The Bookshelf.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIV, Issue 1, 5 January 1910, Page 46

The Bookshelf.

By

DELTA.

REVIEWS. Mr. John Masefield: Poet, Novelist, Historian. Artist, and Critic. /TF\ ANY super-excellent attributes 111 have gone to the making of JL / Mr. John Masefield. To the / double designation of Poet •nd Novelist, many writers have earned the title. But seldom, indeed, has any writer earned the right to the fivefold designation which Mr. Masefield bears, and has so strenuously earned the title to. To draw comparisons between Mr. Masefield and his contemporaries would be manifestly unfair, as he stands on a plane in creative art which he alone inhabits. We can furnish no particulars as to his parentage—education, traits, etc., for Mr. Masefield, with a reticence we greatly admire, prefers that his readers shall build up his personality from his books. But the influences that made him what he is to-day are super-impor-tant, as showing the value of environment on work and character. “It was on the training ship H.M.S. Conway,” says Mr. Ashley Gibson, “that Mr. Masefield first heard some of the best seastories in what I think is his best book, *A Mainsail Haul.’ The man who told them to him was an old sailor of the name of Wallace Blair, an instructor in seamanship, and a type that has now passed away among sailormen. He was of the sort whose hair—so the legend says —was rope-yarn, whose fingers were so many marlin spikes, and whose blood was good Stockholm tar. His kind old mind was full of coloured threads, each thread a bright tangle of romance. Others of the tales that he has put down in beautiful glowing words the l>oy whom the old sailor taught picked from others of his shipmates on his travels.” Sailing one voyage to America, Mr. Masefield left his ship, and took to the road, sleeping as occasion offered, in barn or hayrick, and working on the farms he passed. With two friends he next journeyed to New York to seek his fortune where for some time he served, in a subordinate position in a hotel bar. Amongst his duties was the packing of the beer-pipes with ice, attending to the free lunch counter, glass washing, polishing brasses, and, as he roguishly puts it, “separating combatants” so tactfully that no good client should have reason to take his custom elsewhere. Another of his duties was to squirt soda water into the faces of •thieves and beggars. “At about 2 or 2.30 a.m.,” he says, “I took a tot of whisky ami went to my garret, where I read the ‘Morte d’ Arthur,’ my only book, until I fell asleep.” But though hard schooling—there is not the slightest doubt but that the strenuosrty of his early days largely contributed to make Mr. Masefield the virile writer he is. In “Captain Margaret,” his first long novel, Mr. Masefield essayed a very difficult thing. “He worked out an intricate psychological study of four men and • woman, who spend months cooped up together on shipboard. His psychology is admirable, but it is of the twentieth century.” In 1905 Mr. Masefield edited that little known classic, “The Fancy,” written by J. H. Reynolds, whom ho found occasion to study as a friend of Keat’s. This little book, embellished with thirteen characteristic illustrations, by Mr. Jack B. Yeats, tho frontispiece depicting “Peter Corcoran.” as he signed himself, working in bed, was published by Mr. Elkin Matthews, in a form similar to that of “A Mainsail Haul.” A great many of the stories in this last book came out in the “Manchester Guardian.” The same journal, with the “Speaker,’’ “Macmillan’s,” •nd “Country Life,” first printed those that were incorporated in a second series, “A Tarpaulin Muster,” issued by Grant Richards in 1907. The twenty-four stories and sketches of this book were divided into two classes, legendary and real. The former class are said to have been superb, the latter are (occasionally laboured by the author's effort to lend a “brilliant impressionism” to sordid detail. “Salt-water Ballads” was published by Grant Richards in 1902, and “Ballads,” by Elkin Matthews, in the following year. “Cargoes,” from the later “ballads,” beet shows, to to guid, Mr. Masefield'* combined feel-

ing for colour, rhythm, and vigour. We ourselves never weary of reading “Cargoes,” and though we gave an excerpt from it some time ago, we cannot refrain from again introducing it. because nothing we know of his excels it, in serving to show Mr. Masefield’s superlative gift of expressing ideally dnd yet vigorously and rhythmically, the local colour of any or every cargo a ship may carry. “Quinquireme of Ninevah from distant Ophir Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine With a eargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. “Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dripping through the tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. “Dirty British coaster with a salt-eaked smoke-stack Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a eargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead', Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays.” From “Salt-water Ballads” we cull two verses which appear in "One of the

