THE BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 15, 8 April 1927, Page 10

THE BOOKMAN

Reviews! & Isotesg

THE WOODEN HORSE AN OCCASIONAL COLUMN (Written for THE SUN.) And with great lies about his wooden horse Set the crew laughing and forgot his course. —J. E. Flecker. LITTLE WHILE AGO I happened to mention Walpole’s “Castle of Otranto,’’ and wondered afterwards had I unluckily sent any admirers of Hugh in search of a book -written by Horace. And that started me on a train of useless reflections about writers with similar or identical names. One easily gets them mixed. Like the Mother Superior who was a little vague about the two Doyles—the good Canon and Sir Arthur Conan —and so discovered too late that she had encouraged among the girls of her convent-school certain studies in crime and detection instead of certain others in virtue and devotion. And while on the subject of religion, I shall record the question asked of me by a bookseller: Whether Sir Thomas Browne’s

“Religio Medici” dealt fully with the famous Duke Cosimo and the rest of the family. Also the adventure of the old lady who wanted a book on the Eucharist and was offered Hoyle's Card Games. Also the difficulty of remembering which of those eminent American theologians, Frank Van Trine, Henry Crane and Ralph Waldo Loon, is which. It is pleasant to think that the Rev. S. Baring-Gould may sometimes have won an extra penny or two of royalty through being confused with Mr. Nat; and it would no doubt tickle Stella Benson if lovers either of A. C., “smoother than the creamy curd,” or of E. F., the Dapperwit among novelists, were beguiled by their favour of a name into her abrupt, bewildering and beautiful world, equally remote from the one and the other of theirs. . . \ These things happen. People buy books as they back racehorses, with lunatic indifference to reason and lunatic faith in rhyme, dream, the colour of a jacket, and the sound of a Harm;. . . . What sort of books Monsignor Benson wrote, the third of the three scribbling Ben Son brothers, I do not know. Maggie Benson wrote a book about cats, very affecting. On the whole, I prefer books by the great nobodies who pop up, like Dickens, under

the nose of the world, from nowhere, and make it stagger back. No archbishop to bless their going forth to Eton. Oxford, and the affable recognition of everybody who is anybody. I am not sure that it would not be a wise regulation which should forbid more than one member of one generation of a family to enter the profession of literature. I do not advocate it; nor do I offer any reasons for or against. No doubt they could be found. There would be no need to go to such an extreme as to order the destruction of, for instance, the works of two of the Brontes, after choice of one for survival, by poll or lot. Nor, perhaps, would it be necessary to order the three brothers Powys, say, to decide which of them has most literary genius, and then bid the others forever hold their peace. It might not be necessary; but it would be amusing. The Sitwells, now. I should like to hear the Sitwells publicly debating the question: which pair of them should surrender immortality. There really are too many Sitwells. One Sitwell is anything you like —miracle, portent, genius, or joke: three is (or are?) a conspiracy. IS three Sitwells a conspiracy, or ARE they? I believe them to be, and bless the infinitive which allows me to sit safely on the grammatical fence. The Universities of Yale, Harvard Chicago and the North-West of America may settle the question as decisively as they settled that propounded by the Burlington Railroad. Anvone who thereafter remains dissatisfied may refer the whole matter to the Minister of Education. The Burlington bone, over which the academic dogs of America snarled so fiercely, is thus described: Four American universities are split fiftv-rtfty on the use of the word “is” in the following sentence in a Burlington Railroad circular: -Along the right-of-way exists a tremendous area in which is produced two-thirds of the oats and more than half the corn in the United States.” Railway chiefs, differing as to whether the word “are” should be used instead of “is,” referred the matter to Chicago University and the NorthWestern University. Chicago decided in favour of “is.” North-Western replied in favour of “are.” Harvard and Yale were appealed to, Harvard pronouncing for “is,” Yale for “are.” » . So, the officials tossed a coin, and “is” stays in the circular. “Observator” referred to this ticklish senter ce in his “At Random” columns of the “Observer.” W. J. Hodgetts c ime at him, head down, screaming ’ARE!” W. A. Davies intoned his gentle preference for “is.” W. J. Hodgetts submitted that W. A. Davies had missed the point, and, thoug 1 allowing that W. A. Davies might say “two-thirds of my tobacco is used” and escape hanging, yet insisted on W. A. Davies’ alsd saying “two-thirds of my tobacco and more than half of my tobacco are used.” J. Leslie Bates denounced any W. A. Davies who would say: “Twothirds of the candidates has passed.” And the editor of "The Observer” pushed the combatants apart and said no more letters on the subject am art is are going to be published, for grammar are a lot of rot. I nearly quote his very words. And I am re-

