BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 20056, 22 December 1928, Page 14

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

' CHRISTMAS VERSES 'A THOMAS HARDY POEM. Christmas Eve and twelve of the clock. “Now they are all on their knees, An older said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearthsido ease. [We pictured the meek mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen, Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they wore kneeling then. So fair a fancy few would weave la these years I Yet I feel, H someone said on Christmas Eve, “ Come; see the oxen kneel -“in the lonely barton by yonder ooomb Our childhood used to know,” I should go with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so. —Thomas Hardy. A CAROL OF THE THREE KINGS. Jingle, janglo, Star and Spangle, Over the Wilderness wide! Tali camels sway in the Wilderness way With their spacious spongy stride, And three grave Kings with mystic things, In search of the King, Who is King of Kings, Three steadfast spectres ride! Stars are shining, silver lining Leaves of the palm trees grey— If God should call, forsaking all, Man must take the Wilderness way, And these must ride nor ever abide, On a road so long, through a world so wide To a babe on a bed of hay! ■“ Dearie, Dearie,” blessed Mary Croons to her little Son, 'And the three grave Bangs with their mystic things Kneel low to Hun, on© by one, And glad they are, though they came from far, That they followed 1 the light of the guiding Star f That led to Mary’s Son. —Andrew, S.D.C. in the ‘ Church « Times.’. WH.UAM HEINEMANN THE STORY OF A GREAT PUBLISHER The name of William Heinemann is associated with some of the most notable publishing ventures of recent years. Sir Hall Caine’s ‘ The Bondman,’ Richard Dehan’s ‘ The Dop Doctor,’ William de Morgan’s ‘Joseph Vance,’ and Whistler’s ‘ The Gentle Art of Making Enemies.’ are among the many books of note that have been issued from the now famous publishing house in Great Russell street. Some interesting details of the career of this remarkable man are provided in 1 William Heinemann; A Memoir,’ by Frederick Whyte (says John o’ licmdon’s Weekly’). Heinemann began his career in a publisher’s office, and at one time he was a traveller in books. Tho firm which now bears his namo was started in January, 1890, “ in two rooms, with only a clerk and an office boy.’’ It remained under his direction until his death thirty years later. TWO “BEST SELLERS.” One of his first successes was Hall Caine’s novel 4 The Bondman.’ This hook had been rejected by Cassel’s on the ground that it was “too gloomy.” Tho author at that time was prepared to sell tho book “ outright ” for £4OO Heinemann accepted it, paid Hall Caine £3OO on account of royalties, and afterwards reaped a rich harvest as the result. He was said—and not without reason •-to be a hard hand at driving a barMjin. Yet his treatment of Sarah (fipiid! ought not to bo forgotten. In ■G he purchased the MS. of ‘The Ecavenly Twins’ for £IOO. The book turned out to bo an unexpected success :

In a few weeks’ tune Heinomann sent for the young authoress, told her that he proposed to tear up their agreement, substituting for it a new one by which she was to be paid “ the most favoured authors’ royalties,” and concluded' by handing her a cheque for £1,200, the amount he owed her already upon their new basis. Heinemann was a man of a somewhat irascible temperament—he certainly needed very careful handling—but beneath that rough exterior there was much real kindness and generosity. To the end of his life he exhibited a fine appreciation of the best in literature, while for the “ best seller,” as such, he had nothing but contempt. PUBLISHER-IN-LAW.” He had many friends, and among them some of the most famous writers of his day. The widow of the late Israel Zangwill has a charming story of her first introduction to him;— It was in the crush of my first wedding reception that I first met Mr Heinemann. “You don’t know who I am,” he said, smilingly, as he shook hands. By some happy chance I had caught the name. “Yea, I do,” I contradicted. “My publisher-in-law.” His sudden and untimely death was mourned by many, and not least by those who had had business relations with him. Perhaps the moat graceful tribute to his memory was that of John Masefield. “I do not think,” ho wrote,, “any publisher has so fine or so long a record of good books published. . ._ . He made publishing a fastidious, discriminating work of art, and built up his list like an architect.” RUfISERY RHYMES THE MODERN CRAZE Everybody’s doing it. No modern poet seems to feel his work complete unless he has written something for the nursery as well as for the library. Stevenson, Hilaire Belloc, A. A. Milne, and Waiter He la Mare are examples of this tendency, which would have been quite incomprehensible to poets of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Fancy expecting Milton to write a nursery epic on ‘Puppy-dog Lost,’ or Pop® an ‘ Essay on Child ’ 1 The latest poet to succumb to the craze is John Hrinkwater, whose ‘All About Me ’ is a successful venture in nursery nonsense. A typical example his style is ‘John Pride.’ No one liked John Pride Until he died, When everybody said: “Poor John’s dead.” But he heard Never a word. And when he’d gone They found that John Had Often done Good for fun; Which only shows Shat nobody knows. '

