The Bookshelf.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 22, 1 December 1909, Page 45

The Bookshelf.

By

DELTA.

BOOKSHELF FEUILLETON. n OVERS of Heinrich Heine will be glad to hear that Mr. Levy has done into English, and Andrew Melrose has published at 5/- net, some of that gifted author’s most beautiful “Poems and Ballads.” Tliis edition, while it has excluded ■'•many of the poems which most ■lly illustrate the poet’s fierce revolt gainst conventional standards, and he intensity of what has been called iis sense of discordance between the al and the ideal, little of the coarse irofanity which so frequently disfigured sis most characteristic work has found is way here.” Here is an example of Mr. Levy’s translation, which is taken from the “Lyrical Intermezzo.” Every student, and therefore lovers of Heine, will remember his beautiful “Es liegt der Neisse Sommer”: — “To-day warm summer lieth Upon thy little face; The little heart within thee Giveth cold winter place!” “But this will alter with thee, Beloved that thou art! Upon they face in winter, The summer in thy heart!” Here is another taken from the “Songs”:— “All within me sings of loving—• Thought and feeling, soul and wit. Ah! ’tis he, the little loving, Love God, has a 'hand in it! “Into my heart's playhouse stealing, Little impressario, he Takes my thought and feeling, Setting them to melody.” Mr. Levy’s translation of Heine’s poems and ballads are declared by the most eminent critics to be “easily amongst the best, and may even be ranked as the first.” Mr. H. G. Wells’ new novel, which is on the eve of publication by Mr. T. Fisher Unwin, is to be entitled “Ann Veronica.” As Mr. Wells is above all things ahead of date, we confess ourselves keenly anticipatory of the treat in store. The “Saturday Review” has endorsed our opinion that (those writers who write because they must will continue to write—cheap reprints or no. Mr. Keir Hardie has published, under the auspices of the Independent Labour party, a booklet which is issued at 1/ net, and which is entitled “India: Impressions and Suggestions.” A critic in the “Literary World,” commenting upon the book, declares the book moderately written, and thinks Mr. Keir Hardie’s chief fault lies in the fact that he was obviously too credulous when in India, being unaware of the Oriental tendency to adapt facts to the disposition and temperature of the hearer, and where, as in Mr. Hardie’s case, there was a presumption that the unrest in India was largely due to maladministration of affairs by the paramount British power, facts which confirmed that view were naturally framed to support and confirm that prejudice. Moreover than this, much of Mr. Hardie’s knowledge was taken from the late Mr. William Digby’s work, “Prosperous India.” In short (says this writer) Mr. Hardie either knows very little of India or he is deliberately blind to the truth anent the real state of things in India. Another seceder from the ranks of the novelists is Mrs. Julia Frankau, who Writes under the nom de guerre of Frank Danby. Mrs. Frankau. though sailing rather closer to the wind of a proper reticence than is generally desirable, and though she often took gross liberties with “the well of (English undefiled,” was a writer of no mean reputation as far as her knowledge of the aspirations and limitations of mankind were concerned. A more superb piece of characterisation than that of the heroine in “The Heart of a Child” wo cannot just now remember. Tn all her novels Mrs. Frankau’s trump cards are “hearts.” “Josephine E. Butler,” by George W. and Lucy A. Johnson. The life of Mrs. Josephine Butler must be a reproach

to those who, crying out that woman’s sphere is the home, would deny her any but domestic outlets for her energies. A devoted wife, a passionately loving mother, it was not until the age of 41 that Josephine Butler began her great work, which, after 17 years of hard struggle, she carried to a successful end. With untiring energy sne spoke and wrote—at the end of this volume is a list of no less than 102 works composed by her —and even extended the campaign to the Continent. Yet with so full a life, Mrs. Butler lived to the good age of 78. Mrs. Butler’s methods were remarkably like those of the present suffrage movement. In particular the much-abused by-election policy of opposing the Government candidate was one of her chief weapons. She was often in danger of mob-violence, and on one occasion it was necessary to arouse her from bed and remove her secretly from her hotel, the proprietor of which feared the threats of the mob outside. The leader of all this militant agitation was a woman whose dominant characteristics were great gentleness and love. A woman of the lowest class lay dying in hospital. The chaplain’s well-meant words had just been rejected with a storm of abuse. Mrs. Butler spoke to the woman lovingly. She, astonished, recognised her Teal love, clung to her hand, and became gentle and humble till her death, always repeating, after Mrs. Butler’s departure, “She will come again. Has she come back?” Josephine Butler based her work on the principle that disease should be prevented, not by the sacrifice of woman, but by the selfcontrol of man. She declared that had women been enfranchised, the “C.D. Acts” could never have been passed, and that her own struggles would have been greatly lessened had she not been forced to fight “outside the Constitution.” We are grateful to the editors that they have given this autobiographical memoir of a noble woman to the world. (Arrowsmith. 6/.) An exceedingly smart passage of arms has taken place between the gentleman who edits the literary pages of a Southern contemporary, and a correspondent as to the merits or demerits of the “Decameron” of Boccaccio. Now, the “Decameron” is oftenest condemned by people who have never read a line of it. It is a sort of Arabian Nights, and the tales differ according to the teller. Few people know that the beautiful story of