minded of Colonel Wasyou. Colonel Wasyou were speaking to a returned soldier, and the conversation ran so: Col. W.: So you was in France, was you? R.S.: Yes, sir. Col. W.: Oh, was you. And what battalion was you in? R.S.: The umpteenth, sir. Col. W.: Oh, was you. And in whose company was you? R.S.: Captain was my company commander. Col. W.: 6h, were he. The above is an oyster. —J.H.E.S. THE SINGER OF SUSSEX (Written for THE SUN.) JUST as Thomas Hardy has made Wessex his country, so has Sheila Kaye-Smith made Sussex hers. Both Wessex and Sussex are fortunate. Sheila Kaye-Smlth’s best-known novel, perhaps, is “Sussex Gorse.” And any lover of words who has read this will never again smell the sweet, apricot-scented perfume of any gorse without thinking of Reuben and Boarzell .. . Boarzell, the great humped beast of Sussex land that waited hungrily for the blood of its tamer. The story of Reuben and Boarzell is one of the simplest that could be told. It lacks the sharp cynicism that Rose Macaulay would bring to its telling; it has nothing of the swaggering cleverness that Michael Arlen would have given it, and it has nothing of the arrogant and sensual intellectuality so beloved of Aldous Huxley. If you want cynicism, swagger, arrogance or sensualism, do not go to “Sussex Gorse.” If you want the sharp shock of delight that comes to lovers of words from strong and intense word-pictures, if you want utter largeness of simplicity, strength, poetry and an austerity of technique, then fly to this tale of a Man and the Beast Boarzell.

Miss Smith, however, is not a writer of one book. “Joanna Godden,” “Tamarisk Town,” “Little England” and “Green Apple Harvest,” are novels each of such a rare and fine technique as to place the writer securely among the foremost novelists of the Georgian years. From each one gets that keen delight that comes from sheer loveliness of wording and strength of design. A passage like this, for instance, is worth a chapter of ordinary prose: As he -walked down the path the boom of the sea came louder through the trees. The two enemies seemed to sway together in sound, hemming him in with their surge and rustle, while the sunshine, racing in and out of the bowing branches, spattered him with strange flecks and ripples of light. This is from “Tamarisk Town,” whence also comes the following: There was no aftermath crop of April weather, just a hot sweet flow of days, tawnied with thick sunshine, drowsy under a burden of heavy scent and muffled sound. Those days were to live in memories of June-baked grass, of slatting dykes clumped with may, of long green miles of reeds bowing before the sea-wind, of the munch of ring-straked cattle among buttercups and the shadows of clouds moving solemnly from farm to farm ... Only here and there in thick islands of elms would squat a lonely farm or a lonely chapel, remnant of some thriving hamlet of smugglers and owlers.or of some rich foundation of the monks of Canty. Brenzett was just a glorified farmyard, with the inn and the church shouldering each other beside the mideen. At dusk there was a sweet smell of farmyard, of milk, of wood fires, and in the morning the lowing of cows would wake Morgan ana Monypenny into the greyish whiteness of the inn chamber, with huge dim beams sagging over them curtains waving in * he wind that blew cold over 30 miles ° f ‘“tamarisk Town” is full of beauty. The hot sun baked round the humming bees, yet over it all licked the racy saltsmacking wind, bearing with it the long hushed moan of the channel, languidly sucking at the rocks. . The autumn fogs, thick and. sweet, hung over the woods, drowning them into blue. The air was soft, yet with a subdued restlessness that fluttered the still leaves. Clumps of tansy were still yellow in snug corners, and the sweetmmt and scabious formed a fragile purple round the trunks of the ashes. There was a little wood, and a sea-going stream, but the hollow lay cracked wide open to the channel and the salt winds plunged up it twisting the oaks, which the brined fogs had dwarfed, so that with their gnarled and crooked branches, all leeward blown, they were like hands lifted from the earth in a goblin prayer. In the descriptions of the Island of Sark, in “The George and the Crown,” there are touches that bring out to the full the extraordinary gift Miss Smith possesses for finding exactly the right word, and no other, and using it in a sense that makes its oldness and familiarity new, striking and powerful. In fact, in this respect the American Imagists, formed by Amy Lowell into a small band some years ago, could with advantage make a careful study of her work. In Sark, Daniel, who had ceased to rest in the beauty of the island’s flower-like heart, wanted “the edges of the sea, salt and rough, seamed, cavernous, spiked and deadly, the workshop of the ocean,” and the tale of how he found them is told with such singular vividness and intensity of colouring that the chapters must be read in their entirety if the full clarity of atmosphere is to be realised. The investment of time required will yield a four-fold delight to anyone with demands above the Ethel M. Dell or Ruby Ayres level, and the “huge, cragged bulk of that lovely, unfriendly island, which lay like a horned beast asleep upon the sea,” will linger long in the memory. Though several of Sheila KayeSmith’s books, “The Tramping Methodist,” for instance, disappoint exceedingly the faithful band of readers who have steadily grown to love her work, most of them develop a single thread of purpose logically followed and concluded to the inevitable end. Even without this artistic sanity and largeness of outlook, however, they would well repay the expenditure of a few hours with their brilliance of colouring, versatility and characterisation alone. Sussex is a fortunate county! Auckland —UNA CURRIE.