Bo’sun’s Yarns.” A sailor waking up after being stunned by -a collision at sea, describes his sensations as follows: “ ’N‘ then the stars began to shine, ’n’ the birds began to sing. ’N’ the next 1 knowed I was bandaged up ‘n’ my arms were in a sling, *N’ a swab in uniform were there, ’n’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘ ’n’ how ■Are yer arms, ’n’ legs’ ’n’ liver, ’n’ lungs, ’n’ bones a-feelin’ now?’ “ ‘Where am I?’ says I, ’n’. he says, says he, a-eantin’ to the roll, ‘You’re aboard the R.M.S. Marie in the after Glory-Hole, . ’N’ you’ve had a shave, if you wish to know, from the port o’ Kingdom Come. Drink this,’ he says, ’n’ I takes ’n* drinks, ’n’ s’elp me, it was rum!’” There is no lack of salt-flavour or realism in this. Besides being a poet Mr. Masefield is a critic of poets. He has edited “Faustus,” annotated Keats, and written an introduction to Herrick. He has compiled an anthology of “Lyrists of the Restoration” (Grant Richards, 1905) and “A Sailor’s Garland” (Methuen. 1906). “Our true sea-epics,” he says, “are written in pro-se rather than in verse.” Yet in “The Sailor's Garland” he has gathered together an incomparable collection of ballads, seasongs, chanties, and sailors’ love-poem.-. Until lately he has criticised new poems in the pages devoted to criticism in the “Daily News.” As a playwright, two of his plays have been successfully staged at metropolitan theatres, under the respective titles of “Nan” and “The Campden Wonder.” As an historian he has written “Sea-Dife in Nelson’s Time” and “On the Spanish Main” (Methuen, 1906) where he discourses “learnedly and delightfully” of Drake, Oxenham,

Morgan, and Dumpier, and Nombre Bb D:os, and the sacks of Portobello and Panama, of sixteenth and seventeenth century ships and rigs, of their guns and gunners, and of the men who formed their pirate, or semi-pirate crews. ‘‘Dampier’s Voyages” (Grant Richards, 1906) was edited by Mr. Masefield, who also wrote the introduction to the “Everyman.” Hakluyt. The introduction to “The Travels of Marco Polo,” in this series was also written by this versatile author. Marco Polo, says Mr. Masefield, was almost the first European to see the East. “Saw her,” he declares, "in all her wonder, more fully than any man has ever seen her since. In tho East of romance there grows the tree of the sun or dry tree (by which Marco Polo passed), a sort or landmark or milestone, at the end of the great desert. The apples of the sun and moon grow upon that tree; Darius and Alexander fought under its shade. Those are the significant facts about the tree according to Marco Polo. We moderns, who care little for any tree so long as we can murmur its Latin name, have lost wonder in losing faith.” “Magnitude and Solitude” is the latest book from the pen of this vigorous writer. It is described by a critic of parts, as being both unusual and extraordinarily clever. The first half of it is said almost to constitute an “Apologia” of its author; the second is an absorbing study of that scourge of Central Africa, viz., sleeping sickness. Part first shows Roger Naldrett, an author, who has written a play that was damned on its first night, both by audience. critics, and the man in the street, absolutely despairing not only by his failure, but by the thought of what Ottalie Fawcett, the wealthv woman he loves, will think and do. Then going to see his dearest friend, he is made aware

that Ulis will probably be their last meeting, as he has only a short time to live. Next day, while- on the way to meet Ottalie, another friend’s accident detains him until too late to keep his appointment with her, and she sails for Ireland. He follows her there, only to find that she has been drowned in a collision during the crossing. Then Roger determines to consecrate his life to philanthropic effort. It will, he thinks, be a sort of consecration of his life to his dead love. He meets Lionel Hestlctine, who has for years been making (in Uganda) an abortive effort to discover the cure of sleeping sickness. Lionel Hestletine has within his system the germs of sleeping sickness. So in earnest is Hestletine that Roger’s interest is aroused and he returns with him to Africa. Then follow ghastly pictures of sleeping sickness and its victims. Hestletine again succumbs to the disease, and eventually so does Roger, but not before he discovers an antidote which, administered, cures both himself and Hestletine. By the use of this anti dote the poison of the tsetse fly is rendered innocuous, and Roger makes good his promise to live for the good of mankind. As an example of psychological analysis this story is superb. In conclusion, we quote, as we have heretofore quoted from Mr. Ashley Gibson’s splendid article in the April “Bookman,” where, after enumerating and eulogising examples of Mr. Masefield’s work, he concludes with the following splendid appreciation, which we, in so far as our own acquaintance with Mr. Masefield as a writer goes, vigorously endorse. Referring to the versatility of Mr Masefield's talent, Mr. Gibson says: “I think that the Masefield who really matters is not, the Masefield of the introductions, of the anthologies, or of the daily press, but the Masefield of “Port of Many Ships,” and “From the Spanish of Spanish Waters,” and “The Ballad of Sir SBors,” whose language has rich luxuriant life, whose sentences blossom as with crimson roses, whose periods are. ornate •with the gold, the jewels, and the ivory of beautiful and inevitable words And behind this surface efflorescence there is the conviction of that splendid seavigour. Vigour and grace, and strength and beauty—what else is Jthere to be required in a writer?

