THE BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 269, 3 February 1928, Page 14

THE BOOKMAN

Reviews! Sc Notes? - - c*’

The Wooden Horse

An Occasional Column And with great lies about his wooden horse Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course, — J. E. FLECKER. r pHE LATEST Sitwellism: Nobody must be rude to the Sitwells. What Is It to be rude to the Sitwells? It la to say anything about them and their work but what is respectful, grateful, admiring, or otherwise acceptable to them. Opinions in any way hostile must not and should not be expressed; for they jar the Sitwells’ nerves and so prevent or delay the processes of creative art. Creative artists, like the Sitwells, ought not to suffer the distraction of malevolent criticism. There has been a conspiracy to vilify the Sitwells and their art, a conspiracy not innocent of low animosity against the near descendants of a duke. This should not be. Anyone afflicted by such deplorable taste as not to recognise the Sitwells’ art as good art, or by such still more deplorable meanness of mind as to doubt the single strictness of their devotion to art, should keep decently silent, or mutter his obscene judgments, if they will out, to his pillow. “I am Sir Osbert,” as it were, ‘‘and when I ope my lips let no dog bark.” . . . This is the general effect of what Mr. Osbert says in the preface to “First-class Passengers Only.” It is amusing. It is also (apparently) quite serious. That makes it still more amusing. As a joke it would be good; as a homily it endangers the' sobriety of the spheres in their courses. Note that it is not rude of the Sitwells to say sharp, high-contemptu-ous things about Mr. Squire, for instance. Mr. Squire has no aesthetic sensibility to be jarred. He is not a creative artist. The Sitwells are the judges of that. Mr. Squire is quite rightly put in his place, that is all. One remembers that Mr. Squire is not the descendant of a duke, either, which helps one to see his proper place all the more clearly. And as I lay a-thykynge, I bethought me of what Thomas Sprat

wrote of Abraham Cowley. This Sprat, who became Bishop of Rochester in 168-4, was Cowley’s literary executor and in 1668 brought out an edition of his works, with a “life” prefixed. Musty old fellows, these; yet “An Account of the Life and Writings of Mr Abraham Cowley” is “a garden where the wise may pluck a Spartan flower”: He had a firmness and strength of mind, that was of proof against the Art of Poetry it self. Nothing vain or fantastical, nothing flattering or insolent appeared in his humour. There was nothing affected or singular in his habit, or person, or gesture. He understood the forms of good breeding enough to practise them without burdening himself or others. He never opprest any man’s parts, nor ever put .any man out of countenance. He never had any emulation for Fame. . . . He never thrust himself violently into the good opinion of his company. He was content to be known by leisure and by degrees. . . . His Wit was so temper’d, that no man had ever reason to wish it had been less: he prevented other men’s severity upon it by his own: he never willingly recited any of his Writings. None but his friends ever discovered he was a great Poet, by his discourse. . . . He never guided his life by the whispers, or opinions of the World. Yet he had a great reverence for a food reputation. He hearkened to ame when it was a just Censurer. But not when an extravagant Babler. ... Well, well, let us say no more about it. but turn rather to another creative artist —one Jerry Thomas —and stand by his elbow, at the very moment of creation. Time —round about 1S50; place—-the El Dorado Saloon in San Francisco; Dramatis personae—Professor Jerry Thomas, Principal Bartender, and "a giant laden with gold dust and with three layers of pistols strapped about his equator”; also citizens of San Francisco. Enter the giant, after months in the mines, yearning for adventure, proclaiming whisky a drink for babes, and a distillery powerless to move him except by falling on him: “Barkeep!” he roared. “Fix me up some hell-fire that’ll shake me right down to my gizzard !” Professor Thomas surveyed him calmly ami shrewdly estimated his capacity, which was obviously abnormal. He realised that here, at last, was a man worthy of his genius. “Come back in an hour,” he said. “I shall have something for vou then.” The giant stamped out of the saloon, and Professor Thomas retired to the back room. His reputatiou, he realised, was at stake; if be did not produce something which would take the roar out of that colossus, all would be lost, even honour. So he grappled with the problem, and within an hour emerged, his brow wrinkled by furrows from the violence of his effort, but with a magnificent idea sizzling and crackling in his brain. A deep silence fell upon the crowded bar-room as the Professor. looking neither to the right nor to the left, moved slowlv into position behind the bar, and' with great care took from their places in a rack two silver mugs, with handle-t-arefully setting-the mugs upon the bar. Professor Thomas twirled Ilia great mustache and turned to iiis I audience. Gentlemen!” he announced. irnressivejy, Jjoq grg about Ui witness

