The Bookshelf.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVII, Issue 24, 12 June 1912, Page 45

The Bookshelf.

By

DELTA,

FEUILLETON. Some Methuen New Publications. CjJ f MONG some new publications that y I were to be issued by Messrs. rH Methuen and Co., last month, are “Edinburgh and the Lothians,” by Mr. Francis Watt, with some charming illustrations by Mr. Walter Dexter. (The author claims for his subject that it has every interest a city can possess). ‘’The Shadow Show,” by Mr. J. H. Curie; “The Doctor and the People,” by Dr. H. de Carle Woodcock; and “Progressive Poultry Culture.” The Shadow Show” is a curious record of the travels of a modern Marco Polo, who has not only seen a great deal, but has observed much. Mr. Curie has adventured all over the world. He relates how he lay outside Johannesburg waiting for Jameson; we see him lying sunstruck over Stevenson’s grave in Samoa; sailing up the Tigris to Bagdad; and everywhere playing the philosopher. “The Doctor and the People” should meet with a cordial reception, since it describes the intimacies of the doctor's life and work, his success and his failures. “Progressive Poultry Culture” is by Arthur A. Brigham, and revised by S. C. Sharpe, Poultry Expert and Lecturer under the Sussex Education Committee. Practical information is given too, in every department of poultry-keeping; more than this, it proves that economy is not incompatible with the best results. The Best Breeds of Fowls for fattening and laying are pointed out; in short, it is practically an Enquire Within upon almost everything connected with poultry-keeping, and should be found indispensable to the small farmer and amateur poultrykeeper. We may further add, that the subject of the Sussex Fattening Industry is fully dealt with in this work, which will shortly reach this Dominion.

“Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime,” by Oscar Wilde, is the latest addition to this firm’s popular “Shilling Series.” Apropos of Wilde, it may be interesting to some of our readers to hear that a new “Life” of the author of “The Ballad of Reading Gaol.” entitled “Oscar Wilde; a Critical Study,” has been written by Mr. Arthur Ransome, and favourably reviewed at Home. Here is an extract from the book, which serves admirably to show the incomparable egotist Wilde was:—“Wilde was a kind of Wainewright, to whom his own life was very important. He saw art as self-expression and life as self-development. He felt that his life was material on which to practise his powers of creation, and handled it and brooded over it like a sculptor planning to make a dancing figure out of a pellet of clay. Even wfter its catastrophe he was still able to speak of his life as a work of art, as if he had seen it from the outside. Indeed, to a surprising extent, lie had been a spectator of his own tragedy. In building his life his strong sense of the picturesque was not without admirable material, and he was able to face the street With a decorative and entertaining facade, which, unlike those palaces in Genoa, was not- contradicted by dulness from within. He made men see him as.something of a dandy among authors, an amateur of letters in contrast with the professional maker of books and plays. If he wrote books he did not allow people to presume upon the fact, but retained the status of a gentleman. At the Court of Queen Joan of Naples he would have been a rival to Boccaccio, himself an adventurer. At the Court of James he would have crossed ‘characters' with Sir Thomas Overbury. In an earlier reign he would have corresponded in sonnet.* with Sir Philip Sidney, played with Euphuism, been very kind to Jonson at the presentation of a masque, and never set foot in The Mermaid. latter, Anthony Hamilton might have been his friend, or with the Earl of Rochester he might have walked up Long Acre to belabour the watch without dirtying the fine lace of his sleeves. In no age would he have been a writer of the study. He talked and. wrote only to show that he could write. His writings are mostly vindications of the belief he had in them while stlH nawritten. It pleased him to pretend that his plays were written for wagers.” Poor Wilde! A Requieseat in pace were kinder than a new “Life."

