholly consistent during the last ten years he would probably have landed, England being what it is, in a lunatic asylum. Twenty-five years of married life had taught him that on the whole his wife knew best.