BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

Dominion, Volume 6, Issue 1605, 23 November 1912, Page 9

BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

. ——-4 VERSES 1 OLD AND NEW, \ , 1 ■ • THE LONELY DREAMER. ~ He lives his lonely life, and when he dies A thousand hearts maybe will utter sighs; Because they liked his songs, and now their bird Sleeps with his head beneath his wing, unheard. ; ' But what kind hand will tend his grave, and bring - ■ . Those fblossom'3\there, of which ho used ~ ..to sing ?.' Who'll, kiss his mound, and wish the time wo,aid'come ' To lie with him inside that silent tomb? And who'll forget the dreamer's skill, and .'.■ shod .... • A tear because a loving heart is dead? / Heigh ho, for gossip then, and common , sighs— ■ And let his death bring tears in no ones eyes, ' - ' . —William H. . Davies, MESSAGE DECIPHERED ON A FAN. When 'rings tho angelus to veil ■ With holy dusk/the nightingale, .If from-known'.'lands, my mistress pale, Unto Cythera" thou wilt sail, 0 believe the summonls of that note Of tho bird's, tho' ever-living throat, And of thy daring little boat— Take me. for sail! Afloat! Afloat 1 The rushes quake along the river, But not:, a doubt, in thee will quiver; Now the night-wind begins to shiverIt is the wind .that shall deliver! Be quickj'nor'.'let.the breezo be lost! The-lot'is'cast, : tho die is tossed, •' l'ates must bfe faced and fantoms crossed— i* Ours is a'far and'heavenly coast j Now. from chained doors and sullen clans Steal down,, and- let riiy shining vans Waft'thee from dull Cimmerians, , Deep Venus thrills the bay's expanse. ; Now. both, her shrine-lit- headlands glow— ~ w »<Wr 'waveleis. v rap ,tK« bo'atside—so Now for the wide-salt-scented flow Of h?r nioon-washed' archipelago! . —Herbert Trench. WONDER SONG. Listen to my calling: Where .the stars are" falling ' Gladness of the Mother-Earth and Beauty . of the Sea! Let us go a-gipsying adown the Lanes of Wonder, Over and across tho world and through the hills and under. Pjirt the curtains of the skies and come to me, 1 your lover. Should the lonely way affright, each star shall be your brother; And. the Moon, j'our sister, shall lead you . by. the', hand, * Till you come, 0 Starry-Eyed, to where '.I longing stand. Listen , to' my calling . v Where the stars are falling, Bending down to marvel at the softness , , of:.your eyes. ' ! , 'Heed them: not, 0 Wonder, Thrust-their rays asunder, Less , they draw you up to be. the- glory. ..of their, skies. : I , ' Come, to me, Beloved, across the- world ' and under— -. ..., . ,-• . Hear; you nof&T beating heart like break- ,. : . ing'foam:in thunder? ''Come and''quench the burning . By your great, returning,' :, V ;. ' Till I cool lay fever in your de.w-drenched ■ ' eyes'.Listen to my calling . Where the stars. are falling, Ending of the. old world, beginning of the new. - . Bid the night-winds bring you, .. . And-the thrushes sing you; ' Till you come to where I stand and r ->,.. watch and. wait-for you.-,ffsstl3-'rf»3 -tsGeoJgaaEhillißfc • • ' LORD ROSEBERY ON BOOKS. Opening a library in." Peebles last'month Lord Rosebery talked very pleasantly on ■books. He', spoke : at some length about ■ 'Peebles, and. went on: > "Now I am, told I am expected to say something about a library. I have spent jny life opening libraries. My stock of Temarks on the subject has long been exhausted, and when Mr; John Buchan, some months ago, asked me if I would undertake this duty I replied with a per- . emptory refusal. But in that insinuating way he has he said it was not a speech that was required, but a sort of chat between neighbours,- and I was moved into this view of the situation 1 and. agreed to have, a. chat with 1 my neighbours: of ' Peebles-about'■■book's -'and libraries. (Applause.) I live in them, and when I come out of-them--to