BOOKS REVIEWED

GAMES OF THE OLD-TIME MAORI T ONG ago, wise old Joseph Strutt came to the conclusion that “in order to form a just estimation of the character of any particular people it is absolutely necessary to investigate the sports and pastimes most generally prevalent among them.” So Strutt gave us a very delightful book on old English sports and pastimes. The modern ethnologist who is worthy of his salt must needs be something of a disciple of the old antiquary, for he cannot fully understand the people he is studying unless he knows them at play as well as in work and warfare. Many a clue to the character, beliefs and general culture of a people is to be found in its games. No one has realised more fully than Mr. Elsdon Best has done the need for such study, and so this great authority on the Maori has included among his writings a very interesting book on “Games and Pastimes of the Maori.” It has been published as a Bulletin of the Dominion Museum, and a belated copy has come for review. The times at which the old-time Maori could indulge in outdoor sports depended, of course, on the seasons. He had little leisure when crops were being planted or harvested, and other things essential to the life of the people had

to be done. But when he had leisure he played games to good purpose. As Mr. Best points out, the communistic social system of the Maori people, and the lack of a script by which they could preserve their ancient lore and provide recreation, caused them t.> preserve with care their unwritten literature, and to rely much on games, pastimes and vocal music as a means of passing winter evenings and other times of leisure. So, at suitable periods, considerable prominence was given to all means of recreation. Part of this recreation was the telling of popular versions of such myths as were known to all, and this was a favourite pastime. But the Maori had many other forms of recreation, although some are known only by name. In outdoor sports special attention was given to military exercises and games viewed as useful training. Most careful training was given in the parawhakawai or school of arms. The undergraduates of this school had not only to acquire proficiency in the use of weapons; they had also to commit to memory a number of charms or ritual utterances that were held to be extremely effective. The use of charms entered largely, too, into such a popular exercise as wrestling. Among other games that were favoured were jumping, running, slinging and climbing. Boxing was not unknown, but it was not practised as much as in parts of Eastern Polynesia. It may be noted that the cords with which the Tongans bound their hands for boxing matches remind the reader of the Cestus of the pugilists of ancient Rome. Then there w'ere aquatic games and pastimes; games requiring agility or manual dexterity; games and pastimes requiring calculation, mental alertness, or memorising powers; games and pastimes of children; introduced games; Maori songs and Maori singing; and musical instruments. Each class is discussed by Mr. Best authoritatively and clearly. The book is well illustrated. It is a dredit to the scholarship of Mr. Best and to the pepole connected with the publication of it. A Provocative Boo’c. Did the Germans assassinate by the subtle use of powder glass or secret slow poisons the late President Wilson, Mr. Page, American Ambassador to Great Britain, General Botha, Sir Robert Borden, Lord Northcliffe, and Mr. W. F. Massey? The question seems far-fetched and even stupid, but it is discussed quite seriously by the author of “In Northcliffe’s Service” —a controversial book which will set many people and organisations by the ears. The sensational idea was obtained by the author, an Australian journalist,

