BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 19794, 18 February 1928, Page 14

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

VERSES HITHER SCOTLAND. iWhen I am singin’ o’' ye, Hither Scotland, Tak me or want me, but I lo’e ye still; r And whether it bo city street or cotland, Flood-soopin’ shaw, lown holm, or atane-stark hill. ■ ’And when in time straivagin’ daith over-taps me, And ’neth the sward my banes lie laich and opiate, Gin it be Scottish earth that deeds and haps me, ‘ I care uae jesp hoo lang I rest or wait. See saft its touch upon the deid and leevin’, Sae kind its thocht to Scots ayont the faem, Ane wankens up to ken that Scottish heevin’ Is Scottish earth wi’ Scots afaur won hame. —John Smellik Martin. SONG. iWhat shall we remember when we are old? .What shall we remember even when we are wise? Softly, softly we shall remember Love and love’s mouth and love’s eyes. What shall we remember more beautifully than wisdom? What shall we remember in our cold years? We shal! remember, we shall remember, Love and love’s laughter and Jove’s tears. What shall wo remember when we are lost in quietness? .What shall we remember? What shall be keeping? , We shall remember, for ever, for ever, Love and love’s sigh and love’s sleeping. —Marie de L. W'elch, in the ‘ Nation.’ TO JAMES STEPHENS, IN LONDON. Where are you, Spirit, who could pass into our hearts and all Hearts of little children, hearts of trees and hills and elves? Where is the pen that could, sweetly deep and whimsical, Make old poets live again far better than themselves? You lived through all our past worst time, and proved yourself no caitiff; America then listened to a voice too dear for wealth, Then you went to London, where I fear you have gone native; Too long in a metropolis will tax a poet’s health. . It’s not as if you had no wit and i cared for recognition, j A wing that lit the Liffcy could I emblazon all the Thames; But we’re not ourselves without you, j and we long for coalition, ! O half of Erin’s energy! What can 1 have happened, James? —Oliver St. J. Gogaetv, in the ‘lri s h Statesman.’ AN INSPIRED VAGABOND A PLAY ABOUT VILLON A revived interest in the work of Francois Villon is further indicated by the publication of ‘ The Judgment of Francois Villon,’ by Herbert Edward Palmer. Mr Palmer, who has won recognition as a forceful and individual poet—this play, however, is in prose—has set himself the difficult task of presenting Villon both as a great poet land a great scoundrel. The play opens in Villon’s attic in the house of his benefactor, Canon Villon. Mine Montcorbier, Villon’s mother, is sweeping out the room and soliloquising about the strange vagaries of Francois. Suddenly there enters Catherine de Vaucelles, beloved of Villon, but ice-cold to him. A little later Villon himself, slightly wounded, comes in. He invents a plausible but lying tale to account for his condition, but is corrected by the amiable Canon, who has just heard the truth. When Fran-

A MTERARY CORNER

cois is left alone with Catherine he begs for her favor and declares:

I am amorous, and brutal, and avaricious. But I am poor, and have the belly of an elephant. And I love God and the saints, and weep in front of them —only to turn away and curse. Of what use are now to me my studies? Truth is like a warped coin with a crack in it, honesty is a rich man’s shield and r armor. . . . Heed not my uncouthness. Lean to me, condescend, i be gracious to me Without you I am nothing, but with your help I shall 3 be a king. Catherine, have pity on me, for 1 am in a net. s However, she, the good angel who might have “ fired his bad one out,” r spurns him, and in a later scene has him severely whipped by one of her re- -• tainers because he had addressed to her 1 the following characteristic epistle, mockingly sincere:— To the Most Exquisite Catherine L de Vaucelles.—Demure Hedgehog: Flutter down from your balcony win- . dow when I serenade you this week, when we will immediately go to the tavern of the Three Lovers and be joined there in culpability of unholy wedlock. —Your little Hc-hawk, Francois Villon. ROBBERY AND THE DUNGEON. Many of Mr Palmer’s scenes of rqbt bery and ruffianism are vividly picturesque; one of Villon’s mistresses, Margot, who kept the tavern of “The Fat Margot,' has affinities with the ; mistress of the Eastcheap tavern frequented by Falstaff, After spending some time at the Court of Charles of Orleans, he is ar- • rested for taking part in the robbery of a church, and flung into a dungeon of the castle of the Bishop of Orleans. There ho is racked-, put to the “ torture by water,” and, at last, when set free, is a physical and mental wreck. He returns to Paris and Margot, and as he 1 lies dying is visited by various apparitions—the Spirit of Deceit and Lies, the Spirit of Lawlessness, and many others, including the Spirit of Joan of - Arc. At the close ho is rescued by his good angel. There are too many apparitions in the last act. Mr Palmer has searched deeply into the strange psychology of \illon and produced a valuable study both of the man and his period. His translations from Villon are excellent. —‘ John o’ London.’ SIR JOHN HAWKINS Mr James A. Williamson has written , a life of Sir John Hawkins which upi sets many popular notions. Instead of the grizzled sea dog of Kingsley, the i heartless slave trader, or the corrupt administrator, we are shown a man of ; culture and education, a statesman, one who, though ho trafficked in slaves, i must be measured by the standards of his time in respect to humanity, and 1 not singled out for special vilification, and an honorable public servant. True, I this last opinion (says ‘ The Times Literary Supplement’) must bo conjec- , tural; but Mr Williamson’s evidence in his favor is impressive to a high doi gree. The life of a man who occupied such high stations and played so great a part in the contemporary history is not to bo told in a mere record of his own doings. The political, religious, and’social events of his day and the atmosphere by which he was surrounded are elements necessary to a true understanding of the man and his actions. Mr Williamson has provided this essential settng in proper proportion in his fine monument to this too-littlc-remem--1 bered English worthy. The principal characteristic of John Hawkins was his orderly mind. “By good order,” he wrote to Burghley, “ good effects will follow.” Whether as I an administrator or a strategist, this ; formed the foundation of his work, and ’ he could tolerate neither disorderly ad- '< ministration nor disorderly planning of wars or campaigns. It was this, it is > clear, that caused Burghley to select ■ him for the office of Treasurer in 1578. i Surveying the work of this office, his ; orderly mind revolted at the discovery of waste of money, waste of effort, and '• direct abuses. We see in him a prede- • cessor of St. Vincent in the unpleasant ' task of cleansing Augean stables; and, 1 like St. Vincent, he was the target for I the abuse of those who suffered or lost ’> from his reforming zeal. Ho has been 1 accused of seeking the office to feather • his own nest, and when in office of doing so. Yet he left but a little fortune behind him—no greater, if not indeed less, than a successful shipbuilder such as he continued to be may well be expected to amass. The evidence which Mr Williamson’s research places at our disposal on the question of whether he was a hypocrite or a devoted servant leaves no doubt that he belongs to the latter class, and holds a high place in that honorable company. Having thought out the purpose his Navy had to fulfil, and knowing what work he required of it, he proceeded to provide ships which should he fit for that purpose. His administrative work went farther than designing the weapon. “ Good order ” is not confined to movements and design. These movements would not be possible if supplies were not forthcoming; and the branch of supply comes no less searchingly than those of operations and material under his examination and reform. We are indeed a very long way from the grizzled old sea dog of Kingsley. In the place of that mythical person we have a man of the world, a writer whoso letters bear witness to an educated mind and are better spelt than those of many a nobleman of his ; time; one, too, who has gone through j the experience of a practical ship- - builder and knows the craft in its innermost anatomy; while at the same time he is a diplomatist and a logician, capable of connecting policy wth strategy, strategy with administration and ship design. To make comparisons to the advantage of either between Hawkins and Drake is idle, for they represent different spirits; they are different instruments, each proper for its particular tasks. They are as different as were Anson and Hawke, St. Vincent and Nelson. Each type is great in its own sphere; and none has been greater in his than Sir John Hawkins. A VISIT TO D'ANNUNZIO | In ‘ John o’ London’s Weekly,' Helen, Duchess of Croy, describes a visit to D’Annunzio, who now lives in his beautiful villa on Lake Garda. "A curtain swayed, and the poet entered, clad in his favorite garb as a 1 Pere Prieur,’ a Franciscan father of a luxury. imperial: robes of velvet of a lustrous golden brown, the opening at the throat disclosing a chemise of cloth of gold, upon which lay a large ( cross, whose stones caught the firelight j and reflected it in a hundred flashing flames. On his thin, nervous lingers I wore massive jewelled rings, on his feet j sandals of golden leather; a monk such | as Boccaccio might have described, ! prior of some corrupt and world-loving order of fifteenth century Florence. Even the face is typical, scholarly and sens*u>us, old in its wrinkles, but young

in its ever-changing expressions; pale, thin, mocking; impishly malicious grey eyes under an exaggeratedly high iorchcacl.

