HARMSWORTH UNIVERSAL HISTORY

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume XVII, 3 December 1927, Page 9

HARMSWORTH UNIVERSAL HISTORY

The Harmsworth Press has sponsored many progressive publications, and not the least of these is the latest issue of “Harmsworth’s Universal History.” which has just come to hand. Issued in monthly parts, it promises to give the reader ai conspectus of world-history the contributons to which have been made by 150 of our greatest living scholars. We have seen Part I, dealing with history in general, and if the promise of this volume is fulfilled, a generous education awaits the reader who will diligently study the subsequent pans

ON THE PIER I shall be waiting when my ship comes in, (Her sails full-bosomed with the favouring breeze) Bringing that treasu.j from uncharted seas Which Hope, long since, adventured forth to win When she brings home that cargo. > long delayed. • What are the most-prized gifts \ that I would ask? As years have come, and left me at my task, My groping thoughts their clear decision mado. A tender word to greet me when I wake; A little garden smiling in the sun: A friend before the fire, when day is done: Some sweet old song to sing, for memory’s sake: Life’s brimming fount against my eager lip. But these are mine! While of such wealth possessed I need not grieve, though lacking all the rest I Why should I longer wait a phantom ship? —Marion L. Jackson.

MOLLIE AND MONEY

(By Florence Drummond: Hodder and Stoughton. 7/6 net.)

Ho* many of us at acme tima or other hare felt an overwhelming <le•ire to escape from our present way of living? And yet, if we could realise our desire we would tire when the novelty wore off. Molly Ralston, buried alive in a dull little English village longs passionately for a gay London life with admiration, pretty clothes and jewels. She determines that, if ever she gets a chance she will marry for money, as she doesn't believe in love (never having experienced it) She reasons that money is the biggest factor in life if you want to be happy. Her chance comes, and she goes to London to stay with her mother’s sister. Her very pretty head is in danger of being turned, until she meets and eventually falls in love with Philip Strachan, who epitomises the worthwhile thing; >n life as being embodied in “love and effort.’’ The whirl of gaiety soon palls on Mollie, her love affairs become tangled and she returns to the country in disgust, thence to work in a dressmaking studio. The story tiotshes with a lovers’ meeting. It is written in an intriguing, semi-philosophical vein, and makes .very interesting reading.

♦ ♦ * ♦ ORIENTAL NEW YORK

In a brilliant book, “America Comes of Age,’’ Professor Siegfried of Paris questions whether the United States can remain Protestant ano Anglo-Saxon. He makes the startling statement that only 35 per cent, of a total of, say. 110,000,000 Amen cans are of British origin. The re mainder is made up of Germans. French. Italians. Austrians, Poles, Russian Jews, Hungarians. Portuguese, Scandinavian, Spaniards. Turks, Armenians, Greeks, Dutch, and 11,000,000 negroes. "New York," aav. P-nfos.or Siegfried "is the greatest Jewish city in the world, with 1,500,000 Jews, and one of the greatest, if not the greatest Catholic cities. It is certainly not a Protestant city. To-day it is hardly an Occidental city. When *fhe offices down town close at night, and one is crammed into the subway along with countless stenographers with swarthy complexions, hook noses and a flavour of the ghetto, or when from the narrow streets of the East Side pours out a hurried mass of brown Levantines and bearded Semites, the impression is distinctly Oriental.’’

SHAKESPEARE'S INCOME Dr. Appleton Morgan, president of the Shakespeare Society of New York, in his recent study. “Mrs Shakespeare's Second Marriage,” notes that Shakespeare owned the greatest house in Stratford-on-Avon, ‘‘living there at a rate that seemed to the rustic apprehension £lOOO a year, amassed in theatrical ventures and play-writing.” From analysis of Shakespeare’s will. Aubrey estimated the value cf his estate to have been between £2OO apd £3OO a yegr; Sidney Lee calculated that the dramatist’s theatrical income “must have reached £6OO a year.” This made his total income £BOO to £9OO, and reckoning purchasing power in the seventeenth . oenturv as eight times greater than now. present value would be between £O4OO and £7200 or 3200 to 3600 dollars income. Assistant Professor Thomas Whitfield Baldwin, of the University of Illinois, said recently that in his i opininon Shakespeare probably never •aired in any single year more than L2SJV which, he estimates, would amount in modern American currency to between 5000 and 6000 dollars. Theatrical producers may nn<l cause for thanksgiving that they were not born 300 years earlier, when they learn from Professor Baldwin that the average daily attendance at tlie Globe Theatre when Shakespeare

was in his heyday, was between 500 and 600, and that the price of admission ranged from a penny to sixpence or, in modern curency, from 10 to 30 cents.