talk-about them I feel • tho subject is so hackneyed there'is ,really no more to be said. But I will say a few words to young people on libraries. It is no use speaking to • old people because they . havo already, formed, their ideas and habit 3 and would not be changed in them even if a man spoke with the tongue of men or of angels. But thero are a few-things a veteran -in life may say not uselessly to the young about books, their uso and misuse. In the first place . let nie say I think you have the best library - for the formation of character— and after, all the: object of all libraries and such' appliances must be in the long run the formation of character—vou have the best library the world can offer in the natural beatities o£ your county. (Applause.) . For the formation of character . the glories of. nature are. better than any books. I view books from a threefold point of view. In tho first place they . furnish the tools that you require for . your various professions—law, theology, . engineering, whatever it may .be.- As to , those tools I can. say noticing, because they each relate to a separate faculty, if I may use the expression, and to deal with them would be much too technical a sub- : ject for my discourse to-day. Well, then, they-furnish-to you literature, and they ; furnish .to ; ypu. recreation,. What. about ; literature?.: I: suppose literature meaiis : the standard books; ithat is the highest form of literature. And what. aro " tho Ftandard.books? That is a question that- . - I am quite ready to ask, but which I do not, propose, to answer.. ~ \ "I suppose some people would say that the standard books are those lists of the hundred best books that competent gentlemen aro so. ready to furnish on the slightest possible occasion, and the only doubt in regard to which, on reading the .list, is whether tlio furnishers have al- ■ ways Tead the books—(Laughter.) Lord ,!Actbn furnished a list of a hundred books that lie wished his son to read, and we. knowing his great reputation, all rushed to this list, and we found that it consisted of a hundred books, mostly German, almost entirely theological, none of - which I had over heard of before— (laughter)—and as to which, as the list was posthumous, wo always feel a lurk- , ing doubt whether it was not a joke which Lord Acton bequeathed to us. (Laughter.) But at any rate, in' regard to nil these lists of a hundred best books which wo are supposed to read—the standard works 'in literature—l firmly, believe this, that ' if- a man in his. honesty and conscience proceeded to read the hundred best books in' any list right, through ho would never wish to read-anything again. (Laughter.) 1 confess'l can give no advice on this point. I believe that the best literature for. everybody is the literature that they can assimilate—that they can . digest. (Applause.)" r MEREDITH. ■ Mr.'Dixon Scott, one of the • brilliant •"Manchester Guardian" men* thus reviews the just-published "Letters of Georgo Meredith":— The year has brought us, can , no braver, richer, wiser books 'than these, and though criticism, as is proper, springs at once to the salute on tiiis the morning of. their first appearance, it will bo long before it moves beyond their range, ceases to sound and to distil them. Not, indeed,-that'they, require interpreters. They , are not a'prize for the literate, to . bo prepared for in the novels, read in their light or undeservingly. Rather they como before tlio novels, make a centre from which the latter spring—to come - to them is like breaking through a.bright labyrinth of boughs to the solid stem which'shows us the quiet logic of the branching, blossomed maze. And shows us views beyond. We stand at tho contre of a circle of which the novels aro but an elaborated segment. "The art of novels," he says in one of these letters, "is to.

