THE WORLD OF BOOKS.

Press, Volume LXIII, Issue 19162, 19 November 1927, Page 13

THE WORLD OF BOOKS.

—■♦— HALF HOURS IN A LIBRARY. (specially warm* roa the pbess.) By A. H. Grixltkg. CCXLIV.-ON THE HAWTHORiX. Dixon Scott, one of the great losses to literature by the Great War, is best known by his "Men of Letters"; there is, however, another volume of his writings which has been preserved under the title of "A Number of Things." And one of the essays iu the collection is entitled "An Apology for Hawthorn 1 ' It is written, naturally, from an Old Country standpoint, where May and hawthorn are interchangeable terms but even a New Zealander born will be able to appreciate some of the points in the essay. Dixon Scott begins by apologising for the "cool unpunctuality of the hawthorn: "It certainly needs an advocate. Our country diarists, indeed, good natured critics, are just now doing their best to sing its praises prettily; but professional nonour, if nothing else, forces them to add at least one word about its cool unpunctuality." The essayist goes on to complain that the hawthorn hedges havo a tendency to drag behind until the May blossom has had to drop the pretty custom of keeping its own birthdays : Not for many years now, even if tbey, too, havo hot gTOwn too staid for such frolics, have our mid-England villager* been granted enough bloom to make a buttonhole for cue May queen, let alone wreaths for half a hundred. This year (1906), for instance, tho month was well past its meridian before a faint sprinkle of ivory pellets, like the relics of a faint lato shower of hail, appeared on our midland hedges; and it was not till the ether morning, beneath a sun that seemed to have desperately borrowed something of tho generosity of June, that the little spheres thawed into etars, melting and filling the crannies with drifts of fragrant snow. But though it has got above birthdays, the hawthorn has not reached the pitch of robbing the children of their posies in order to save adult toes from frostbite later on. It has been a near thing though, the nearest one remembers. Already it has touched the rim of a rival's territory Let it lag still longer next year, and the English lanes will watch a staggering sight —tho wild roses of June and the May blossom warring together for mastery, with the honeysuckle climbing convulsively all about. A battle of flowers indeed.

Dixon Scott makes a point of the way in which the hawthorn adapts itself to its environment, "There is but one variety of common hawthorn," say the text-books stiffly; "but to travel England from north to south is to learn that that is but another of those prim, starched scientific statements which are far too good to be true. Actually there are as many kinds of May blossom as there are varieties of soil." I am not enough of a 'botanist to be able to state what the result of transplantation from England to New Zealand has been in the case of the hawthorn, but I am prepared to believe that there is a considerable difference between the North Island and the South Island ivarieties. In any case Dixon Scott's comments have application to conditions in the Dominion: — That is a pleasant, fancy and not too fallacious, which pictures our English summer as a kind of broad green tide, sweeping swiftly from south to north, up the broad beaches of fallow and field; and in such a picture the blossom ;>lays the part of the surf—a scented epumo, bursting up at every obstructing hedge. Just as various as foam itself are these dancing breakors of bloom. Piquantly enough, all the rebellious variety is the direct result of profound docility. There is first of all the treatability of the plant itself—that pleasant pliability of temper which won it a practical monopoly of the great task of carving up England in elices, clipping the country into manageable portions. Thie task alone, no matter how conducted, would plainly make variety inevitable; for. since its performer is compelled to pass in turn through every type <if landscape every type of landscape can be uned in turn to flash new meanings on the blossoms sprayed before it. But the hawthorn, *a it happeps, does its work in quite a special way, and eo secures a still wider range of effects. • For it not only rings a dukedom and a cabbage patch with equal alacrity; it also displays a queer capacity for taking colour from its envirorment—adopting the local accent and foiling into etep with the local reaiurea.

