BOOKS OF THE DAY.

Dominion, Volume 6, Issue 1746, 10 May 1913, Page 9

BOOKS OF THE DAY.

TWO "books of verse.

Having arrived at the maturity of forty, iUr. Arthur Adams,-erstwhile Wellingconian, but now,, tor some years, engaged in journalistic and literary pursuits m Sydney, has come to the conclusion, so he tells us in tlie preface to his "Collected Verses" (Whitcombe and Tombs), that at such' an age "tho poet, or the would-be poet, should leave the pleasant, twisting by-paths of poetry for the dustier, thougn broader and more direct highway of prose." "By that critical age," continues Mr. Adams, "ho should have sufficiently, if inadequately, explored those bypaths; for by then ho no longer possesses tho best equipment,. nor the right attribute of mind, for that joyous adventure. It may be confidently lett to the shouting army of Youth." This is surely a very curious deliverance. Why should poetry be-deemed a "by-path" of "litera-, ture, and why-tho adjectivo "twisting"? Is no man to write poetry after forty? Are poets to 1m scrap-heaped, cremated, or consigned to somo mysterious inferno of their own when they reach that ago? Is poetry the special literary privilege of the youthful literary hustler and not to bo expected or accepted'from maturer minds and fully developed spirits?/ The "right attitude of mind" indeed! 1 How about Wordsworth and Tennyson and Swinburne? Did they ceaso to i>ossess a. right attitude of mind onco they reached that dreadful forty-mile post on the road of life? The Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon. Thero have been of late quite a number of reprints of Gordon's poems, but there should be room for a neatly-printed, tastefully-bound edition (Is. cloth) just publjshed by Ward, Lock and Co., in their excellent series of "The World Library of Famous Books (per S: and W.. Mackay). The poems are prefaced by a well-written account of Gordon's career, accompanied by some judicious oTiticism of his work, reprinted from the "Adelaide Register.", . This is really an excellent edition, of Gordon for the ordinary private library, .and .should have, as it deserves to have,.a,.wide sale. With what the "Register", critic says of tho actual quality of Gordon's verse I am for the most part in, cordial agreement. That Gordon's'poetry will ever take place, in the front rank is not likely, indeed. "Much of what he wrote is not poetry at all in the strictest sense of the word. But it is poetry in that it is the revelation of a 6^irit— a gloomy spirit perhaps, bat that ot a man incapable of a mean action." Had his later years,": efiys the "Register" critic, "been more free from uncongenial toiland worry, several of Gordon's perfectly-finished pieces indicate that he might have produced work powerful enough to place him among tho foremost of the world's poets." Without going so far as .this, it is undeniable that given happier • circumstances, Gordon would probably have done work of a much higher quality than is to be found in the poems upon which his undoubted popularity, has been founded. Novelist v. Poet, Why -can't Mr.. Adams be. honest, and admitfdiat tnb'~rearreason lie" has .foresworn' allegiance to the noblest form of literature is that he has found that the poet 1 or "wouldrbc poet"—his oivn expression—can 1 make, moro vulgar pelf by one successful novel than by : twenty books of verses; collected or otherwise. For ray own part, though Mr. Adams has written much' vcrso that I sincerely admire, I vastly prefer his novel; "Galahad Jones" —that really brilliant and delightful fantasy—to all his pogms put together, and despito his preface I suspect that ho himself shares my. preference. But because he has found thalt tho "vulgar dibs" —as Stsvenson used to say—aro much moro easily and abundantly obtained by novel-writing than by writing verse, that, is no reason why, in deserting tho twisting by-paths," ho should affect the pose of a wearied decadent. Rather would I trust that, for maiiy a long year to come Mr. Adams will interrupt his courso along tho "broader and more direct"—and much more profitable—"highway of prose," to give ns a few more .of the often tender and delicate verses by which ho first made his litorary reputation.