present a picture'of life, but novel-writ-ing embraces only a narrow portion of life. I trust that I keep my eyes on the larger outlook.'' These books let us 'shiro- that outlook, and to do that is to be swept up as to a sudden tower, and ■ soo-mcn and tho world afresh, and the land lying clear like a plan, great winds meanwhile bringing news of heaven, stirring and renovating the blood. It is hard-to speak of the sight without rhetoric. Yet tho reasons for its supremacy aro jdain. Like Goethe, like Shakespeare; this man was tint rare thing tho poetphilosopher, realist nnd idealist in ono; luckier than Shakespeare, than Goethe, ho came,at ail hour when tho mists were 'melting from tho face of knowledge and it had become possible for an heroic spirit to test all tilings anew for itself. Moro inveterately honest than any man of his timo save Carlyle, and with far more than Carlyle's power of brain and steady, sanguine pressure of soul, Meredith set himself to prove knowledge anew, and built up his vision of life block by block, shirking nothing from sentiment or shame,' beginning with the pagan roots and rising to a clear height above tho creeds—and to read these letters is to watch him actually making that tremendous traverse. He begins with the . earth and builds up. "For my part I love and cling to tlio earth as tho one piece of God's handiwork that we possess. "Tho way to tho spiritual life lies in tho complcta unfolding of the creature, not in the nipping of his passions. An outrage to Nature helps to extinguish hi 9 light. To the flourishing of the spirit through tho healthy. exercise of- nature." "Never attempt to dissociate your ideas from the real of life. It weakens the soul;' and besides it cannot be done—and again it is a cowardly temporary escape into delusion, clouding tho mind." , These are thoughts, indeed, that recur in tho novels, they form tho qui£k heart of his songs; yet. wo are so framed, that the. sight of them in the making and in action moves •US:.more, than exhortations- and swiftverse. Here are. the poems .before: condensation. We watch the creed being carved. He is not floated marvellously into the empyrean, there to orate. .Ho climbs before'our eyes; we count the steps as they are cut and hear, the ring of the axo. Tlie body and the body's needs come first; its dependence on soils and outer airs and coloured skies: "Let men make good blood I constantly cry. I hold that to bo rightly materialist—to understand and take Nature , as she is—is to get on the true divino highroad.".' So the senses, bring him raw experience and the mind burns .out tho dross and the spirit fuses the residue into shining law, and within this resolute framework, his character rises to an altitudo whence it may sweep all horizons equally. His ultimate sym-. pathies were complete. All tho episodes and movements of his time, literary, political, social, philosophical, were lit up by the strong .beam of his mind. And this effect of a complete cross-section of life, cut clean from peak to pit, is really augmented by the comparative fewness of the friends to. whom this'• collection is addressed. It is, not a complete collection, but it traces half-a-dozen deep friendships without a lapse; and all the normal episodes of existence seem thus to rotate in turn before his sight and receive his vivid .judgment. Is it a case of bodily sickness? Read tho letter beginning "The principle of health is this, to make good blood plentifully and distributo it properly." 1 It is a case of spiritual perplexity? Tho clear passage that follows flies to offer guidance:— Belief in tho religion has done and does this good to the young; it floats them through the perilous, sensual period when the animal appetites most. need control aiid transmutation. If you. have .not the belief; set yourself tp -loye yirtue' by understanding that it is your best guide both as to what is due to others and what is for your positive personal good. If your mind honestly rejects it, you must call on your mind to supply its place from your , own resources. Otherwise you will'have'only half done your work, and that is always mischievous. 'Pray attend' to my words on this subject. . . . Wo grow to good as surely as 'the plant grows to the light. Thb school hjis only to look through history for a scientific assurance .of-it. And do not loss the habi£ of..praying to the.-unseeni Divinity.-Prayer, for worldly goods ffiTwovse'tliaii' : fi f uitless f'but 1 prayor-for strength of soul is that passion of the soul which catches tho gift is seeks.' .To a mercurial friend half-hesitantly,' in love:'" ■ '. v' : 1 To have found a suitable person and to give lier up for anything on earth is like seeing a jewel on the shore and rejecting it on account .of tho trouble of conveying it home. But do you strongly recognise the jewel? Havo you found her? A boy can't, but a man must reason in these cases. You may know your love from its power of persisting and bearing delay. Passion has not these powers. If your .love of this person is true,- and not one of your fancies, it will soon light you clear enough. . . . And don't be hasty and ! think'you are trusting'your instinct by grasping suddenly at the golden apple.. Can you bear poverty for her? ~WiU sho for you? Can she, even' if sho would? Think whether you are risking it, and remember that very few women bear it and retain their delicacy and charm. Some do. 