However, the lot of the dramatist has improved far more than has that of the producer since the time when Shakespeare delighted Elizal.'than audiences with drama. In those days the dramatist, whatever his income may have been, was not master but the servant of the theatrical company, Professor Baldwin observes. Whereas to-day he can have a company assembled temporarily and. if need be. from all parts of the world to execute a single play. 300 years ago in Merrie England the dramatist seems literally to have been a hired man of a permanent company, who. probably for a fixed stipend, wrote plav after play to ’i his company, for each a suitable role, much as a tailor would fit a suit of clothes.

Shakespeare’s lot was unlike that of the average dramatist of his day in that he was actor as well as writer, and thus in the former capacity was a member of his company, with all the privileges of members.

♦ * * ♦ J. A. SPENDER’S NEW BOOK

One of the new books of the autumn which is receiving a great deal of attention in the British press is “Life, Journalism and Politics, by Mr J. A. Spender, tormerly editor of the sea-green Westminster Gazette. Spender is reo gmseu 1, his colleagues ot tlie press as among the very greatest 01 Ornish journalists. and the fact that he has been devoting liimseli. during the past few years, to the writing ot books instead of newspaper articles is regarued as journalism's loss. Sine Lelane of the limes passed away—and tnat was nearly nan < centugy ago—there has been no one, it is declared, who has wielded the political influence Mr Spender wileded when he was editor of the Westminster. And yet, the Westminster’s circulation was never great—not over 20,000 in its palmiest days. It was the quality of Spender’s writing that told, his uncanny accuracy, his wide and intimate knowledge of men and affairs, his sanity and persuasiveness. Such, indeed, was his acquaintance with the problems o. the Agadir incident, he was more closely in touch with the situation than some of the Cabinet Ministers, and Lord Loreburn is said to have been excedingly angry when he learned that the Admiralty had been consulting Spender on questions on which he himself was imperfectly informed.

Spender was a close friend of X’orthcliffe’s, and it is well known that Northcliffe wished, very strongly to have him in cnarge of the Times, where his very great abilities could have had scope. The ousstion of tariff reform was very mucn to the front, however, and Spender, who was an out-and-out free trader who had made the Westminster Chamberlain’s principal opponent, would have nothing to do with it. He never became editor of the Times but he remained in Northcliffe’s confidence as long as the latter lived.

Mr Spender is an Oxford man who sat under Jowetf at Balliol. But he did not allow that great don's prejudices with regard to journalism and journalists to turn him from tue profession he desired to follow. Shortly after graduation, he became editor of the Eastern Morning New at Hull, and in connection with his experiences there he tells an interesting story of another noted British journalist.

“Among my contributors hi Hull." he writes, “was an unknown writer, signing himself J. L. Garvin, whose comments on public affairs, conveyed in the form of letters to the editor, struck me as of uncommon quality and originality. I tried in vain to discover who J. L. Garvin might be and to induce him to disclose im. sell. I imagined him to be a mature man of hidden talent, probably engaged in business during the day and finding this outlet for his thwarted gift in the night season. But no one knew him or had heard of such a man ‘and Mr Garvin’ had been afraid to deciare himself because he was then only about 16 years old, and had expected co be sent about his business as an impertinent child, if he had shown himself in the flesh.”

Mr Harold Stannard, who reviews Mr Spender’s book for the Outlook, adds a footnote to this story. Mr Garvin told him. he says., that his letters to the Eastern Morning News were written without hope of publication, but in the hope that such practice as he might get in writing them would prove of benefit to him. When the letters found favdhr unexpectedly. young Garvin was tempted to cell on the editor and have a talk with him. He thought it prudent, however, to find out first what manner of man the editor was. So he lay in wait for him outside his office. But when Spender finally appeared, the future editor of the Observer was so terrified by the sight of his oriflamrne of red hair that he Held back to his obscurity, and there was no conference that day.

BITS FROM BOOKS

Although the quotation is an old and much-used one, i venture to set down the passage in which, in his “Autobiography,” Edward Gibbon relates the completion ot his monumental “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.” Earlier in his reminisoeiices he had tdld of the initiation amid the ruins of ancient Rome of that mighty task; and he now recounts its ending amid the peace of his garden at Lausanne. 1 have presumed (he says) to mark the moment of conception: I shall now commemorate the hour of my final deliverance. It was on the dav or rather’ night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that 1 wrote the last lines nf the last page, m a summerhouse in niv garden. After laying down my pen 1 took several turns in a berceau, or covered