A LITERARY CORNER

G. B. irCUTGHEON HAS PASSED DH

George Barr M'Cutchcon, author of the Graustark books and many other novels and short stories, died recently in New York. He was a native of Tippecanoe County, Indiana; and was graduated from Purdue University. In 1889 he became a reporter on the Layfaette (Ind.) ‘Morning-Journal,’ and from that moment writing became his career. His first published novel was ‘ Granstark,’ in 1901. and in what he then believed to be a burst of business acumen he sold that outright for 500dol. After that he -wrote steadily, and for the next quarter of a century no year passed without a new book from his pen, and in many years there were two. There was a whole group of Graustark books, all of which had a wide vogue, and among the others ‘ Brewster’s Millions ’ was perhaps as popular as any. HEW EDITION Of DEFOE To most readers Defoe is a onebook man. We have all read ‘Robinson Crusoe, ’ and probably the average man, if ho were asked to name what else Defoe wrote, would only remember the ‘ History of the Plague.’ Yet Defoe was actually a prolific writer, and if ‘Robinson Crusoe’ was his masterpiece ho had other hooks to his credit which, if they did not equal it in originality and invention, still have a claim to b© considered _ amongst the masterpieces of English literature. A new edition of Defoe is now ap pearing—an edition which will appeal to every book lover. It is ‘ The Novels and Selected Writings of Daniel De foe,’ in fourteen volumes. It is published by Basil Blackwell, of Oxford Defoe, principally in ‘ Robinson Crusoe,’ but to a certain extent in his other works, has suffered ranch at the hands of his editors. This new edition is printed either from the first editions or from editions published dur ing Defoe’s lifetime, and so far as is possible represents what Dofoe actually wrote. In this edition three volumes are given to ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ two te ‘ Moll Flanders,’ two to ‘ Colonel Jack,' two to ‘ The Fortunate Mistress,’ and one each to ‘Captain Singleton,’ the ‘ Great Plague,’ and ‘ Memoirs of a Cavalier,’ the others containing the less well-known works. DDE Of AH OGTOGEHARIAN Mr Fred E. Weatherly, the K.C. song writer and rowing man, is eighty, and in a letter to the editor of the ‘ Morning Post ’ describes himself as “ another old man still alive and working.” That paper states; “ In proof of this he has written some verses in celebration of the occasion. We have pleasure in publishing these lines from a pen which during fifty-seven years has poured charming lyrics all over tho English-speaking world. “‘Nancy Lee,’ ‘The MicLshipmite,' ‘ The Holy City,’ ‘ Nirvana/ ‘Mifsnwy,’ ‘Up from Somerset,’ .and ‘Friend of Mine,’ to mention but a few. “The verses are called ‘Mv Old Man.’

“Ho tells me that he’s eighty, Thia dear old man of mine, But how can I believe it. When I see his bright eyes shine; Maybe his hair is whiter, And the wrinkles deeper grow, But I don’t believe he’s eighty, I can’t believe he’s eighty, When he talks to me and tells me What ho told mo long ago!

“ Still he vows that he is eighty, But I say it cannot be, When I see him striding gaily Along the streets with me; * When 1 hear him talk and argne, Tolling stories by the score, Oh, 1 don’t believe he’s eighty, I can’t believe he’s eighty, When he makes ns laugh and chuckle, Though we’ve heard them all before!