The hawthorn, in addition to its other qualities, has also its tradition. '"This capacity for fitting in equally well with scenes of prettiness and terror," -continues Dixon Scott, "is it not after all rather perfectly typical of the plant which is not only May blossom, but also the old aides spine P Sir John Mandeville may not, indeed, be the least mendacious of recorders, put something unregenerate in us, thirsting for such clashing contrasts, makes us unanxious to cross-question him too cruelly when he tells us that it was a 'crowir of these very thorns that the Jews 'sett on His,head so faste and so sore, that the Bloode ran down in many places of His visage.' Here is versatility with a vengeance —first a property in the world's most towering episode, and then a milkmaid's wreath on a giggling village green. Nor is even this the' end. For other legends tell us that it was a thorn from this tragic crown, planted at Glastonbury by Joseph of Arimithea which burst miraculously into blossom on one memorable Christmas Day. These be mighty vagaries. They surely exude its latter day indifference to dates. It could once, it seems, celebrate some birthdays very notably. Let us overlook this vear anyhow, its cool disregard for'its own." Swinburne has written some lovely things about the hawthorn, notably "The Promise ot the Hawthorn": —

Spring sleeps, and stirs and trembles with Pure as a babe's that nestles towards the breast. , The world, as yet an all unstneken lyre, With all its chords alive and yet at rest, Feels not the sun's heat yet, but feels his And yearns for lore made perfect. Man and bird. . . Thrilled through with hope of life that casts out death, . Wait with a rapturous patience till his word Speak heaven, and flower by flower and tree by tree ~ Give back the silent strenuous utterance. Earth Alive awhile and joyful as the sea, Laughs not aloud in joy too deep for mirth, Pressgeful of perfection of delight, Till all the unborn green buds be horn in white.

Belonging to Swinburne's later poetio period, "Hawthorn Tide" is sufficient answer to the critics who decry the fruit of the work done at the Pines, Putney. The poem abounds in lovely lines. "A whole white world of revival awaits May's whisper awhile" ; "and fair as the foam is that is lesser than life than the loveliest of these." One magnificent passage invites quotation: — Hard on the skirt of the deeps of copses that spring refashions. Triumphs and towers to the height of the crown of a wildwood tree One royal hawthorn, sublime and serene as the joy that impassions, Awe that exults in thanksgiving for sight • of the grace we see. The grace that is given of a god that abides for a season mysterious And merciful, fervent and fugitive, seen and unknown and adored His presence is felt in the light and the fragrance, elate and imperious. His laugh and his breath in the blossom sre love's, the beloved soul's lord. For surely the soul if it loves is beloved of the god ns a lover Whose love is net all unaccepted, a worgulp not utterly vain: So full. «o deep is the joy that revives for the soul to recover Yearly, beholden of hop* sad of memory in funihln* and ram.

I am not ashamed to confess that caught up on the music and flow of any of the poems of Swinburne I am quickly carried off my feet, and could go on chanting and quoting almost for ever. In which sense I am an enthusiast and the critical faculty lies dormant for the nonce. Even the sternest critic, however, may well be silent and hold his peace when confronted with a gem of the purest water, such as "The Passing of the Hawthorn":— The coming of the hawthorn brings on earth Heaven; all the spring speaks out in one sweet word, And Heaven grows gladder, knowing that earth has heard. Ere halt the flowers are jubilant in birth The splendour of the laughter of their mirth Dazzles delight with wonder; man and bird Kejoice and worship, stilled at heart and stirred With rapture girt about with awo for girth.

Tho passing of the hawthorn takes away Heaven; all the spring falls dumb, and all the soul Sinks down In man for sorrow night and day Forego the joy that made them one and whole. The change that falls on every starry spray Bids, flower by flower, the knell of sprintime toll.