walk of acacias which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountain. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave ot an old and agreeable companion, and that whatsoever might be the future date of my History the life of the historian must be short and precarious. Such were his mingled feelings, and they cannot have differed in essence from those of any other great crafts, man contemplating a great task oerfected. But perhaps, in a gigantic piece of intellectual architecture like Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall’’ or Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” a sense of finality is communicated to the author which is absent in a work of smaller dimension. When Dunbar wrote the last letter of his ode, “Korate Coeli Desuper,” or Henryson completed his ballad ot “The Bludy Serk,” wnen Suakespeaie set finis to “Othello,’’ Burns to "lam 0’ Shanter,” Scott to “The Antiquary," Keats to “The Oda on a Grecian Urn,” Carlyle to “The h rench Revolution," when Donne had uttered the last word of a flaming sermon, or John Caird of a philosophical address—we may without impropriety imagine each of them leaning back with a doop Breath of content, and a half-stifled ejaculation. “That’s dashed well done,” or whatever the slang of their speech may have been. To that glow ot pleasure there doubtless succeeded the painful apprehension that perhaps never again could they create a masterpiece like the one just achieved; but the sadness, while it softened the sharp ness of the joy, could not disturb the depths of their utter satisfaction.

MODEST IN GREATNESS

great in modesty COL. LINDBERGH’S BOOK. “Charles Lindbergh has an uncanny faculty for doing the right thing at l>e right time. Just now it is his book which falls neatly and appropriately into the needs of the moment. There is no striving alter effect, no preaching about the benefits of aviation,” says the American Review of Reviews concerning Col. Lindbergh’s book. “We—Pilot and Plane," just published by Messrs Putnam's, 7/G. . “The narative is easy to follow. There is, for example, that long night on the trip across the Atlantic. Alone, Lindbergh flew into fog. cold, and sleet that threatened to force him down into the Atlantic to die. With what emotions did the flier at fast pick up the coastline of Ireland? “ ‘Less than an hour later a rugged and semi-mountainous coastline appeared to the north-east,” is all he has to say. That is how the whole book is written.

“The one. great thing Lindbergh impresses on the reader, though ne does it largely between the lines, is a deep insight into what flying is really like. Aviation is there in much of its colour, much of its thrills and fun; but it is also there in all its meaning.” Mr Horce Green, too. writing in the New York Times Book Review, pays tribute to the modesty of the aviator as author. He says:— “The more one reads the more it is apparent that ‘Lucky Lindy,’ ’the Ilyin’ fool’ and similar euphonious captions are wide of the mark. A reading of ‘We’ shows that his nlans are exact, careful ad weighed in the balance. It is only in execution, where the decision is instantly translated to the action, that accomplishment is so swift as to give, the impression of unaccountable good fortune.

“First off. there is that matter of food for the trip. The story of the four faithful sandwiches and a pint of water is a good one. but Lindbergh's own report includes the following additional items: — “One canteen—four quarts. “One canteen—one quart. “One Armburst cup. “Five cans of emergency rations, the last of which is explained as follows :—

“Tn addition to food for the actual flight, I caried five tins of concentrated army rations, each cf which contained one day's food and which could be made to last much longer if necessary. I carried two canteens of water; one containing a quart for use during the actual flight and the other containing a gallon for emergency. In addition to this water I had an Armburst cup, which is a device for condensing the moisture from human breath into drinking water. The cup is cloth covered and contains a series of baffle plates through which the breath is blown.’

“Quite as indicative is the distribution of space in this autobiography. The flight itself is covered in fifteen pages, whereas the storv of preparation for the flight, proper, which came into his head ‘one night in the fall of 1926. while flying the air mail,’ is of equal length, and, taken in conjunction with his own preparation, covers about 170 pages.’’ Io sum up. the book is as modest and unassuming as the man, and for that reason will be read by (he discriminating.

THE SECRET OF THE LITTLE GODS By Katharine Haviland Taylor (Hodder and Stoughton. «/6 net.) Do you like thrills, secret panels, occult demonstrations, gods with precious stones for entrails, gasping terrors. murders galore, eerie, creepy, nightmarey shivers. Listen! Then—l paused. IWtridge was—staked to the floor—a piece of leather over each wrist and—nails through the leather in the bare boards. His ankles, his body, his neck were fastened in this same way. His mouth was open. Not much — blood streamed from it; I suppose —most of it had slipped down—his throat. ißis right hand, which had been cut »»ff at the wrist, was over —his heai 1; in the palm of his hand lay—his fYigue. His eyes were wide and-

Ves. at. these dashes are there, and tho book is cram med on almost every page with italics. A real spine-wobbler, this. Don’t read it just before you fro to bed. The final explanation of the mystery is well woven, and leaves nothing unaccounted for.