“After a few animated greetings the Pore Prieur suggested, with a mocking smile, as always when he speaks of Jus monastic frugality, that, he would load us to his Franciscan board. Through the door he gently urged us, on through rooms of a museum-liko magnificence, and yet comfortable, liveable, with each beautiful object in harmony with its surroundings. Handsome carvings, priceless carpets, deep, inviting chairs, glowing color of brocades and velvets, piohably once the robes of some great prince of the church, or of a fair patrician of Venice, all combine in an ensemble which it takes an artist to create. No particular style prevails, but the impression is that of the Italian Renaissance, with its sombre gorgeousness of carved dark woods and rich colors “ As wo wandered through the rooms our host pointed out to us a few newlyacquired treasures, tributes sent by admirers from all parts of the world, lovely cigarette cases, fincly-hound hooks, or exquisite liagons of perfumes. The Franciscan loves perfumes; a perfume for each room, a perl nine lor each mood; that is a hobby of his. Ho: stores them in a tiny inner room all of Chinese red lacquer, of which the shelves arc laden with bottles of every conceivable shape, from the latest thing from the Rue do la P.aix to flower-like receptacles of the delicate Murano glass of which D’Annunzio so often sings the praises in his books. “Each time he has visitors (it is seldom that he receives any now, so retired a life does he live) he loads them with gifts of perfumes as a symbol of the joy which their visit has brought into his life. “ A perfume for each mood —one wonders as one looks at his ever-chang-ing face if there are enough perfumes in the world to suit eVery change in that mercurial nature. “ The long rcfactory table was covered with a cloth of fine Venetian lace. Under the shadow of the llowcrfilled bowl of Murano glass golden peacocks spread their tails of emeralds and sapphires. ‘ A woman in nun-liko garb served the delicious repast on plates of gold and silver with Latin inscriptions, ecclesiastical in their stylo, and our host talked to us brilliantly o'f many things. Talked, as always, with a charming omniscience refreshing in this era of specialisation. “ Afterwards, before the fire, he told us of his projects of still further beautifying Ins house and gardens, which, after his death, will become a national museum. He told us of his bedroom for which Guido_ Cadorin was painting panels on chamois leather, representing the things which the ‘ Pere Prieur ’ loves most in life. And ho talked to ns of Fiumo and his exploits there. “ Late, the big red car took us again down the narrow mule-track. D’Annunzio stood in the yellow frame of the lighted doorway, waving goodbye, a strange figure in his long robes and sparkling jewels, an oasis of color in the uniformity of to-day.’ NOVELISTS’ BLUNDERS Careless blunders of novelists have been a complaint of correspondents in ‘The Times.’ One of them writes:— “I am a policeman, with just enough education to find pleasure and recreation in reading detective stories. When my tour of duty _is ended all I ask for is an easy chair, a pipe, and a detective story. My average consumption of such books is nearly onp a day. At the moment I am on the sick list, and the average has naturally gone up. I think that 1 could count on the fingers of one hand those books I have read during the past year which did not contain some quite ludicrous error of police routine or technique. I have just finished a book by one who is well known as a fertile author of detective stories. In it a chief constable and an inspector, both of the C.I.D. of Scotland Yard, are working together on a case. The chief constable is referred to as the inspector’s 1 subordinate,’ and is addressed by him accordingly. “I spoke about this subject to my doctor, and he assured me that the mistakes made about my profession could not be as had as those made about his. Many a medical student would be glad to earn a guinea or two by reading through proofs and altering ‘ black ’ to ‘ white ’ where necessary, and nonsense to sense. _ But those novelists are too lazy and indifferent to take any trouble, even vicariously. “1 should much like to know what the novelists themselves have to say about it. Towards the end of last century some novels wore published about colleges at Cambridge, under a masculine ‘ nom de guerre.’ but really written by a lady. The then vicemaster of Trinity is reported to have read one, knowing nothing of the authorship, and to have remarked that it struck him as the sort of book about Cambridge that might have been written by a young lady who had had a brother at Oxford. I might say of the bulk of detectives stories I come across that they are the sort of book about the police that might be expected from the pen of a young lady whose brother had been rejected for the special constabulary.” Another correspondent points out that the hero of one of Katharine Tynan’s books concerning a mysterious fox is a wild Irish squire, whose life passion is a pack of foxhounds, much in evidence. The date is James I. Now, fox hunting was not invented as a' sport, even in England, till nearly a century later, whence it spread gradually over the British islands. In another book of modern life the same authoress makes a party object to crossing to New York about Christmas, as it is the iceberg season and dangerous ! In a story laid about 1720 by Sheila Kaye-Smith she makes the hero’s father, a great Kent magnate, quite incidentally and without any reason or any connection with those parts, send his son to school at Shrewsbury, then a purely local grammar school four or five days distant, of which he is quite certain never even to have heard. Thence the boy proceeds to the only college at Cambridge, to which he could not possibly have gone namely. King’s, till within living memory, of course, the close preserve of Eton Foundationers. With this little company of (in 1720) no doubt studious and rather humble folk the golden youth finds the fast and gay life he would have met at Trinity or Christ Church, whither the authoress might just as well have sent him. A more impossible curriculum for the heir of an Early Georgian Kentish magnate, with public schools and grammar schools at hand, could hardly have been thought out; and so superfluous. The same authoress, who notably specialises in the agricultural folk of Sussex, makes a farmer of to-day, who has sown with wheat a rich bit of pasture, delighted with a return of eight bushels to the acre (otherwise a hopeless failure). The figures should have been, of course, anything from forty to sixty, bushels.

ROBERT BEADLE DEAD AUTHOR OF ' SIMON GALLED PETER' British papers record the death at Tahiti of Air Robert Kcable, a novelist who, despite a wide popularity, seemed hardly to have readied the maturity of his talent or philosophy. Ho was only forty years old. It is not unfair (says a' ‘ Times ’ writer) to read an autobiographical strain into the Cambridge experiences of Paul Kcstern, the hero of his novel, ‘ Preadventuro.’ Among many intellectual and religions influences that play upon the mobile temperament of that ardent adolescent is a Roman Catholic priest named “ Father Vassal!,” who is an unmistakable portrait of Mgr. Hugh Benson. That Benson had a deep influence on Keablo is certain ; Keable’s style in many places is rather like a serious parody of Benson’s than the expression of an independent personality. Ordained in 1911, Keable joined the Universities Mission to Central Africa in 1912. His first important book, ‘ A City of the Dawn,’ published in 1915, was based on his experiences in Zanzibar, and revealed his romantic spirit, as well as his fine descriptive powers. It sparkles brightly among the staid literature of missions. From Basutoland, where he was rector of Leribe, Keable returned to Europe as chaplain to the South African forces during the Great War. It soon became evident that his life at the front and behind it had deeply unsettled him. The shock to his religious convictions is plain both in his book of war studies, ‘ Standing By,’ and in ‘ Pilgrim Papers,’ written after his return to Africa, and published in 192 U. ‘Simon Called Peter,’ which appeared in 1921, marked Keable’s break with old associations. It is the story of an Army chaplain’s lapse from faith and Christian morals. He continued this in new vein in ‘ The Mother of All Living ’ a South African novel, and in ‘ Preadventure,’ a review of the religions perplexities of himself and his generation which culminates on a rather defiant declaration of agnosticism. Yet in ‘ Recompense,’ published iu 192-1 ns a sequel to ‘ Simon