Affectionately I take from the shelf the second volume of "Henley's Poems" —in David Nutt's collected edition published in 1908—and turn to the section "Hawthorn and Lavender," reflecting the while upon the inspiration I have received from those virile verses. I linger long in deciding which poem to quote, finally deciding upon No. XII.:— This world, all hoary With song and story. Rolls in a glory Of youth and mirth. Above and under Clothed on with wonder, Sunrise and thunder, And death and birth His broods befriending With grace unending And gifts transcending A god's at play. Tet do his meetnoss And sovran sweetness Hold in the jocund purpose of May. So take your pleasure, And in full measure Use of your treasure - Wliou birds sing best. For when heaven's bluest, And earth feels newest, And love longs truest, And take not r' I. When winds blow cleanest. And seas roll sheenest And dawns lie greenest: Then night and day, Dear life counts dearest, And God walks nearest To them that praise Him, praising His May. Swinburne and Henley, alas, belong to an age that is quickly passing; and there are other and newer voices sounding all around. Yet new and old alike sing sweetly of the Hawthorn. Mr Thomas Moult is one of the minor poets of the present day. I greatly enjoyed his novel "Snow Over Elden" when I first read it some six or seven years since, and his little book of poems is a favourite companion. It takes its title from the opening piece, "Down Here the Hawthorn"; it is a spirited, colourful piece of verse, which once read re* mains a haunting memory. I may only quote a line or two:— Down here the flowering hawthorn flings Sleet of petals, petalled shells, Spread the coloured air that sings Magic and a myriad spells Spun by my count of springs Down here the hawthorn . . , And the flower foam stirred By a spring-lit bird, white hawthorn mist is binding me. One of these days I mean to rally to the defence of the much-maligned Sitwells; meanwhile, as proof that the talented three are able to write good poetry, I content myself with quoting from Sacheverell Sitwell's latest volume, "The Cyder Feast and Other Poems," some charming lines on. the Hawthorn:— 0 hawthorn spray, 0 fount of snow, To your boughs I'll rise and go; I'm weary in the still spring air And find a grievance everywhere; Your bbow on this blue fire of day Snared my sense and takes away The apple breast and apple cheek 1 came into the wood to seek. 0 hapless, luckless Hawthorn bough, No sooner do I sleep than, now, That fine and self-same ghost I see Made one with your white hawthorn tree; In this you mingle will and fate, Like this you are unfortunate; Your lovely snow makes sleep alive, And death becomes your honey hive. 0 hawthorn shade, 0 snowy sleep, Yonr crooning silence I would keep. And never want this dream to break While hawthorn boughs a breath can shake; 1 waken but I'll quietly lie Your honeyed sleep once more to try; I'll find my apples in your snow. And ever to the hawthorn go. Simple travellers who cannot venture into the remote lures of big game will (the "Literary Digest" thinks) read this with satisfaction in "G.K.'s Weekly." It is by A.E.U., and is marked, as "Written after reading a book on Big-Game, Shooting." Of course you all will recognise tho man, At any rate he's always dress'd in kharki, His joy it is to get up earlier than - The advertised and highly-lauded lark. He Is of a countenance browned by the sun. His nerves (as usual) compare with iron; He always has some Bpecial' type of gun, And knows which brands of tinned foods to rely on. He seems to walk for miles and miles each day, And if you ask him why, he says he likes it; He carefully selects a trail, he'll say, And when he finds the one he wants he strikes it. What folk like you and me think slightly rum Or dangerous, preferring not to meet'll Leave him quite 'calm and staid, as on his turn He crawls in stubborn silence after cheetul. Or else in an entirely lighter vein, If, he it understood, he docs not rack luck; Worming himself across an arid plain He'll pot, at intervals, the nimble blackbuck. His fund of tales will be dispensed till liU© At night; they're such as neither you n°r I know, For instance, how is final No. 8. Discouraged, and quite stopped the charging rhino.

He'll tell of hectic hours in pursuit Of those unpleasant hippopotamusses; It sounds so easy, just like picking fruit To folk like lie, or falling off a bus ib.

Mr Michael Sadleir the other day had an entertaining article in the new "Edinburgh Review" on "The Northanger Novels," the seven novels alluded to in "Northanger Abbey," their titles surviving, as the writer states in his "Footnote to Jane Austen, '• as tiny stitches in the tapestry of English literature. The Gothic romantic epoch Mr Sadleir dates roughly from 1775 to 1815; the aesthetic from 1875 to the beginning of the present century. "The Northanger novels have remained mere names waiting," he writes, "for someone with the obstinate perseverance to bestow in tracing in one form or another such coy ephemera. And even now, alas, one out of seven is unfound. Who will discover 'The Orphan of the Rhyne' ?"

"The New Adelphi," Mr J. Middleton Murry's quarterly, to which reference was made recently by our London correspondent, is a "continuation in an enlarged form of his monthly, which ceased to appear with the June.issue. The aims and ideals of the new periodical are set forth in its publisher's announcement: "Thb New Adelphi" oilers itself primarily'to the man with serious interests that are not narrowly circumscribed; to the man who loves literature and wishes to have his power of discrimination refined and strengthened; and to the man who loves religion and is not so blinded by sectarianism that he cannot discern that 'all good men are of the same religion.*"