Little Sister Snow: By the author of “The Lady of the Decoration.” (London: Hodder and Stoughton;) There was no novel of its year about which opinion was so divided as was the series of letters in book form entitled “The Lady of the Decoration,” and those readers who submitted them to analysis were forced to confess that their charm consisted not so much in their various themes as in their originality, their absolute naturalness, their espieglerie, their faultless simplicity of style, their nobility of sentiment,Tne profound knowledge displayed of the workings of the human heart and mind in joy, perplexity and sorrow, and the perfect sense of proportion shown in their composition. All these merits and others are conspicuous in “Little Sister Snow,” which is assuredly the most simply-written idyllic story we have been called upon to review for a long time. The scene is laid in Japan, and the story opens where Yuki San, the book’s heroine, after a long series of daily struggles with poverty, is confronted with a proposal which will render that struggle less arduous, viz., the offer of a liberal paying guest, who, hailing from America/ and having business in Japan close to Yuki San’s home, would, having a former acquaintance with Yuki San, esteem it a privilege to become a temporary member of their household. Consent having been given by the honourable parents of Yuki San, who, though impoverished, are of high caste, Merrit, the young American, is wired to, and in due time takes up his residence in the San household. Then comes to Yuki San the greatest of all the troubles of her troubled life. For as the acquaintance ripens between Yuki San and Merrit, she falls secretly and hopelessly in love with him; hopelessly in two ways—firstly, because her parents have already formally betrothed her to • wealthy officer, high in the Emperor’s household, who had greatly distinguished himself in the war with Russia, - and ■econdly, because Merrit was already engaged to be married to a beautiful American, whom he loved devotedly. So Yuki San nurses her love in secret, and prayed to Buddha for the content that Merrit had cold her of. “What is content?” asks Yuki San, in Iter hour of anguish. is the don’t care of anything but

the flower garden of my heart,” says this little maid of Japan, who had been called “little sister Snow” by Merrit, on account of the purity of her life and character. So after Merrit’s departure, Yuki San makes a pilgrimage to Buddha’s Temple, and on his altar lays the only tangible memento of her love for Merrit, namely, an old diary of his, in which she has written down her love and secret anguish at its non-requital, and prays to the Christian God to help her to “no more speak of Merrit San’s name; no more the think of his face in my heart.” And we do not doubt but that the Christian's God heard, and answered. Then Yuki San returned home to the sacred duty of marrying the elderly, wealthy Saito San, because the marriage would place her parents beyond the reach of care and poverty. And as Saito San was as kindly as he was brave, and as parental duty is the highest duty known to a native of Japan, it may safely be assumed that to Yuki San came, at least, some measure of that happiness she so richlydeserved. It would be impossible to give readers a really adequate idea ol the beauty and simplicity of the sentiment and the language of this book in a mere review, and nothing remains to us but to heartily recommend it to any and every reader. For, apart from tne exquisite pleasure its perusal will give, it will be impossible to read it without feeling the better for having read it. Truly, this reader is at home in the heart of Japan! We have received our copy through the courtesy of Messrs. Redder and Stoughton, the publishers.

BITS FROM THE NEW BOOKS. The Amulet. “One must be flippant nowadays; it is one’s only- safeguard against the seriousness of life.”—“Woodhays,” by E. F. Pierce. Bristol: Arrowsmith. 6/. No Pleasing Them. “Women are angry if other women think too little of their lovers, and furious if they think too much.”—“Phases, Mazes, and Crazes of Love,” by Minna T. Antrim. Stanley Paul and Co. 2/ net. Love and Logic. “Marrying a woman because you happen to be in love with her is about as logical a proceeding as throwing the cat out of the window because the rhododendrons are in bloom.” —“The Chords of Vanity," by James Cabell. Hutchinson. 6/. How She Catches Him. “Dozens of women get a man to propose by pumping up tears at a convenient moment—when they are parting, for instance. The man stupidly asks the girl what the matter is, and then the fat is in the fire —for him—because she tells him.” —“The Husband Hunter,” by Olivia Roy.

