BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

Dominion, Volume 3, Issue 817, 14 May 1910, Page 9

BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

VERSES OLD AND NEW,

TEE LEGEND OF THE GOLDFINCH.

I wandered, listening in a wind-blown wood,

..While all around me, in harmonious flood, Eose the clear singing of tho brotherhood Of wing and feather. . Shyly the linnets hid, and twitted thero, Larks circled upward in tho outer air, .Whitethxoat, ' and willow-wren; and whistling stare Singing tpgother. One beyond others in the joyful throng, Bang in the orchard close, the whole day long, ~'■-..'■■ ' 'A crystal cade'neo. of sweet-throated song, Divinely fluted. 1/igb.tty the Goldfinch, o'er ho lit to sing, 6pread the pale yellow of his painted ' wing, Be, that bears record of his ministering In hues transmuted. Bis be tie praise of the first Lententide! Seeing the wooden Cross where Jesus died, ' This bird the nail within His hand espied, . , And tried to ease it. .Vainly be fluttered., on a tender wing, Held in Mb slender beak the cruel thing, ' Bt2L with his gentle might endeavouring ' l But to release it. ' Ehen, as he strove, spake One—a dying space— Take, for thy pity, as a sign of grace, Semblance of this, My blood, upon thy face, , . A living glory; • Slat while the generations come and go, 'While the earth blossoms, and the waters flow, Children may honour thee, and mankind blow Thy loving story." J/aA of dominion over man and beast, Slat out of nothing madest great and least, •thine everlasting praise hath never ; ceased • ..: From heavenly choir. 'And from tho earth, in these awakening days, I hear from meadowland and orchard ■ - ways f ■' ■'.. . , '-, ■ Anthem and madrigal and roundelays That never tire. Ch-ant Thou, to us of the untoward will, [Tardy of utterance, in praise too still, Borne of this happiness our hearts to fill, \ • And our mute voices; ffhat, like the birds, our song may rise on wings, Seeking tho rapture of N celestial things. Lord! let us serve Thee with the mind that brings Life that rejoices.' , —Pamela TennanOin the "Spectator." THE SONG OF SOLOMON. [Arise,. my love, my beloved, and come awayi ffhe winter is past, and the rain is over and done - .' •in the land, and tho time of the singing of birds is begun; / [The flowers that appear on the earth have made it .their stay; The fig putteth forth new green figs on the tender spray, [The vine putteth forth a good odour beneath the siin; - j' 'Arise, my beloved, my love, my companion; Until the day break, and the shadows aro fled from the day, Look down from tho top of Amana, look down from the head f Of Hermon, the dens of the leopards; and come with me hence ITO the summits of myrrh and tho mountains of frankincense. (Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, a i bundle of myrrh), . Where far from the tents of. the shepherds on green is. our bed, [A-nd the beams of our houso are of cedar, o'tir rafters of fir. —M. Jourdain, in tho "Nation." THE RETURN. This was our house. To this wo came Lighted by love with torch aflame, And in this chamber, door locked fast, ' L'.held you to my heart at last. This was our house:' In this we knew The, worst that Time and Fate can do. Tou left the room bare, wide the door; Tou did not love me any more. , Where once the kind warm curtain hung The spider's ghostly cloth is flung; The beetle and the woodlouse creep - Where once I loved your lovely sleep. Tet so tho vanished spell endures,'' That this,_ our house, still, still is yours., Here, spite of all these years apart, ,1 still can hold you to my heart! —K.N. in the "Westminster Gazette." r DEATH'S GAME.' Death can 1 but play one game with mo If I do live alone; Ho cannot strike me a foul blow Thro' a beloved one. To-day' he takes my neighbour's wife, And leaves a little child To lie upon his breast, and cry * Like the Night wind so wild. And every hour its voice is heard— Tell me, where is she gone? Death cannot play that game with mo If I do live alone. —William H. Davies, in "Farewell to Poesy." HOLIDAY READING. There are still people who read books, o»ven on Easter Monday. Those who shrink from seeking their pleasure in a crowd may do worse than spend thefl'r time with a congenial author, old or now, edifying or discreetly frivolous. Which sort lie be, it matters not, provided that he can hold you. Never before have publishers been more enterprising or more bountiful. Nover has the reader or buyer been presented with so wide a choice for so unassuming an expenditure. Tor a few pence authors, ancient and modern, .may bo freely purchased in not unworthy shape and form. The eternal, problem, which vexes writer and publisher and bookseller alike —what does the public like?—would seem to be in the way of solution, for there is no kind of fare which is not now within the compass of means tho most modest. And while every bookstall is loaded with reprints, the Hood of new volumes continues. to pour from the press. It is hardly worth while to discuss ' whether -the prcsoi'.t state of affr.irs is _ generally ■ beneficial or the reverse, in theory. Broadly-speaking, no doubt, the facile access'to the world-of books is good —at any rate for some _ people. _ But the intc'resl; of the existing conditions of lyook-selling and book-buying resides rather in tho mental attitude of the time which has brought them into being. The reading public consists of a very largo number of persons, a circumstance which is usually credited to the account of compulsory education. But it is probable that compulsory education liss only- indirectly affected the sale of books, although it has immensely increased- the production and circulation oP periodicals. Universal clemeiH"vy education endows young folks, with tho ability to acquire information, which is not at all the same thine as

