BOOKS REVIEWED

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 181, 21 October 1927, Page 12

BOOKS REVIEWED

THE SINGER OF THE SHADOWS TTNTIL this month a slender volume ot verse, “Monodies,” was all that poetry-lovers had to remember Dick Harris by; unless, of course, they had enshrined his verses in scrapbooks and thus saved them from the ephemeral life of the newspaper poem. But Mr. Pat Lawlor—tidus Achates of the ill-fated, lovable Harris —has done us a real service by collecting a representative selection of the works of New Zealand’s “Singer of the Shadows,” whose untimely death, at fill, removed one of the finest lyrists the Dominion has produced. The book contains that splendid sonnet-sequence in memory of his wife, “Hie Jacet Mortalis,” “Sapphic Fragments” and

a "Gallimaufry” containing some of those exotic forms that Harris so loved to w-oo—the chant royal, the pantoum, the triolet (and how they san%, those amaranthine triolets of Dick’s!), the villanelle and the rondeau. In the gallimaufry, too, is an excellent translation of Henri de Regnier’s beautiful sonnet, “Crepuscule d’Automne.” In the last section are excerpts from “Monodies,” mentioned above. Harris was the true poet: lie despised formless verse as one w-ould the plague, but in his scrupulous observance of form he seldom sacrificed the living quality that stamps his w-ork; w-ork that was impregnated with (he gentle melancholy of the singer who sighs for the joys of yesteryear, for the dear delights of Cythera, and the vanished glories of Olympus. And, indeed, there was much of the Olympian in poor Dick Harris. Mona Tracy, herself a poet, has penned a most sympathetic forew-ord to which Mr. Law-lor has added a personal note. “The Poems of Dick Harris” are priced at 4s and may be obtained from Mr. Lawlor, Box 965, G.P.0., Wellington. The book is neatly produced and bears a cover design by Mr. Ken Alexander. “The Poems of Dick Harris.” New Century Press, Ltd., Sydney. A Thoughtful Novel. Richmal Crompton’s latest hook, "Millicent Dorrington,” is a really painstaking novel, and a fine one as well, but somehow one does not connect Miss Crompton's “William” books with the rather sombre tone of "Millicent Dorrington.” The heroine is Millicent Dorrington, a girl of sensitive spirit, hut soar-

ing imagination, beautiful, but out of touch with the ordinary people of her day. She had real culture in those Victorian days when Philistinism was rampant. The only people who understood her were her father, cast in the same mould, and her young sister. With those she was happy. She fell in love, and was to sail for India to be married, but her father died, and her love of her young sisters held her ' back. She was on the way to becoming an old maid, when love came once more, but this time the death of her young sister, leaving a baby on her hands, compelled her to stay. A ratheT ordinary story, one might say, but it is graphically told. Throughout the book, the symbol of a wall round her home is kept up, and the gates always shut before Millicent got out. She was a woman whose mother-love was greater than her love for a man. “Millicent Dorringlon.” Richmal Crompton. Hoddpr and Stoughton, Ltd. Our copy from the publishers’ Australian agent. Art in Australia. “Art in Australia” for Septembei is as usual beautifully produced, and its quality deserves such production, The number opens with George Lambert's appreciation of “Horse, Caparisoned,” by Isadore Pils, in the N.S.W. National Gallery; J. S. Macdonald writes a short study of the work of H. S. Power and George Patterson a longer and more vigorous one of Arthur Baker-Clack. H. H. Fotheringham contributes an article on “The Importance of Design,” admirably illustrated with reproduced woodcuts by Ethelbert White, Galand, Thea Procter, Ruth Ainsworth, and Ailsa Lee Brown, and with lino-cuts by children at Cizele’s school in Vienna. Among the other pictures reproduced are a fascinating piece of still-life colour by Hans Heysen, a charming landscape with animals and figures by Power, and a very bold piece of patterned colour by Baker-Clack, “The Square, Granada.” Randolph Schwa he's drawings are fall of rhythmical grace, and one of the most striking single pages is Hilda Rix Nicholas’s drawing of “A Woman oi Brittany,” a first-rate artistic record of artistic observation. It is interesting to note the Victorian National Gallery purchased in three months, with many others, “Bords de la Vione,” an oil hv Pissaro (£llO2 10/-). a Coin fa, works by Brabazon, Laura Knight, and Norman Lindsay, and “A Serious Conversation,” by the Director of the Slade School, Professor Tonka. We have nothing ' but congratulation for the excellent work of this Australian quarterly. "Art in Australia,” Third Series, Number Twenty-one, September, 1927. Art ill Australia, Ltd., 24 Bond Street, Sydney. Our copy from the publishers. The Art of Reducing. With the object of explaining to “the thousands of men and women who are fatter than they wish to be,” the elementary principles of reducing, W. F. Christie, M.D., has made a good, readable addition to the literature of obesity in his “Surplus Fat and Howto Reduce It.” In the simplest of language, he explains when and why we are fat. and how. being fat, we may again become thin. The book is considerably enlivened by a chapter of anecdotes concerning freaks and curiosities, who are, however, to be considered rather in pity than in fun. Dr Christie outlines the various re-

duction cures, and appends some useful plans for dieting. He particularly emphasises the necessity of muscular exercise, not only for those -who are fat, but for the physical well-being of the thinnest. The illustrations are comic without being useful. “Surplus Fat and How- to Reduce It.” W F. Cunstie, M.D. Cornstalk Publishing Co., sjoney. Our copv comes from Aliens a n A Ucbertson. POETS’ CORNER. AFFLUENCE. [WriKen for The Sun.] I pottered with a moil of petty pence, Much occupied with casting of accounts, The chcc*e-pared meannesses of sm* 1 ] amounts, Chafing at economic impotence! Thence to the open door, to speak the night ... A gust of tears shook pitying from the sky; Swift, twenty little pools shone to the eye Cupping star-gilt and new-moon silver bright. Penury? Wealth! While I at farthings beat, Nature flung largess at my very feet! GWEN E. MERRETT. M. asterton LET US MAKE AN END (Written for THE SUN.J All our days are. dead. Lore lies burnt. The last word is read . The last lesson learnt. Hopes have been banished All unfulfilled; Dreams have all vanished: It came not as ice willed. There is left n.n sonrt now That is worth the singing: There is left no thing now Worth the doing. Turn where zee may Despair lies deep: Let us end this day, Come, let us sleep. A. R. D. FAIRBURN. THE MENDED COAT (Written for THE SUN.) With mumbling lips and clouded eyes And shuffling feet he comes and goes; Not one in all the hurrying throng He sees, or knozes. All heedless, too. the world of him As he apart, decrepit, stands; Yet one has stitched his ragged coat With loving hands. —MURIEL LANCISFORD Auckland.