“ But when at eve we wander

In our garden on the hill, When the noises of the busy world Are growing hushed and still; When he puts his arm around me, And we watch the setting sun, Oh, I can’t believe he’s eighty, I won’t believe he’s eighty, When he kisses mo and loves me Like a boy of twenty-one!” —Fred Weatherly. GHOSTS OF FLEET STREET Johnson was the most faithful, but not necessarily the mightiest, of the mighty men of all ages who have frequented Fleet street and its dark and tortuous lanes. Since the early Briton, the Roman, the Dane, the Saxon, and tho Norman trod its soil its list of illustrious patrons has never ceased to grow, and can bo satisfactorily compiled from records and tradition. When the Knights of St. John issued on their lawful occasions from their temple to the street Chaucer was a student of the Inner Temple (as, indeed, later on was I), and he was fined 2s for beating very grievously a Franciscan Friar in Fleet street-—a thing I never did. Rare Ben Jenson, often in liquor, constantly rolled out into the street from the Devil’s Tavern; Shakespeare acted his own comedies within our precincts: Isaak Walton lived two years three doors west from Chancery lane, in which Cowley was born; Milton lodged for a while hard by St. Brides; Nell Gwynn, Dryden, and Pepys were early patrons of Child’s Bank; Charles Sedloy, the wit, committed some of his vilest atrocities in our street: Wren hurried down it every day; Richardson, who made literature pay, wrote ‘ Pamela ’ in Salisbury square, and employed Goldsmith as his “reader”; Hogarth came hither to gossip with Richardson and get copy for his rogues’ gallery, and the splendid Mr Addison and his friends did not disdain the hospitality of our taverns: Charles Lamb lived in the Temple, and in return made the Temple live. These gave place to the giants of the nineteenth century, and we shall find tracks at tho “ Cock ” and “ Cheshire Cheese ” of Tennyson and Dickens and of Thackeray in every alley. For Fleet street has never ceased to draw to it the greatest names in literature. Why it is so lam not prepared to say, for literature and journalism are not derived from the same seed. Perhaps the great ones came to mock, and remained—to be paid. Journalism, on the whole, pays better than litera-turer-pays, at any rate, more punctually, which is the same thing when the belt is drawn in and the landlord presses.—John Gore, ‘ The Ghosts of Fleet Street.’