the “ Gerfalcon,” and the story of “Ib>bella and the Rot of Basil ” are taken from the “ Decameron ” of Boccaccio, reprints of which may be found in a great many school books and libraries. We have no copy at hand, nor data to tell us quite the century in which Boccaccio flourished. But he is not more to be condemned than is Shakespeare for several plays of his whose scenes were set in a grosser age and environment than ours. The “ Decameron ” is not a book indeed to be placed in the hands of youth. Nor is it a book to be approached in an unclean spirit by adults. But there are individuals who, while straining at ancient gnats, will swallow the modern camel (novel) of pruriency without inconvenience or protest. We append Mr. Eugene Field's wittily expressed opinion on the proper position Boccaccio should occupy in any properly equipped modern library, and which we have reprinted from the aforementioned paper:—■ BOCCACCIO. One day upon a topmost shelf 1 found a precious prize indeed. Which father used to read himself. But did not want us boys to read; A brown old book of certain age (As type and binding seemed to show) While on the spotted title page Appeared the name “ Boccaccio.” I’d never heard that name before, But in due season it became To him who fondly brooded o’er Those pages a beloved name! Adown the centuries I walked. Mid pastoral scenes and royal show; With seigneurs and their dames I talker The crony of Boccaccio! Those courtly knights and sprightly maids, Who really seemed disposed to shitv In gallantries and escapades Anon became great friends of mine. Yet there was sentiment with fun, And oftentimes my tears would flow At some quaint tale of valour done As told by my Boccaccio. In boyish dreams I saw again Bucolic belles and dames of court, The princely youths and monkish men Arrayed for sacrifice or sport, Again I heard the nightingale Sing as she sang those years ago. In his embowered Italian vale. To my revered Boccaccio. And still I love that brown old book 1 found upon the topmost shelf— I love it so I let none look Upon the treasure but myself. And yet I have a strapping boy Who (I liave every cause to know) Would to its full extent enjoy The friendship of Boccaccio!