'Can- you think her ono of the chosen? ...... To one wounded by death: There is no consolation for\a bleeding heart. Only tlio mind- can help it, when the showers- have passed. I might bo of use in talking with you. As it is, I do not know how far you have advanced in the comprehension of Life. I can\but pray that you may be strengthened to bear what/blows befall you, and ask for fortitude. This is the lesson for tho young—that whatever rhe heart clings to lays it open to. grief of necessity in such a world as ours, and whatever the soul embraces gives jieaco and is permanent. But that comes to us after many battles —or only,to the strong mind which does not require them for enlightenment. So tho strong mind measures and speaks, and the words are final. Always the balance is firmly held. When he lias, made his summary (as in his estimate of the two' Carlyles, or his statement of the position of women,- or his utterances concerning Ireland or South Africa, or his appreciation . of Thomson, or his judgments ,of his own writings, his defence of Diana) all seems to have been said; and 'when lie is4trj)ngly moved by emotion, whether of indignation or joy. the urgency but lends power to his precision, never deflects his aim. When his eye dilates it sees most I clearly. When . lie is most generous (and the books abound in kingly praise) it seems Ibut justice quickened, justice with unbandaged. eyes.' When his spirits are highest, riding gales, of laughter, they - are still securely poised; his very joviality is just. And. when he speaks out of the night of his great sorrow, his mind numb with pain, the naked' words have the nobility of music:— This place of . withered , recollections is like an old life to bo lived again without sunshine. I ' cross and' recross . . . Sharp spikes where flowors were. Death is death, as you say, but 1 get to her by consulting her thoughts and wishes— 'and so she lives in me. This. if. one has the strength of soul, brings the tpirit to us. While she lingered I could not hope for it to last, and liow I could crave any of the late signs of her breathing—a weakness of mv flesh. - When tlifi . mind .is steadier, i" shall have her calmly present —past all tears. . . . Olio need not shrink from turning 'such a cry into a quotation; it makes the mood that, deserves it. And. only quotations could sneak unbrokenly of tho strong tenderness,'the royal pride, the fortitude and deliberate honour that greet us on thoso, pages, offering the soul a'richer lesson than a creed. Each of the several sequences of letters tracer the course of n. friendship . subtly varying, sensitively dipping and developing. ■ yet leaving, a track a delicate pen might still transcribe. But their complex interweaving makes a portrait that chokes utterance by the dear humanity of its' charm. Like breathing virtues—liko chivalry, gentleness, courage, actually experienced—the personal accents move us in tho deep ways denied to art: and tho gratitude • that would nraise them only stammers. But spaeo disallows renewed quotations here; it is to the l>ooks themselves that the reader must turn if he would see the silent hand-grips of friendship-translated into words, and watch impetuous {lights of affection and sudden ringing nrohibitions, and" nobility: playing'happily with children, and prido receiving wounds without a word. But there is one broad feature that must |y> noted.'at first sight the most startling of all. For these letters make it clear that this resolute life, so nobly planned, so greatly lived, was yet essentially frustrate. If suecep-s be ilie perfect development and unswerving exercise of our finest powers, then Meredith has to bo accounted a failure. The apprehension has been spreading for some 'time that the .best of his work is in his poems, and with it thero has moved, as natural corollary,,

a presumption that his devotion to fiction was but another example of that perverse misapplication of their powers which artists of all kinds will keep displaying. Exactly the rovers?, it seoms, was true. He, too, know tlmt' poetry was his proper task, and ho fought passionately for leave to pursuo it. Tho leave was never granted. "Truly tho passion to produce versa in our region is accursed," ho writes when ho was in his fifties. "I ask myself why I should labour, and, for the third time, pay to publish tho result, with a certainty of being yelled at and haply spat upon for. my pains. And still I do it. I scorn myself for my folly." To pay for his poems he wrote novels, novels being apparently the pjiblic's taste. Too much of tho poet and' philosopher remaining in them, he had to condescend and compromise a second time, taking still more alien and still less useful taslt-work. -"My novels havo been kept back by having had to write for the newspapers—the only things that paid." Tho treble strain would have broken a smaller man; him it merely maimed. "My health is now far from good. I finished tho last volunies of a nove.l two years ago by writing at night for thrco months, .