NEW BOOKS PHILLIPS OPPEHHEIH In ‘ The Fortunate Wayfarer ’ (Hodder and Stoughton) Mr E. Phillips Oppenheim has written a capital book. It opens graphically in a South American port. Two desperate men have struggled, ragged and footsore to the quarry, just too late to catch a little steamer bound for civilisation. What aroused their fury was that on the steamer a man against whom they had sworn vengeance was a passenger. They vowed that moment that some day at their hands ho should suffer death or worse than death. On this theme tho story is built. The scene changes first to New York, where tho two down-and-outs make a fortune in ways that -would hardly bear tho light of day. Then they set out on their quest of vengeance. When they have crossed tho Atlantic the thrills begin in earnest. Callous and unscrupulous, they plot not only the ruin of the man against whom they have proclaimed a vendetta, but also against a perfectly innocent maiden It is one of the most ingenious and oxciting mystery stories that this resourceful author has written, STORY OF A MINING TOWN ‘ Norman Dale, M.P.,’ is a remark-ably-well told story that marches in accordance with modern industrial and political developments It is a tale of the mining village of Lorriedale, and relates how one born in the humblest of circumstances rose from pit boy through successive stages to be a member of Parliament. The description of his early struggles and of his grit and determination is graphic, and tho pictures of life in a Scottish mining community are well drawn. The lives, the thoughts, the joys, and sorrows of the small community are described by one who, it is quite clear, has a first-hand knowledge of his subject. Our cony of ‘Norman Dale, M.P.,’ is from the publishers (Herbert Jenkins, Ltd). TEH YEARS OF HAPPINESS ‘The Radingham Mystery,’ by Roy Vickers (Herbert Jenkins, Ltd.) opens in an intriguing way. The first sentence reads: “The crowd outside the prison of Caen swayed and hissed.” And it goes on to explain that a young Englishman had been sentenced to twelve years’ imprisonment for manslaughter in connection with the death of an elderly French roue who was pressing his unwelcome attention on a girl. The Englishman is deeply in love with the girl, and marries her an hour before his departure to prison. So great is his love that he declares he will count every minute till he is free. On this hangs the story, a very thrilling one. How does the young wife react? What are her real feelings to the husband she hardly knows? And what part does the third man play in the drama? In finding the answer to these questions the reader will be absorbed in many exciting situations. HISTORICAL HOVEL ‘ Tho Mad King Dies ’ is the arrest-, ing title of Max Pemberton’s now his-, torical novel, in which is depicted the life of Ludwig 11. of Bavaria—one of the most romantic figures of European history. In this vastly intriguing narrative the author tolls in masterly fashion the manner of the mad King’s life, the tragedy of his death, his association with and friendship for Richard Wagner, the composer, and of some of the women on the footsteps of the throne. The facts of history are blended with many lessor-known but intriguing episodes, and ’woven into a story that breathes romance and reveals how powerful was the lure of beauty and vital exuberance in those free and easy days when kings were lords of all. Richard Wagner is frequently encountered in these pages, and the eerie story is told of the weird second sight or Senta, the fragile Norwegian beauty, from whose visions Wagner was led to compose ‘ The. Flying Dutchman.’ Our copy is from the publishers, Messrs Cassell and Co. (London)* TALE OF THE SOIL ‘ Endless Furrowsas the title implies, is essentially a tale of the soil—the soil of old England. The authoress, Nora Kent, has chosen the South Downs as her locale, and from the convincing tone of her writing it is evident that her knowledge of farming in this particular district is first hand. Judged by modern standards, her story is not strong in plot, but inasmuch os that it flows along smoothly, almost dreamily, through at least two generations of likeable farming folk, it makes pleasant < holiday reading. The life, love affaire, and work of a capable young fanner whose object in life is to buy back his father’s old farm constitutes the central theme, and in addition there are several other threads which, without in any way making the novel seem disconnected, bring in the activities of other members of the family. Prom a rather detailed opening ‘ Endless Furrows ’ improves in style as it goes along, and the ending is quite satisfying. Our copy is from Messrs Hodder and Stoughton, Ltd. ‘ THE TREASURE OF THE TROPICS ’ An excellent book for boys is Richard Cronin’s novel, ‘The Treasure of the Tropics' (Ward, Lock, and Co., Ltd.). The. story is of particular interest to Australians, as the action takes place in Queensland. Professor Andrews returns to his home town, after a prolonged trip of discovery into Central Australia, with the announcement that ho has found a dead city where there is an immense amount of treasure. A gang of “ crooks ” abduct him, in order to learn the whereabouts of this city, but they are discovered by three boys, and the remainder of the story deals with their thrilling adventures in rescuing him. Although more or less impossible from the adult reader’s point of view, the novel would make interesting reading for youths. Piquant criticism of modern authors were made by Princess Bibesco, the daughter of Lady Oxford, at' Liverpool, when she and lan Hay were guests a,t a literary banquet given by the Lord Mayor, Miss Margaret Beaven.. Princess Bibesco_ told the story of how, on one occasion, while her father was speaking, he split an infinite. “ I afterwards said to him r with a pardonable delight of progeny, you did split an infinitive, didn’t you? ” Ho replied, “ The appalling fact dawned on me immediately after I had commuted the act.” “ Then,” remarked the Princess, “ being a very good father, he added, ‘1 am glad that you noticed it.’ ” The modern author, Princess Bibesco continued, seemed to have a mania for pseudo-sCientifio terras which obscured the meaning and aped profundity. They were too ,groud to jsrite clearly.

