THE BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 193, 4 November 1927, Page 12

THE BOOKMAN

Reviews! & Notes'

OLD BALLADS.

(Written for The Sun.J Tm OLD ENGLISH ballads, lik« all traditional lore, have an interest beyond their real value • s poetry and drama. This is in the fact that they were the delight of generations of unlettered folk any of them, never committed to writing at all. must have been lost; but probably the best, those with the most authentic appeal to human hearts, have been preserved. As the old minstrelpoets declined from their high estate, coming at last to be classed with “rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars.” antiquarians gathered the tales and ballads from peasants, and old nurses and saved them from oblivion. Love is the theme of a great many of them, faithful and ill-starred love, as in the really touching tale of “Clark Saunders”; or illicit love ending in revenge and the strong clash of swords •'that were both sharp and shear.” Strongly realistic tales of human nature are numerous and the moral is not more emphasised than in the most modern of novels. There is a ring of steel, there is an echo of horns through the book; and it leaves an Impression on one's mind of violence, valour, and action. Knights and squires go “riding graitbed and in full array.” Indiscreet ladies in “cramoiFie'* or “in pall” make trysts with aallant adventurers; melancholy ghosts come to their love's casements; and fairies and enchanted beasts stir the imagination. Antique words and phrases give the ballads an attractive strangeness. Sir Patrick Spens. Childe Maurice, The Wife of Usher’s Well, and some ethers are among the best; but they •re so well known and so often quoted that I will not quote them here. Young Hynd Horn, a very good mediaeval tale, is not, I fancy, so well known. The lover comes home, just In time, on his love’s wedding day, and appearing disguise, asks for a cup of wine, which the bride with “combs o’ fine goud in her hair,” hands to him. He drinks the wine and drops his ring into the empty cup. The bride exclaims:

O gat thou this by or by land? ©r gat thou it off a dead man's hand? ! gat it neither by sea nor land. Nor gat I it from a dead man’s hand, But I gat it at my wooing gay, And I gie it to you on your wedding day. And the birk and broom blooms bonny. The bride is for taking “the fine goud from her hair,” and following him on foot, but he casts aside his “cloutie cloak,” and shows that his fortunes are not so low as appears; and the end is happy for everyone but the anconsidered, discarded bridegroom. Brown Adam, the outlaw, who carried his wife with him to that picturesque locality the “gude greenwood,” is rather a creditable character. He was not only a handy man at running up a little summer cottage for his lady, and providing for the larder with his “bolts and arrows lang,” but he had a •short way with intruders. A “fause knight” came threatening and annoying the lady in Adam’s absence and she cried out “Brown Adam tarries lang.” Then In and starts him Brown Adam, Says, “I*m just at your hand.** He’s gar’d him leave his bonny bow, He’s gar’d him leave his brand, ■e’s gar’d him leave a dearer pledge— Four fingers o* his right hand. Another stout fellow is Hughie Graham, hanged at Carlisle for stealing the Bishop’s mare. He begged his old father not to lament, telling him: The weeping’s sairer on ray heart Than a’ that they can do to me. He was not exactly penitent, for his words were a suggestion that when next any of his kin met the Bishop’s cloak they should “mak’ it shorter by the hood.” Among the more ancient of the ballads are the tales of magic like Alison Gross and Kempion. In the first a youth is transformed into “an ugly worm” by a witch whose love he refuses, and rescued on Hallowee’n, by fairies: Whan the Serly Court cam* rid in* by. The Queen lighted down on a gowan bank dose by the tree where I wont to lie. The Queen of the Seely, or Fairy court took him up in her milk-white hands and changed him back to his proper shape. Kempion. the King’s eon, at some peril of his life, does the same for his true love, bewitched out of all knowledge into a fiery snake or loathly worm. At the third kiss which he gave her she appeared in her true shape: Nae eluding had his lady fair. To keep her body frae the cold; But Kempion took his mantle ofT And around his ain true love did fold. It Is impossible to quote many verses. Some of them are not really good, but only curious and monotonous. with attractive lines here and there, and brief effective descriptions like: 4 The white o’ my love's skin is white As down o’ dove or maw; The red o* my love's cheek is red As blood that's spilt on snaw. and: She sends you the ring frae her white finger, The garland frae her hair; She sends you the heart within her breast; And what would you have inair? snd these lines from The Ship o’ the Fiend: O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, That the sun shines * sweetlv on? O von are the hills o’ Heaven, he said, Where you will never win. Tamlane. The Death of Farcy Rood, snd Waly Walv are all worth reading a* well as the Robin Hood ballads, and Kinmont Willie. ALIOF A. aKN’NY. Paeroa.

A STATUE TO DON QUIXOTE’S DULCINEA

THAT lovable old lunatic, Don Quixote de la Mancha, would no doubt experience a great surprise if he were to return to-day to the scenes of his former triumphs and mishaps. He would encounter objects which would impress him as monsters obviously put ; uto action by his enemies. For the automobile would greet him w ith a honk which might frighten Rozinante into antics such as that celebrated steed would never have condescended in the days when knighthood did not impress the Don as being quite flowery enough. If. in a year or two from now. however. Don Quixote, the terror of giants, the avenger of injuries, the establisher of justice, should make his hazardous v ay into the neighbourhood he might

find something more to his liking. This would be the monument of Dulcinea his beloved, who is again to be en throned on a pedestal. The statue is to be erected to her near Toboso, hex former home. Then all the world wil

know the beauties of the peerless Dulcinea. Should Don Quixote return to see this monument he would be compensated for the other changes which have taken place since he roamed with faithful Sancho Panza in search of damsels who needed protection.