But boys are, ah! so different now From what they were when 1 was one! I fear my boy would not know how To take that old raconteur’s fun! Tn your companionship, O friend, 1 think it wise alone to go, Plucking the gracious fruits that bend VVhcr’er you lead, Boccaccio. So rest you there upon the shelf, (lad in your garb of faded brown; Perhaps, sometime, my boy himself Shall find you out and take you down. Then maybe feel the joy once more That thrilled me, filled me years ago, When reverently I brooded o’er 'The glories of Boccaccio! EUGENE FIELD: (“The Love Letters of a Bibliomaniac.”) Note.-—Boccaccio nourished in the early part of the fourteenth century. \ dainty now series is “Cassell’s Little ('.lassies” —masterpieces at sevenpence per volume, cloth gilt, poeket size. They should sell by the 'million. Here are some impressions of Meredith, by (1. K. Chesterton:—The trees thinned and fell away from each other, and 1 came out into deep grass and a road. I remember being surprised that tho evening was so far advanced; I had a fancy that this valley had a sunset all to itself. 1 went along that road according to directions that had been given me, and passed the gateway' in a slight paling ■beyond which the wood changed only faintly to a garden. It wa.s as if the curious courtesy and fineness of that character 1 was to meet went out from him upon the valley; for I felt on all these things the finger of the quality which the old English called “faerie”; it is the quality which those can never understand who think of the past as merely brutal; it is an ancient elegance such as there is in trees. I went through the garden and saw an old man sitting by a table, looking smallish in his big chair, lie was already an invalid, and his hair and beard were both white; not like snow, for snow is cold and heavy, but like something feathery, or even fierce; rather they were white like white thistledown I came up quite close to him; he looker! at me as he put out Jii.s frail hand, and 1 saw of a sudden that his eyes were startlingly young. He was the one great man of the old •world whom 1 have met who was not a mere statue over hiis own grave. He was deaf and he talked like a torrent. He did not talk about tho books he. had written; he was far too much alive for that. He talked about the books he had not written. He unrated a purple bundle of romances which he had never had time to sell. He asked me to write one of the .stories for him, as he would have asked the milkman, if he had been talking to the milkman. It was a splendid and frantic story, a sort of astronomical farce. It was all about a man who was rushing up to the Royal Society with the only possible way of avoiding an earth-destroying comet; and it showed how, even on this huge errand, the man was tripped up at every otiher minute by his own weakness and vanities; how he lost a train by’ trifling or was put in gaol for brawling. That is only one of them; there, were ten or twenty more. Another, I dimly' remember, was a version of the fall of Parnell; the idea that a quite honest man might be secret from a pure lovo of secrecy, of .solitary self-control. 1 went out of that garden with a blurred sensation of the million possibilities ot creative literature. The feeling increased as my way fell back into the wood; for a wood is a palace with a million corridors that cross each other everywhere. I really had the feeling that 1 had seen the creative quality; which is supernatural. I had seen what Virgil cal’s the Ohl Man of the Forest; I had seen an elf. The trees thronged behind my path; I have never seen him again; and now I shall not see him, because he died last Tuesday.—-From ‘'Tremendous Trifles,” by G. K. Chesterton. We have received frirni its editor (Mr. Grattan Grey) the Christmas Number of ' rhe Southern Sphere,” the Australian Pictorial Annual. The cover design is unique, ami symbolises, we think, the passing of the Australian “black-fellow” It is splendidly illustrated in colour, black and white, and sepia. Mr. Grattan Grey contributes a foreword describing the object and the sco|>e of this periodical, which embraces every subject, "within the realms of art and literature which tends to elevate the taste and intellectuality of the Australian people.” “A Brief Historical Retrospect,” and “The Increase of Population Australia Needs,” are also contributed by tire editor. Fiction

is represented by Ambrose Pratt, Marie G. J. Pitt, and Kathleen Watson. Mr. Pratt’s story is entitled “An Australian Shylock,” and gives a new rendition of an old and immortal story. Miss Pitt discourses in serio-comic style, "In the Devil’s Gully,” of the abnormal fears man conjures up upon insufficient evidence; and Kathleen Watson presents a pathetic romance that well-nigh eame to tragedy. A masterly paper on “Passing Phases of Gur Musical Life,” is contributed by Professor Marshall Hall. An expert article on “Grape Growing in Australia” is highly informative reading, as, in addition to giving the cost of starting a vineyard, suitable soils, etc., it gives statistics of vintages of 1909 throughout the winegrowing districts of Australia. “The Progress of Art in Australia” is shown by A. Colquhoun. Mr, A. G. Stephens contributes some literary reminiscences. Poetry is represented by J. B. O’Hara, M.A.. and Marie G. J. Pitt. Austral furnishes some excellent reviews of the most notable books of 1909, by Australian writers. An extremely vivacious paper is that of Malvolio’s, on the “Stage in Australia.” “Her Work and Ways,” by H. C. McGowan, describes in flowing terms the splendid work that is being done and. projected by Australian women in Australia. “Australian Prospects,” by Eeonium, ami some official statistics bring to a close a periodical which is in every, respect a triumph of pictorial and literary art. The suggestion that books shall be priced according to bulk is a shameful pandering to that section of the reading public that prefers quantity to quality. The announcement of the publication of the late Oscar Wild's poetical works, which compel the recognition of his undoubted genius, both as a poet and a dramatist, does but make us regret that the warp in the woof of Oscar Wild’s character should have been so pronounced as to make him mistake license for liberty. Here are two exquisite verses ot ,his on the delights that Nature offers:— Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe, And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait. Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate. And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas, And sweet the wind that lifts the ■new-mown hay, And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees That round and round the linden blossoms play; And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall, And the green bursting Jigs that hang upon the red-brick wall.