A Tip for lieviewers. The following suggestion, which appears in “The Bodelian,” a Lane literary monthly, will be welcomed by book reviewers who are diffident about repeating the same old saw about the particular book under review being the best they have ever read on the particular theme that is its raison d’etre. “Our advertisement manager,” the Bodelian says, “has devised a new scheme for announcing novels which should prove both popular and effective. He purposes to label one lot ‘Books that will make no one blush’; another, ‘Novels for the novice’; a third, ‘Novels for nice people'; a fourth, ‘Volumes for the virtuous’; and a fifth, ‘Literature for the livid.’ We are strongly of the opinion that were books so labelled the facetious “advertisement manager” would, like Othello, soon find his occupation gone. But, seriously, when reviewers write this hackneyed phrase about the book being the best, etc., they nine times out of ten really mean it. Fresh from the reading m a gqfid novel, whether its theme be grave or gay, one really believes that it is the “best” one has ever read. The phrase has the same significance as Le roi est mort 1 Vive le roi!

For Aviators. ICARUS—TO THE PIONEERS OF AVIATION. Oh, dauntless bird-men, beating through the blue, Bent on your conquering quest of time and space, Glory shall give her golden mouth to you And starry wonders of a new-born race Shall spring from bliss of your enamoured eyes And from the deathless flame-song of her breast! Intrepid children, 'balanced, grave and wise, Controlling energy, with power to rest. To rest, and dream of things beyond desire. Of mysteries through which the Cosmos wrought; To dream of faces dead, and living thought, Whose immortality of cleansing fire Delivering man from spells of ancient Earth, Through Death, gave the Ethereal Science birth! —From “The Pagan Trinity,” by Beatrice Irwin (Lane). The Decadence of the Novel and the Short Story. So much has been said and written about the decadence of the English novel, part of which is true and part false, that coming across this “Argonaut” (San Francisco) review we append it because it echoes so much we have felt and written anent the decadence of the modern novel; — ; It is said that every novelist in the English-speaking world has contributed at least one work of fiction to this year’s list. . . Only the most placable of critics can observe the results without pessimism. On the ono

hand we have the dead levels of mediocrity. On the other hand are the lower levels of nastiness, prurience, and the evil brood that may be classed under the name of problem novels. There are, of course, some few notable and shining stories that stand out like oases in the desert, but they may be counted almost upon the fingers of one hand. Also there are some few honest stories of romantic adventure well and truthfully told, and some of the lesser novels, while without a ray of genius, are yet based upon wholesome and universal sentiment and are good to read. But on the whole the short storv is a greater offender than the novel, and unfortunately the short story is stiil in the hey-day of its popularity. To a great extent the short story in its present form is an expression of the weariness of the day that is incapable of the continuity of the attention demanded even by the weakest novel. But it is more than this. It is an expression also of th? profligacy of the day that demands the arousing of some evil animal passion as a counter-irritant to greed and cupidity. The short story might easily have become one of the most powerful agencies for good that the human mind has ever produced. It has been made a vehicle for general debauchery. Its writers no longer try to express themselves. Their only ambition is to express and to aggravate the lusts of the majority. To see how true this is we have but to glance at some of our most popular weeklies and monthlies. During the past few years their progress has been an un-

deviating descent into hell. Their dominant note has become that of animal passion, and their only restraint is the fear of police interference or exclusion from the mails. The excuses that are made are almost too transparent for refutation. Literary art, we arc told, must deal with the facts of life. That is true enough. It is true of all art. But are we then to suppose that the facts of life chosen bv the literary artist must always be the unclean and the ugly facts of life. Are we to assume that life is represented by the divorce courts, by marital infidelities, by unbridled lusts, by naked and unashamed passions, and by the miseries that follow them? Vi-hat should we think of a picture gallery that contained nothing but pictures of sewers, drains, gutters, and garbage cans? All these things may have their place in art, but they are not art in themselves unless they are used to emphasise a contrast. But there is no contrast in the indecency of modern fiction. It is indecent because it pays to be indecent and to cater for tire devil in human nature. There is of course no remedy for the debasement of fictional literature except an elevation of popular standards. It is not a disease in itself. It is the symptom of a disease. The disease itself is the defiance of moral restraints that shows itself quite as much in profligate legislation as in profligate literature. The insurgent forces of human nature have been invited to break down the barriers imposed by traditional decency and to defy the old sanctions of good behaviour. The results are class hatreds and political debauchery upon one side and a profligate literature upon the other. The powers, of license have invaded the field from all points.