CLEVER N.Z. GIRL LEAVES FOR SYDNEY

ANE of the most gifted of New Zealand's younger poets, Miss Bettie Riddell, whose work is familiar to readers of THE SUN’S Book Page, is leaving the Dominion on November 11 to break into the newspaper world in Sydney. Miss Riddell, who is under engagement to a Sydney newspaper, is not unknown to Sydney readers, her verses appearing regularly in “The Bulletin.” She began to write for newspapers at the age of 14 and her output, for so young a writer, has been remarkable.

BOOKS REVIEWED

MORE OF RHODESIA QHEILA MACDONALD is known to New Zealanders for two reasons. First, she has written that refreshing book, “Sally in Rhodesia, and, second, she is a New Zealander. There is now a third reason why she should be known to New Zealand, and that is “Martie and Others in Rhodesia” —a second book, “from my garden.” This tale revolves round one Miss Martin, a rather formidable governess who has charge of a delightfully naughty set of twins. After a year of "the treatment”—that being Rhodesia’s free and easy life—Miss Martin is metamorphosed, becoming a real human being and making a match with the most unlikely parti in the country. For blithe and inconsequential humour, “Martie,” in its class, would be difficult to excel. And there is something infectious in Sheila Macdonald’s zest for her glowing garden so lovingly tended and so frequently disfigured by the joint efforts of Mafuta. Jim Fish and Fool, three black assistants whose idea of a good day’s work is to lie “doggo” behind a heap of stones and allow the plants to have a reasonable chance of self-expression. The pictures of Rhodesian life are admirable, and we feel, after reading of Martie's progress, that, we, too, have taken tea under Sheila Macdonald's spreading jacaranda tree with a very charming hostess, “the Breadwinner,” two mischievous little devils, demure Miss Martie and “Pretty Mrs. Jones.” We could find it in our heart to wish that the author would give us a third book by which to remember her —and that right quickly. "Martie and Others in Rhodesia." Cassell and Co.. Ltd., London. Our copy conifs from Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd., Auckland. Super Adventure Mr John Nov, a new writer, gives j us his first effort in “The Vulture.” At 15 years of age he was stricken with infantile paralysis, being at the time apprenticed to a blacksmith. Recognising that he had to switch over to some other occupation he assiduously applied himself to bettering his education, with a view to following a literary career. That he has succeeded j is evident in his first novel. It is certain that the paralysis which ruined his body has not affected his brain. The conception of the flying-ship-sub-marine-gunboat invented by the savage Captain Bone and used by him to terrorise the world's shipping is startling and gripping. The various characters in the book are delineated with great power and the climax is excellent. The most blase cannot find fault with the action and adventure in this novel.

“The Vulture.” John Nov. John Hamilton, Ltd. Our copy from the publishers. Sacrifice. That a child is usually unworthy of its mother’s too great sacrifice appears to be the theme of “Walls of Glass.” Larry Barretto’s new novel. Her husband, killed in an accident, Sophy Deming. young and attractive, is left almost penniless to bring up her infant son, who, she is determined, shall have the best that life can give. Misfortune and illness weaken her resistance until, finally, she accepts the love and help of a wealthy horse-owner whose wife is insane. Facing many trials and temptations. Sophy yet succeeds in giving her son all that she had desired, only to find him as a young cnan unable to understand her sacrifice. The conclusion is unusual, and skilfully worked-up to. A wellproportioned book. "Walls of Glass.” Larry Barret to. Leonard Parsons. Our copy conies from Angus and Robertson, LtcL. Sydney,

Great Lovers. Mrs Geftrude Atherton's latest novel. “The Immortal Marriage,” is the ctory of Pericles and Aspasia. one of the great love stories of all time. Both were noble, both stood in the full gaze of lesser men and w-omen about them, splendid, heroic, little in nothing, great in much, and perhaps greatest of all in a love proof against time and the world’s malice. They not only lived and loved in a wonderful ago, they were part of its wonder, helped to shape its course, and drew from their love the energy to do so. Small wonder, then-, that such a theme has called a novelist to treat it; and fortunately Mrs Atherton has the power and delicacy to do it justice. She has often written well, but seldom so beautifully. It does not lessen, it increases her praise, that she had so beautiful a story to tell; for she has been adequate to its high demands. I!ig immortal Marriage.” Gertrude Atlu-: Lon John Murru'. Our cunv from Whitcombe and Tombs’, Ltd. Unreal Life. Mrs Edith Wharton is a novelist who has at least one remarkably good book to her credit, and who has never written anything which does not stand out as the work of a sensitive and thoughtful mind. It would be almost an insult to her to say that she is “intelligent,” when nine novelists out of 10 are “intelligent,” chiefly in imitation or in thinly disguising

their autobiographies as fiction: Mrs Wharton has more than the copyist’s intelligence—she has real originality. This by way of preface to the brief statement that “Twilight Sleep” is a novel distinguished by all her good qualities, though perhaps a little less happily so than others of hers. The characters do not seem to be so finely shaped to the design of her novel as she has brought us to expect; and yet perhaps that is a virtuous fault. For her characters are the rich, idle shirkers of life, who in evading everything that calls for the brave, active virtues, in evading reality, that is, themselves become unreal distortions moving in a distorted world of their own making. •'Twilight Sleep.” JEdith Wharton. Appleton. "" ~