REVIEWS. Wallace Rhodes: Norah Davis. (New York and London: Harper Bros; Auckland; Wildman and Arey. 3/6.) This novel is a subtle and a fascinating delineation of a type of woman always stigmatised by Mrs. Grundy and her family as unchaste. The plot is unconventional and somewhat startling, but is moved along natural lines to a perfectly satisfactory denouement. Quince Rhodes, Wallace Rhodes’ dearly loved son, is in love and engaged to be married to Veronica Bowdre, who lias the reputation of being a modern Helen. In reality she is only a very feminine woman, with an uncommonly alluring personality. Femininity Ito breathes from her that all men are fascinated by her, but few believe in her, as chaste. Sv convinced is Wallace Rhodes of V eronica’s frailty, and so determined is he to prevent Quince from marrying her, that he sets a diabolical trap for her, which she, innocently enough, falls into. Eventually, in order to save her honour, which he has compromised by taking her to his house at midnight, he marries her. and eventually learns both to love and trust her. We greatly admire Quince Rhodes, and should have liked' to have seen him happily married to the woman he so consistently believed in, and we should also have liked to have read of Mrs. Dempster and Edith Quarles and' the rest of the tabbies of this story being relegated to the Coventry of lost reputations they designed to send Veronica to. As an analysis of the “eternal feminine,” we think the delineation of Veronica Bowdre worthy of all praise. But parts of tne story are unconvincing and overdrawn. Not even in Boston would the treatment doled out to Veronica Rhodes as mistress of her husband’s house be tolerated or attempted. And the story is too long drawn out.

A Miniature Mutiny and Other Sea-Yarns: Frank Ball. (Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide, and Brisbane: George Robertson and Co.) Every leviathan steamer that is launched tends to the extinction of the sailing ship. And with the extinction of the sailing ship will depart, to a great extent, the romance and the mys: tery of the sea. For romance and mystery must naturally pale in the glaring light of electricity and the fevered life of the crowded steamboat. So that in course of time there will be no further service for the sailing -hip but on the ocean of fiction. Mr. Ball, in this series of sea-yarns, discourses, for the most part in a minor key, of the fate of those who- go down to the sea in ships. An extensive acquaintance with this author’s fact and' fiction of the dangers to be encountered on the high seas aboard sailing ships, would, we should think, determine youth, that any walk of life would be preferable to that of seafaring. Mr. Ball’s narrative, too, lacks both the atmosphere and the stirring incident inseparable from any first-

class sea-yarn. We think him happiest in "The Ships of the North,” which is al story founded on fact, not unconnected with history’. ■ “Manchester,” shows Mr. Ball does not lack the gift of natural characterisation. “Sea Frolics” describes some ancient sea customs. “Our Heritage—The Sea,” which, if we mistake not, is a title that belongs to Frank Bullen, imparts, in an interesting way, the reasons why the younger generation hais lost its taste for the sea, “A Pacific Holiday” is a bit of ready praiseworthy’ graphic description, and felicitous phrasing and a very’ creditable pen portrait is painted of that frolicsome mammalia Pelorus Jack. But Mr. Ball’s sea-yarns smack too much of the academy, and fail to wholly charm or absorb by their didactic tendency, and their lack of spontaneity. We are indebted to the courtesy of George Robertson and Co., for our copy of this book.

BITS FROM THE NEW BOOKS. Only Villainy is only genius in deformity.—s “Shoes of Gold,” by Hamilton Drummond. Stanley Paul. 6/ net. 'What Money Can Bny “ I want nine lives at least. Why can't one buy some of the time that hangs so heavy on other people’s hands?”— “Al Reapinsr.” bv E. F. Benson. If? Woman would be more charming if one' could fall into her arms without falling into her hands.—“ Love and Other Nonsense.” Humphreys, 3/6 net. An Ont-of-Date Gibe. “ I don’t think I should like America.” “ I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,” said Virginia satirically. “No ruins! No curiosities!” answered the Ghost. " You have your navy’ and your manners.”—“New Edition of Oscar Wilde’s Works.” Methuen. 5/ net. A New Elixir of Youth. To keep young, every woman ought to go into retirement for at least one month out of the twelve, a fortnight at a time, perhaps, and do nothing but eat and sleep, see nobody, talk to nobody, think of nothing, and especially not simile. If . one followed that regime religiously, with or without prayer and fasting, one need never havel crows’ feet.—-" Set in Silver,” by.C. N. and A. M. Wiliaimson, Methuen. 6/ net. Knowledge About Women. Some men know so much about women that it is quite uncanny; some knowt so little that it seems quite unfair.—• “Everybody’s Secret,” by Dion Clayton Calthorp. Alston Rivers. 6/. Two Kinds of Men. There are two kinds of men, the man who wants a woman to put her head on his shoulder, and the man who wants tn put his head on si woman’s shoulder. And when a girl’s fool enough to like the last kind best, she generally pays.—“ Katrine,” by’ Elinor Macartney Lane. Harper and Brothers. 6/ net.