An Interesting Short Story. Strikes, and especially coal stri es are the top'e of the hour, and on all .-.lie,one hears condemnatory opinions ex

pressed as to the utter good-for-noth.ng ness of coal miners. There is, however another aspect of the collier that .s liable to be overlooked in the inconv. n - ence caused by coal and other strides. Here is a little story, written by a tnedi cal man, who lives bis life among coalminers, and knows what he is writ ng about: — The collier is like a woman —in goo 1 times uncertain and hard to please, and it is in adversity that his best points are seen. I am living amongst them, and know them well. I well remember the strike of 1893, with all its misery and want. Most of the older men went through that, of course, and they faced this one with full knowledge. True courage is best proved by facing bravely a known danger. Many, indeed 70 per cent., of the colliers in my district, get more than the minimum suggested, and without undue exertion, but they are “feightin’ for t’others.” As I went on my rounds the other morning I saw ton after ton being brought along the colliery road in ail manner of conveyances—old “prams,” barrows, hand-carts, fish-earts, and even lurries. In answer to my question, 1 was told it had been picked out of the dirt “ruck” by the kind and thoughtful permission of the owner. Hundreds had 'been hard at it (since seven o’clock in the morning, and scores of houses are quite well supplied for a mouth ahead. It is a great help to the poor folk, and the stout wives look upon their store with great satisfaction and delight. Two incidents of the day greatly impressed me with their generosity ami kindly feeling. Near one house where the collier and his wife had done very well there were several sacks of coal outside the door. No room had yet been found for them. I daresay they had only just been brought iback. “How long did it take to get these, Sam ?” “About four hours, pretty hard getting.” “I should think that was not an abnormal place.” “Place was abnormal enough; it was half-way up the coal ruck, and a slip meant a fall of twenty yards.” “Did your wife climb up?” “Not she, she’s more sense; she stopped at the bottom and collected stuff as I sent it down—same as she stands on f hearth of a Friday and collects my ‘dibs.’ ” As I was leaving him and walking down the small garden 1 heard this dialogue: “Eh, Sam,” said an old woman, “tha’s getten a fine lot—l could do wi’ a tothra o’ them.” “Reel! Tha’ 'can ha some if tha'll fotch a barrow.” That represented some real bard work, and the value of the gift was doubled by his manner—he gives not twice over, but many times who gives as kindly as my friend Sam. In the afternoon I went to see the place, and it was indeed a remarkable sight. As you stand on the canal bank, there rises a great hill of dirt, stones, and rubbish, almost hiding the colliery head gears. There have been piled all the debris of a colliery, the so-called dirt from the sereeners, the dredgings of the canal, and, most important from the point of view of the gatherers, the material taken out in driving a tunnel from one seam to another. In this material ■was much coal from small seams encountered, and not worth the owner's while to collect. About this heap were over a hundred busy workers digging and pi-king the coal. They were perched in all angles -- some even tunnelling into the hill. In twos and threes ami gangs of seven or eight, the latter with an attendant cart. One family of strong lads had got over three'tons before noon. It was good coal too. One of these lads was resting after his exertions and watching his friends cart away the-r store, when an old woman called to him to give her a lift. “All right, missus. Thee and t’l.iss get down to th' bottom an I 1 11 fill y-ur sack.” It wag soon filled indeed, for he w is a knowing hand at the work. “Betsy lass, we *ave done weel” “Jlclit me to lift it into I’ b.i-row.”

zjThen came the question of getting it home. Dowa came the lad," ready tor *off” himself. '‘Well, missus, *ave yo’ enow?” Down went the handles of the bar row, and she said with a sigh, “I’m afeerd jre’n gettin’ too mich! J’se' never wheel this whoam.” ■Loud laughed the lad. “Let’s liave a look; aw met as well finish th’ job.” .(He wheeled home the barrow and overtook some of his mates and bore their chaff with an answering joke. “Ar’t wed lad?” “No, not yet.” “Well,” said the old lady, “there’s some nice lass is bound to get a, good felly, and tha' con tell thee mother hoo’s getten’ a good son. Tim’s done a real good iturn to an owd widow and. her child.”— •From Chronicle.”