NOTES “Ephesian’s” book, ‘This, Side Idolatry,has been banned from the public libraries of Portsmouth, Dickens’s birthplace. Mr lludyard Kipling lias obtained an injunction and £IOO damages against a publishing which had attributed to him in error a poem appearing in its magazine. The society consented to judgment on theso terms. A little more than £I,OOO has been collected in England for the Thomas Hardy memorial, and the projected obelisk at Rain barrow will shortly arise. Bub tho response to the appeal is disappointing, and tho project tor a Hardy library lias to bo abandoned. A returned pilgrim from Gallipoli informed ‘ John o’ London ’ that the grave ol Rupert Brooke was visited by a party from London. When Brooke died o'f blood poisoning on April 23, 1915, he was buried on the island ol Skyros, sixty miles north-east of Athens as tho crow Hies. The grave lies halfway up a lonely and beautiful valley, hemmed in by rocky slopes. It is marked by a simple marble tombstone, half bidden in a grove of olives an! oaks. Tho genius of him who lies buried there has indeed made this secluded “ corner of a foreign field . . . for ever England.” Sir Hubert Wilkins, in ‘ Undiscovered Australia,’ tells the story of a few years’ expedition to collect specimens for tho British Museum. He declares, after three years in the Arctic, two trips to tho Antarctic, and expeditions to Asia, Africa, South America, Russia, tho Indies, and other places, that conditions in Australia during a severe drought (as ho found them) are tho most sadly depressing of all. Incidentally he criticises Australia’s backwardness in applied science, and urges her to turn at onco from “ tho expressed mediocrity, unstable democracy, and independent action that are so conspicuous to-day.” Tho Rev. E. W. Macdonald, who died at Bournemouth, England, in October at tho age of 86 years, was connected with several literary and artistic families. Burne-Jones and Edward Poynter, afterwards president of the Royal Academy, each married one of his sisters, while another sister became engaged to Mr Lockwood Kipling, on the banks of Rudyard Lake, married him, and, as a romantic memory, called the son Rudyard Kipling. The remaining sister married Mr -Hired Baldwin, and became the mother of the Prime Minister. In 1903 Mi- Macdonald visited Australasia for tho British and Foreign Bible Society, in which he always took profound interest. In 1905 he retired from tho ministry, and the remaining years of leisure were largely given up to what he described as nis best-loved recreation, the pursuit and enjoyment of literature. He wrote ‘ Fletcher of Madeley ’ (a biography), a “life” of Motley Punshon, and his own reminiscences. entitled, aptly, ‘As a Tale That is Told.’ In this last book ho revealed the fact that “ the wittiest woman in India/’ to whom * Plain Tales from the Hills’ was dedicated, was Mr Kipling’s mother.

It . ould be difficult to imagine anything more interesting in the way of centenary numbers than that which has just been issued from the office of the ‘ Spectator.’ The significance of so prolonged a record of enlightened journalism is enhanced by personal studies of those most closely identified with its character and success. Miss Cecilia Townsend, the daughter of Meredith Townsend, whose collaboration with Richard Holt Hutton made tho ‘ Spectator ’ a formidable influence both in thought and politics, relates its history not only during the period of their joint control, but from the date of its foundation by Robert Rintoul in 1828. Of that energetic and clear-headed Scotsman Miss Townsend gives an invaluable impression, and the grip of her story is maintained when it reaches the period of hia successors and'of Mr St. Loe Strachey, who left upon the paper so distinct a stamp of hisindividual mind. Tho latters 'son, Mr John Strachey, also contributes an article of reminiscences, and, of'those who have taken a prominent share in the work of producing the ‘ Spectator,’ we have welcome narratives from Mr C. L. Graves, Mr John Buchan; and Mr J. B. Atkins, Articles bearing, on the wider interests of the centenary are signed by Dean Inge, Mr Galsworthy, Mr Arnold Bennett,- Sir Oliver Lodge, Mr Chesterton, Mr Drinkwater, Mr E. V. Lucas, M.y Andre Maurois, and others.

Too much current fiction is knocked off by men and women (especially women) whose world consists merely of ink and paper. They have never grappled with tacts, uever faced life in its reality. Emulation or restlessness of mind drives some of them deeper than the rest, perhaps, until they spin off artificialities that are worse than crude realism. Now and then we get a passage in tho ideal or the imaginary vein that commands our admiration, but it lapses as often as not into obscenity, and stale obscenity at that. And all the while our young people are neglecting their magnificent heritage of great romance —Scott and Dumas, Stanley Weyman, and Maurice Hewlett (what a pair of artists!) for the sake of this empty, sordid stuff. Naturally, the victims ask for stiller doses at each remove, and if that kind of thing is to be their guide in life 1 am afraid our crime sheets will reflect the result. —Jeffery Farnol, in an interview reported in the ‘ Book Window.’

A correspondent of the ‘ Sunday Times’ (London), having asked whether Byron smoked, the Rev. D. B. Fothermgham, hon secretary of the Byron Society, wrote: ‘ 1 Byron was habitually and generally a nonsmoker, with occasional fits of indulgence, in which he was apt to smoke to excess.” Another correspondent wrote:—

“ Certainly he did. How, otherwise, can be explained the gusto of this eulogy of smoking in ‘The Island’”: Sublime tobacco 1 which from East to West Cheers tho tar’s labour or the Turkman’s rest; Which on tho Moslem’s ottoman divides His hours, and rivals opium and his brides; Magnificent in Stambonl, hut less grand, Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand; Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, When tipp’d with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like otner charmers, wooing tho caress, , More dazzlingly when daring in full dress. Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties—-Give me a cigar I