who was Lord Northcliffe’s confidential agent for eight years, from a distinguished American officer. After propounding the theory of slow assassination in respect of leading statesmen at the Peace Conference of Paris, the officer was asked why the Germans did not get Mr. Massey of New Zealand? “Well,” he replied, “Air. Massey is dead. He was a great, big, strong fellow, whom you would have thought good for another 15 or 20 years at the

least.” In addition to that type of sensationalism the book bristles with denunciations of Germans, British Liberals, Roman Catholics, Communists, and everybody else who did not see the world and the war as Lord Northcliffe and the “Daily Mail” saw them. The author’s courage at least is admirable. “In Northcliffe’s Service,” by Fred L. Lowther. Our copy comes direct from the publishers, Messrs Angus and Robertson, Limited, Sydney. Out of the Shooting West Those who like tales of cowboys, daring Wild West heroines, bucking bronchos, shootings and sudden death, will find considerable entertainment of the thrilling variety in the latest “triplet” in this kind of fiction. To be strictly veracious, one of the stories deals with the adventures of people who do their shooting with cameras—film producers and movie artists. A variety of characters, most of them familiar, but all interesting, come galloping out of the revolving West into our prosaic lives to prevent our being altogether dominated by the baneful influence of the office desk. As good tomes for an hour or so of distraction we may bid them welcome — “The Rough Rider,” “Rustlers’ Roost” and “Harry Idaho.” “The Rough Rider,” Robert Ames Bennet; “Rustlers’ Roost,” W. C. Tuttle; “Harry Idaho,” Hugh Pendexter; W. Collins and Sons, Ltd., London. Our copies from Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd., Auckland. Bandits Mixed Harvey J. Howard, an American physician at a Peking Hospital, was captured by bandits in the Heilnngchiang province of China for ten weeks in 1925, and he has written an account of it which may be read from beginning to end without a yawn. Early in his captivity, no ransom being forthcoming, Dr. Howard tvas placed against a wall and death threatened him from a dozen rifles. A steady head, and a plausible tale of ransom to come, preserved his life. Thereafter, afraid to kill him for fear of dire consequences threatened by authorities and afraid to give him liberty lest they lose the ransom, the bandits dragged the doctor through awful country in incessant flight from the pursuing soldiery; until he was at last rescued. He had a very rough time of it, but no worse than that of his captors, some of whom, by the way, were educated Chinese and included an ex-magistrate. There were also, of course, brigands who had been briganding since infancy. The author, shows the existence of a close cooperation between soldiers and brigands when it is to their mutual benefit, proving that in China there is often little difference between the two. “Ten Weeks With Chinese Brigands,” Angus and Robertson, Ltd., Sydney. Our copy from the publishers. Hammer and Tongs “A Companion to* Mr. Wells’s 'Outline of History’ ” is Mr. Belloc’s full and final—dare we, after all, say “final”? —reply to the famous Outline and the attack on Christianity and the Catholic Church which Mr. Belloc takes it to be. Mr. Belloc’s defence of classical and Christian culture is vigorous, but sometimes lays him open to counter-attack. His defence is, of course, also vigorous attack, and he has no difficulty in showing that Mr. Wells knows less of modern science than he should. But little Peterkin, viewing the controversy as a whole, may very well ask what good is to come of it at last. Mr. Belloc and Mr. Wells, by temperament and training, are separated so far that they can never, on such a subject, find common ground. They may go at it, hammer and tongs, for years to come, and fill the world with the din of their discord; but the discord can never be resolved into harmony. Substantially Mr. Wells’s book remains as the most enthralling and sweeping singlevolume record of the world’s history; and its fairly evident bias and its occasionally obvious errors are of much less importance and influence than Mr. Belloc thinks. Still, Mr. Belloc must have his say, and a very energetic say it is. “A Companion to Mr. Well’s ‘Outline of History.’ ” Hilaire Belloc. Sheed and Ward.