REVIEWS.

The Cure : By Desmond Coke. (London: George Bell and Sons. Auckland: Wildman and Arey. 3/6.) Air. C oke waxes facetious in his-open-ing dedicatory -notice to” lawyers, intending takers of the “Cure,” and all whom “it may concern.” when he assures

them that hi< clever and amusing book doe- not claim either to be a “history” ox a novel. It is, be affirms, just a “Psychologic Farce.” For, “after all,” Air. Coke continue-, “in the mod genial sense, — what is more farcial than human nature? . . . With such eternal humours is this book concerned. It is not recommended to the Idle III; the very literal: .faddists: blissful malcontents; critic- with iron' categories; those’ who think human foibles too sacred for burlesque; any who hanker to •be shocked; or such rude optimists as expect A Laugh on Every Page. It is for the healthily-tired; the lovers of their kind; the sane mind; the observant: the old-fashioned; those who are easily amused; in .a word, for-the lifelong children, and them only, that this mixture is cum ponded.” “'rhe < uro,” in a word, is a genially satiric reflection on those overstrung members of society who are ever seeking for fresh distractions under the pretence of seeking for health. All the trouble, to which Mr. Coke has provided the “Cure,’* began about a large mauve hat. . The hat in <pies.tion belonged to Jxtdy Medwin. who. after living in marital happiness with her husband. Sir Hector Medwin, for eighteen years, had all at once began Io find flaws , in that ■ gentleman's personality, character, po-ition. and menage. f>ir Hector was some little time before he discovered this, and, when he did, naturally tried to find a remedy for the existing shite of things. - ,In effect, ho reasoned something like this: Aly wife has had everything in reason that she (wanted, and I have been de voted Io a fault.' I w-ill try what a little opposition will do. • “Marriage,” he told him-

self in philosophic mood, “was simply give and take.” If she objected to this or that he did “he must find something she worshipped to attack.” Sir • Hector’s chance came the very next day, (immediately after breakfast-, when Lady Medwin walked into his study in a “large mauve hat.” “He looked up at it coldly. “I daresay,” he said, earnestly, “they’ll take it back. You haven’t paid for it?” “»She almost staggered; was this Hector speaking?” “I certainly intend to keep It,” she replied. ‘'Very Well, dear,” came his answer, in a tone of resignation; “if you want to look like nothing upon earth, -you can. It may be the smart thing, this year, but I must say I think the fact that women can fasten things* like that up on their heads proves them not to b? man’s equal, however much they .-pout.” We shall leave to our reader's imagination the effect made upon Lady Medwin by her husband’s speech. To look like nothing upon earth! . . . The result was that Lady Medwin, pretending to hide her chagrin in a dignified perusal of the “Morning Post,” came upon the following advertisement: “To the finhappy. Nervous, Tired.” “Xelton Hoste], Nature Cure: Unique in England.” “A

happy retreat for all who find life weary, civilisation a disease, society a canker, or loved ones unkind. ’ Briefly, this last sentence decided matters. She would try the “Cure,” and Sir Hector should not be advised either of her going, or where she was going, until, as the advertisement promised, the world became “a Paradise again.” The rest of Mr. Coke’s ridiculously charming story must be read to be fully .appreciated. “The Cure” is without doubt the most delicious bit of fooling we have read for a long time. Mr. Coke’s versatility is simply marvellous. A greater contrast to “Wilson’s” than ‘ The Cure” could not well be imagined.