Called Peter,’ there were indications that neither paganism nor agnosticism win fully satisfying Keable’s complexpersonality. His work as a whole is the outcome of an imaginative and sympathetic temperament, equipped with a sensitive power of external observation and a full and harmonious command of languages. The intellectual strength that chastens and refines emotions did not disclose itself in the course of his brief literary fife. A friend writes to ‘ The Times ’:— Koablc’s story is a veritable fairy story of a swing from poverty to wealth, from fetters to freedom. It began in righteous anger; went on to penalty for revolt against authority; to a fife of penury and struggle; to tho writing down in a book of the story of the anger and revolt—and then of the hook’s triumphant sweep over two hemispheres, carrying Keable with it through half the countries of the world, and landing him in a paradise of flowers and sunshine in the South Seas. Many were offended by ‘ Simon Called Peter,’ but very few were bored I y it. And indeed boredom must melt before tho flames of fife-lovo and of burning indignation which blazed through those often strident pages. With all its crudities, ‘Simon Called Peter’ is a gicat novel, because it was written from the heart of a man who had both intellect and passion, who loved religion and loved life equally, and couio not endure an interpretation of tho former which denied -ho latter. His jaier books were too often more repetitions of tho gesture toward freedom which he had already meae—once and for all—in ‘ Butcm Peter. A BOOKSELLER’S STORIES “A Bookseller” writes in the ‘ Spectator ’ I was asked often and strangely for ‘ Alice in Wonderland '•—once by a customer who said “But is it a classic?” (pronouncing tho first syllable of the word to rhyme with farce). _ She had previously asked if a schoolgirl annual was a classic, and if a anthology was “complete.” If the kindly ghost of Lewis Carroll could haunt that bookshop lie would find material for further ‘ Alice ’ books, and I think he would have delighted in the remarks of a certain mother who said “ And I must have ‘ Alice in Wonderland ’ because my little boy is so fond of history!” Another one asked wearily for ‘Alice,’ and added; “I suppose my child ought to have it, but I tried to understand it all my life and I’ve never managed to!” In a certain village in England there is a little girl who may still possess a copy of ‘Alice in Wonderland bought for her by a customer who said: “It doesn’t matter about the illustrations. Tenniel’a will do quite well as the book is only for the doctor’s child.” Children are the pleasantest of all customers, for they know exactly what they want. I remember two little girls with apple-blossom faces who wore furtrimmed bonnets and purple coats. “I want a book for Daphne,” said the elder of them. “ And will you see that Daphne keeps her eyes shut while I choose it, please?” Perhaps the most delightfully reasonable request I ever heard was that of a customer who came to the juvenile section and asked for a book “ for a very old lady who is in her second childhood and is fond of fairies.” NOTES Mr Hilaire Belloc has been at work on a new book while enjoying the sunshine of North Africa. For nearly a year past Mr Alec Waimh has been travelling among the Pacific Islands, but be has now returned to England. With him he brought the manuscript of a new novel, which, under the title, ‘ The Alien Corn/ is to bo published by Chapman and Hall. The Dickens House at 48 Doughty street, W.C.I, has been enriched by a collection of first editions of the books written by Dickens while he was in residence there from 1837 to 1839. Sir George Sutton is tho generous donor. The widow of Sir George Alexander, the famous actor-manager, is fortunate in having the help of Anthony Hope, A. E. W. Mason, and other novelists whose work Sir George so often produced on the stage in preparing the Life of her late husband. The death of the Rev. R. JL. Gales (who in his day won the Nowdigate Prize) removes a poet of sincerity and distinction, though he aimed not at all at public fame. None who have read it will forget the disarming simplicity and quaintness of ‘ Baby s Grace ’;— Praise to God who giveth meat Convenient unto all who eat; Praise, for tea and buttered toast, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.