a taste for. reading. But that taste lias boon evoked in a class of persous who. really constitute a new public. Clorks, elementary , school teachers, shop assistants, typewriters—all tlies>o, and such as .these, members of useful and honourable callings for whose practice a cortain degree of education is requisite—make up the new public for whoso instruction or amusement tht> cheap edition' is provided. It would seem that their taste is eminently catholic, ranging from Gibbon, Huskin, Oarlylo, and Macauiay (to namo but theso) to those numerous works of fiction concerning which the .marvel is that a reasonably high standard of workmanship is, with some, glaring exceptions, generally maintained. We have travelled a long way from tho golden times of Sir Walter Scott, when the works of that great man were published in expensive quarto xith noble margins, and were sold iu edition after edition. Then came the days of publishing in parts, when Dickens appeared in green covers, Thackeray in yellow livery, and' Lever in pink. Tho serial issuo in tho magazine still survives, but it is a question how long it will continue to hold its ground in competition'with tho short story. 'But if the'short story dominates tho magazine, it seldom —in this country, at least—appears in the book market. Rightly or wrongly, it is held that the reader of books prefers tho ■ loug narrative. Hence tho extraordinary profusion of what is known as the sixshilling novel, now fallen from its former high estate, when it used to enter upon the world in three volumes, price thirty-one 'shillings and _ sixpence. Sometimes, hut not often, its second avatar was a cheaper edition, in one or two' volumes. Many of the reprints which are now priced at sevenpence or a shilling began life in three volumes. In the meantime the market for' the six-shilling novel suffered painful fluctuations; and at tho present moment the supply would appear to bo considerably diminished. It has been suggested that tho particular form of art of which the six-shilling novel represents tho convention is decaying. But a consideration of the very wide rango of subject and treatment comprehend? Ed in the term modern fiction would seem to suggest other reasons for tho decline—if decline there be—in the market for these wares. It is certain, at least, that the demand for a good story/is permanent and insatiable; and the shape in which it appears cannot ultimately affect its\ popularity. It is equally true in the making of fiction, as in other arts, that the best work will tell. Only, it must be the best. There was a time, not so long ago, when all sorts of minor . excellences found their due appreciation. A sound piece of work, though it lacked greatness, was. yet sure of a .certain recogiiition. Literature, in fact, was the fashion. It will be the fashion again. Meanwhile, the reading public 'have to all appearance developed a strong taste for historical studies, and memoirs, and books .of travel. Tho.number of theso works is prodigious. While, on the one hand, we are told, (with a sigh) that "tho public" no longer care for anything save "snippets," on the other w© contemplate the a mass of important and valuable works which confounds the theorist.

Tho fact is, there is not one public, but there'are many publics, and these aro intermingled one -with another. Members of all theso anonymous sections of-society stroll into tho bookseller's shop, and, if the bookseller knows his business, he will classify his customer and ; will supply him—but it j is nearly always a lady—with tho faro appropriate. Tho true lover of hooks he knows at a glance—ho may be left to range the shelves at will. But far more numerous ' are the indeterminate, who aro at a loss to define tieir wants. Theso aro eager to seize upon, a name known to them,' 3 rather.tthah yenturo upon an experiment, and it is this peculiarity which • presses hard upon the aspiring author. It remains' the fact that tile aspirant must still graduate in renown among what may be called without offence the intelligent section of the reading public. That body ultimately sots the fashion, and makes reputations. Its numbers aro matter for conjecture. They might bo put at fifty thousand —though ithat is putting it high—but the faithful in Israel are spread over a wide surface, they are strangers one to another, and the writer must appeal to them one by one. But among them, wo are bold to affirm, tho standard of taste suffers no decline. He who can satisfy theso exigent and silent judges is sure of his reward, though he may not receive it in terms of money. But, strange as it may seem, the author of a fine piece of work did not write for tho sako of money.—London "Standard."