London’s Future. “A London that covers the whole of the Home Counties is not at all visionary. It is indeed inevitable if only London retains her vitality, her commerce; if she fulfils her shadowy destiny as the clearing house of the world.”—“London Town Past and Present.” Cassell, 2 vols. 10/ net each. A Heroine's Philosophy. “Even when I was what I suppose nice people called ruined—after my divorce. I was quite able to enjoy life and its pleasures: eating and drinking, travelling, yachting, riding, motoring, theatregoing, gambling, and all that sort of thing. People who are being universally condemned, or pitied, are often having a quite splendid time, you know.”—“Bella Donna,” by Robert Hichens. Heinemann. Two volumes, 4/ net. Truth Will Out. “He who is drunk in a first-class carriage has had a fit; he who has a fit in a third-class is drunk. “Almost every Englishman imagines he is moral because he objects to immorality •—in others. “Man is the Lord of Creation: woman, the Lady of Recreation. “In England, for the poor, there are the Ten Commandments; for the rich, the Upper-Ten Commandments.” —“The Maxims of Marmaduke,” by C. E. Jerningham. Methuen. 5/. The Decadent Sex. “If I were critical, I should say that women nowadays are prettier than their

grandmothers—stronger, better developed, better set-up. and certainly more independent and more self-reliant than they were 40 years ago; but I do not think that the men are as handsome or physically as strong and as finely developed as their grandfathers.”—“Memories — of Fifty Years,” by Lady St. Helicr. Arnold. 15/ net. Art and Money. “It is estimated by experts that Mr. Shaw has made more more money by writing than any other literary man since the world began, not forgetting D. S. Windell.”—“Potted Brains,” by Keble Howard and John Hassall. S. Paul and Co. 1/ net. EPIGRAMS FROM NEW BOOKS. The White Prophet. Hall Caine. Heinemann. August, 2 -vols. 4/- net Life is a dancing girl—let her dance a little for all of us. A house may hold a hundred men. but the heart of a woman has only room for one of them. Death is a black camel that kneels, at the gate of all.

A donkey of your own is better than a horse of somebody else’s. Love is sweet in the suckling and bitter in the weaning. Time is money, they say, though I notice it has different prices on the Bourse. To every sun its moon—to every man a woman. Life is a passing shadow and youth a departing guest. The least of all noble traits is to keep a secret, the greatest to forget that you have confided it. Septimus. William J. Locke, John M urray. 6s. In London it is impossible to be taken seriously as a literary man unless you play golf. Experts know everything that is known, and don’t want to know anything that isn’t. Life is the school-child's idea of a parable—a heavenly story (if you’ve lots of money) with no earthly meaning. If you dig down far enough in the earth you come to water: if you bore down deep enough into life, you come to tears. When you analyse anything in life, don’t you think you always come down to a reductio ad absurdum? A soul, as all the world knows, is the most uncomfortable thing a num can harbour in his bosom. Women are cats and love to scratch even those they are fond of. Sometimes, the more they love them, the harder they scratch. Every woman resents a universal criticism of her sex. but cannot help feeling a twinge of respect for the critic. It would be such rot—wasting your life over a thing you haven’t the chance of getting. Why? Isn’t that the h ! »- tory of the best lives? Harm’s Way. Lloyd Osbourne. Mills and Boon. 6/. If it wasn’t for indiscretion, what a dreary planet this world would be to live in. Imagine the heartrending effect if everybody thought before they spoke, and men were all wise and women all prudent. Wljy, what would happen to dramatists? The more one studies the stage, the more one is surprised by its disregard of principles that govern ordinary, everyday affairs. Perhaps it is because actors are all children, who have clung tenaciously to playing the Indian in the hall and shooting tigers under the draw-ing-room sofa, long after the rest of us have grown up. To adore a man is not enough—there is nothing the poor darling silly animal gets tired of so quickly as being adored. One has to keep him interestedThe truth from the lips of babes and sucklings, however phenomenal, is also disconcerting. I’m afraid you arc what they call a man’s woman. . . . I’m glad of it. I don’t want to be any other kind of woman. Money and love—these are the two wheels the old wagon runs oh. The "Way Things Happen. Hugh de Selineourt. John Lane. 6/. Human power may be great, but power greater than human is needed to sec life steadily, and to see it whole. Few blame the monkey tor infringing the code of the elephant. Yet the dis similiarity between a cabdriver and a Shelley is greater, in spite of a surface physical resemblance, than that bel'.an elephant and a monKey. She treated all men as being irrational and helpless, bigger than babies, and less easy to humour. The best men desire to keep their freedom as devoutly as the best woman desire t-o lose theirs. A woman without a husband is an incomplete thing, and I am now convinced that there are elements of incompleteness in a man without a wife. Modesty may become false when it serves to hide what 1 call a greater truth. Nothing truly can be detached from the mighty scheme without losing immediately its real being. She was a natural mystic; mo-t children, indeed, arc. Some people use their brains to find a joy in life; others use their brains to question life. It's better, surely, to fail at trying the highest than to succeed in doing what is not the highest.

Though there are 1-1 people waiting to see him in the ante-chamber, he lias given the office boy strict orders not to disturb him. He is trying to find out whether the Egyptians spelled "‘busy’’ with an s or z.