Christina Holbrook : By Mavgafet Hope. (Ixmdon: Methuen and CdAuckland: Wildman and Arey.) This is a first story, and Messrs. Meth uen are Io Im* congratulated on the ucumcai that led them to accept and publish it, as there is inteiual evidente of better work to come. The theme of this very human story was mentioned by us in last week’s acknowledgment of this novel from Messrs. Methuen and Co., namely, “the inevitable problems that arise out of the mating of a man in his youCh with a woman in her maturity.” The subject has, we think, the element of originality since we, at Idas!, cannot remember a novel with such a theme, though like cusps haw frequently been met with in real life; unions,.indeed, that have been noted fur their felicity. But, generally speaking, the mating of May with llecember, where the part of December is played by the

woman, is a dangerous experiment ilr.itseldom • achieves success. Margaret Htflbrook. at the time of her marriage with Alaric Strode, was a spinster of thirtyeight; of wealth and considerable social and literary distinction, with u passion for travel and exploration. It was at Crete where Margaret, who had first met Alaric in a London drawing room, consented, against her common sense, to marry Strode, with whom she had explored Crete, he being engaged in an official capacity. ~ she fur sheer love of exploration. Alaric and she had many interests in common, and doubtless,could their life have been lived in the glamorous Fast or on classic ground, each might have gone to their graves perfectly certain that their murriage had l»een a suitable one. For conventions do not flourish on classic ground. We do not purpose to tell Miss Hope’s story except to indicate that later, after a year or two in London and among the convention-. Christina has not only to fare the tragedy of her husband's death., self-sought, it is suggested, but the care and education of Alaric’s mistress, and his ilhg’timate child. Hie book if terribly pathetic in parts is unmistakably a- clever and a remark-

able one. not only for its splendid characterisation (notably those of Christina and Mrs. Strode senior-) and it- craftsmanship, but for its subtle insight into human nature ami for its high ideal of human conduct as vested in its heroine. And certainly the authoress has banished for all time the idea that to be a scientist or a woman of mind it is incumbent to be old and purblind and withered and ugly and generally dead to the joy of life. For the modern archeologist and the blue stocking are, according to Miss Hope, creatures of love and beauty, overflowing and pulsating with the lusts and love of life arid joy and fame and not distinguishable from their fellows except that they create around (hem that atmosphere of power and mystery (which dings •ilxiiit peujAc who have “done things.” We have received our copy, through Wildman and Arey, from Methuen and Co.

A Blind Lead : By L. Lawrence Lynch. (London, Melbourne, and Toronto: Ward, lx)ck, and Co. Auckland: Wiki man and Arey. 3 6.) Those who love an ex< iting plot well spiced with niyMery and sensation, anti in which no tragedy occurs, will do well to invest in “A Blind lx»ad,” which is thrilling reading, ’l'he plot, which is strong ami n<»t a little complicated, has many elements of the original in it. Fur instance, wo were quite puz zh»d as to whom the real Mi.-s Lv CroTit was right until Hto end of the Mory. ’The “armour” of society has more Hwn one “chink” when rubbery and blackmailing and abduction can be carried on

successfully under ita very eyes, as ia exemplified in Mr. Lynch’s romance. Blackmailing and robbery is no if?w thing, but that the thief or the b’aekmailer nr/ay be a well-known and popular member o»f one’s own circle in society t is startling and discomposing. r l he perusal of Mr. Lynch’s story could supply the trackers of crime with more than one key to what are known as “Scotland Yard mysteries.” We have uut ti e detective mind, nor are we a lover of detective stories; but Air. Lynch’s sensational drama strikes us as unique in its class and a novel not to be nussed by lovers of the baffling and the mysteir* ous in fiction. We are indebted to Mrs srs. Ward, Lock umd Co., through Wildman and Arey, for our copy of ‘A Blind Lend.” Mrs. Thompson : By W. B. Max well. (London: Hute’ : -»'s Colonial Library. ‘ 1 . .ihlrnuu and Arey.) Mr. Maxwell’s story, it rather long-drawn-out, is one of the most superb examples of strenuous human endeavour that we have ever read. Imdred, it i« surprising that Mr. Maxwell, who certainly was not <ls»rn in a sht»p keeping environment, should know so much about business metluxls and husinr.-s people. But Mr. .Maxwell is luiman through and through and has evidently either a marvellous imuginat ion or he has been at close grips with the -Imp people of whom he writes voraciously, so understand!ugly, and so -ympathvtic ally. “Mrs. Thompson” positively must not Ih* missed. For “Mrs. Tliouq>son” is a host, and her creator an artist v.ho studies from life, not in one pose merely, but every pose affected by. or natural to, humaaiity.