The Critics and "The Bird." Meanwhile, Mr. Adams gives ns a volume which many "of us -will Tightly treasure, although the contents of yie two separato volumes of verses, "The Nazarene" and "London Streets" are excluded, and out of the sixtyseven items in "Maoriland and Other Verses" only twenty have been selected, and now reappear, some of. them in»a revised The new poems have mainly appeared in "The Bulletin" and "The Lone Hand" and other magazines. As to criticising tho new productions, Mr. Adams almost deters me from so doing by the sarcasm of his "Foreword for the. Critics." It appears that some of the fraternity havo ventured to say that Mr. Adams is not a poet but just a bird. This appears to havo seriously distressed tho ex-editor of "The Lone Hand" and present conductor of "The Bulletin" Red Page, and hence we have such/ill-natured TemaTks as "raucous-toned," .tho "critic croak," and the "fault-finders" are reminded that tho "bird still sings.'* And still the critics listened glum, ' And strove his faults to overcome; Foil criticism was, they knew, The only thing that they could do. So from their rapture they did not shrink) They wrote their rupture down in ink, They found another note was wrong, Tho" bird had found another song. This childish, bilious outburst is quite "unworthy of Mr. Adams, and is specially Billy when ■ wo Tomember—as Mr. Adams should havo remembered—that ho himself is of the crow of critics, the crew whoso _ ' . . . criticism was,,thcv knew, The only thing that, they could do. Such, pottishness come 3 ill indeed from the editor of "Tho Red Page," but I will not pursue the subject further, savo to ay that I trust the poor bird has, by this time, got over what, in his "Titwillow," the late W. S. Gilbert called "the pain in his little inside." Wordsworthian Sonnots. Far more ngreeablo is it to tell my readers that in this volume of "Collected Verses" there are, notwithstanding many weak and halting lines, enshrining thoughts as vague in thnir expression as tliey are banal in their basic conception, verses which breathe tho spirit' of true poetry. I select two sonnets for quotation, tho choice being dictated to Mint extent by the fact that spaco'is limited, for which fact Mr. Adams's pretentious preface and childish "Foreword to the Critics" arp mainly responsible. Tho first is "Night in England: A silence liko a night mist from tho ground Floods all the sodden fields. London lies there— A hundred miles beyond that hillside bareIts fever ended in a peaco profound. Still as this stagnant village that is drowned In immemorial quiet. High in air J'lio street-lamps of a greater city flaro: fiul of its tireless traffic not a sound! And yet a measured music marks tho time— Charging ft culvert in its distant (light, An unknown train comes roaring up the night; And over dead England, from dark towers Village to villago calling, chimo upon chime The empty churches tell tho oinpty hours. That the above sonnet owes something to a AVordsworthiau suggcslion—seo . his "So/met Composed . mi. .. Westminster Bridge"—l expect even tho "bird" would not. deny, but rjevwlheln 1 ;* the Nnw Znnjsnder bus done very well with a difficult

theme, and no poet, not even Wordsworth, could be allowed to monopolise the mystery and charm of silence' as a'subject. My second selection is "Tho Riddle," also a.sonnet:. . ' . ' "• I stood beneath the Night's unmoved expanse.; And lo! upon the fallow darkness sown Like seeds, the stars; or bright confetti thrown Upon tho dusky floor of circumstance; Or hung, a jewelled necklace to enhance The throat of Night! And to some Power unknown I cried: "Is man then but a mote alone Caught in a falling raindrop of Chancop" i'et in tho desert of this sterile Space A living moss upon a, crumbling clod Tenacious finds a brief abiding-place: An Insignificance that has its dream— A mind that reads a meaning in the scheme, A heart whoso craving dares creato a God! Tho "confetti" 6imile ■ strikes mo as being a little out of the setting; it is out of tuno with tho dignity of the whole. But, nevertheless, he who could write these two sonnets may fairly be accounted a poet, and no mere verse-in alter, and, certainly, from their author should we never expect that curious mixture of banality, childish bad temper, and paltry, would-be satire which we find in tho "Foreword: For tho Critics." Yes, the "bird" must certainly have had a pain in his little inside. Let us hopo it will soon get) over it and twitter, aye, sing, as pleasantly as ever.