-in attack of whooping cough followed on lowered nerves. I have never been well since then. My digestion is entirely deranged, and still 1 have to write—and for a public that does not care for. my work. . I have failed, and I find littlo to make the end desirable. ... I am so driven by work that I do not contend with misapprehension of nie, or with disregard. Part of me has become torpid." Ho mado a Viking's end, as all men know, "retaining his laugh in Death's ear," as in one of these letters he vows his will—"that being what our Maker prizes in men." But then lie was one of those who "despised melancholy," he let "grief eat into mo and never, speak of it, partly because X despise the sympathy of fools and will not trouble my friends." He would not trail his tragedy. But in these letters the cry escapes. It is hard to 6peak soberly of this wastage; but these two books, superior to all resentment, offer bitterness its best rebuke. And. instead of rounding on the age that baffled him tho understanding' course is no doubt to make the difference between them the measure of, our gratitude for his coming. The difficulties lie faced are tho index to our need of him; had he been greeted gladly, suffered nothing, his value would have been tho less. "Friend," he writes to. Lord Morley—'"friend, in the woods you and I may challenge the world to match us in happiness. Out of them I feel myself pulled back a century or so." AVe are approaching him now; t/he day will come when we will his contemporaries. Meanwhile his past is our future, and these letters may help us like maps into the unknown. They will pass immediately into the stuff of living thought, making blood and tissue instantly; for they show'us the fluttering ideals and dim .desires of our day clearly' formulated and alive. To Tead them is to find a groping track suddenly, stiffening and straightening into highroad. Down, that, towards his figure, we now press. THE OUTLOOK FOR POETRY. The cry concerning English poetry, f "Actum est," it is "all up" with it, is heard ones more, observes«an English writer. This time ; it comes from a correspondent of one of the weeklies, who is entitled to consideration, not for his theory of the necessary correlation in any age of the fortunes of the drama, and those of' poetry in general, but because ho shows his interest ill modern poetry in themost substantial way. Evidently one who, in these days, spends annually ',£6 .on contemporary versa is entitled to have an opinion; on the subject, and his opinion is that we have iallen upon a "fallow period"; in other words, tnat English poetry, for tile time, being at- any rate, is spent. It may bo admitted that the state of poetry at the present time is peculiar. It is not that there is any lack of poets, for England is once more , a nest of singing birdsthere is even a sale for poetry not to be'explained by the ironic theory that so many people write poetry nowadays that they buy books of verse to seo what other people are doing. What .there., is a lack ..of . .is notable writers, ;tho quality as well ai "tho quantity of whose work gives tho world assurance of their poetic greatness'. One may even notice ..that in reviews, when critics come.' to mention representative po-ets of our tiine, no two ever give the same list, aijd, as often as not, no single name is common to both lists. Now. of this phenomenon thero are two interpretations "between which ono who does not. feel himself powerfully appealed to 'by any of tho poets of to-day will choose, according to his temperament. One is that of the correspondent in question, that tho vein of English poetry .has petered out. It would not be wonderful if this were tho case. No nation, however vigorous, could go on producing until .the end of time such a brilliant and uninterrupted series of great poets as • the nineteenth century did. Sooner or later a. pause must come, and, , say our friends, it has . come at least'and in good earnest. The other is that within the last decade or two English • poetry has turned a sharp .corner. The new writers are working after new ideals, so that those whoso conceptions 1 of poetry were formed during the reign of an older school cannot quite enter into their spirit. There is not, perhaps, much to chooqso between those two explanations, but one may be inclined to accept the more optimistic by the general reflection that nothing could ■be commoner than for ono to underestimate the intellectual greatness of the age in which he lives. Wo now consider the age of Keats as one of tho most distinguished in our literary history, yet this is how Keats himself wroto of it:— The count ■ Of mighty poets is made up; the scroll Is foldekl by the Muses; the bright -roll Is in Apollo's hand; our dazed eyes Have seen a new tingo in the western .skies: The wprld has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, Although the sun of poesy is set, These lovers did embrace. With this expression of opinion compare that of his contemporary Shelley. "In spito of the low-thoughted envy,' writes Shelley, "which would undervalue . contemporary merit, our own will be a memorable ago in intellectual achievements, and we-live among such philosophers and poets as surpass beyond comparison any who havo appeared since tho last national struggle for civil and religious liberty." . In this case it was the optimist who was right.