the birth of a new beverage!’ A sagh of anticipation "arose frc > the assemblage, and with one accord the mass of men moved forward, respectfully, until they stood five dec, before the bar, with the giant., still booted, in the front rank. Professor Thomas smiled, and quietly poured r tumbler full of Scotch whisky into one of the mugs, following it with a slightly smaller quantity of hoiiing water. Then, with an evil-smelling sulphur match ~>f the period he ignited the liquid, and as the blue flame shot toward the crowd shrank J*a in awe, Lj hurled the blazing mixture hack and forth between the two mugs, with a rapid-

ity and a dexterity that were well nigh unbelievable. This amazing spectacle continued in full movement for perhaps 10 seconds, and then Professor Thomas quickly poured the beverage into a tumbler and smothered the flame. He stirred a teaspoonful of pulverised white sugar into the mixture, added a twist of lemon peel, and shoved the smoking concoction across the bar to the booted and bewhiskered giant. “Sir!” said Professor Thomas, bowing. “The blue blazer!” The boastful miner threw his head back and flung the boiling drink down his throat. He stood motionless for a moment, smacking his lips and tasting the full flavour of it, and then a. startled and even horrified expression spread over his face. He swayed like a reed in the wind. He shivered from head to foot. His teeth rattled. His mouth opened and closed, but he could say nothing. He sank slowly into a chair. He was no longer fit to be tied. “He done it !’* he whispered at last. •Ttight down to my gizzard! Yes, sir, right down to my gizzard! Yes, sir, right down to my gizzard ! : * The Dictionary of American Biography, unhappily, contains no reference to this artist, “the greatest bartender in American history,” who invented not only the Blue Blazer, but the Tom and Jerry—another cool weather drink —an improved bitters, and a number of highly approved cocktail recipes. One looks on his career with only the faint shadow of a regret—that he was not the near descendant of a duke. He was born humbly in New Haven, Conn., the son of Mr and Mrs William Daniel Thomas, who designed that he should became a Doctor of Divinity. J.H.E.S.

BOOKS REVIEWED. THE GREAT ABR’M. ANOTHER of those historical recreations, and this time a good one. Mrs Honore Willsie Morrow read for seven years to build up Abraham Lincoln in her understanding, and that understanding gives life to the giant central figure of her novel. Only two years of his career are touched—the two which began with the entry into White House and ended with the signing of the emancipation decree of 1863. Hardly a character moves on this crowded stage which is not draw njustly, with vigour and yet with delicate care; and of all the forces that impel them we feel that Lincoln’s genius is the greatest. He is the significant centre, and none can be judged but by reference to his will, his purposes, his prayers, and even his weaknesses. This is not a book in which, as in so many novels turning upon the same events, interest is captured by easy romantic devices. The battle-smoke drifts across distant horizons, and the guns are only a troubled mutter far away. The struggle and the victory are Lincoln’s, at White House —the struggle against personal jealousy and detraction, against colleagues at strife, against loud patriots and faint-hearts, against blindness to the real Issues of the war, against his own splendid weakness, childlike trust; and at last the victory. But there are, in a book whose every page is a pulse in its life, episodes told with an exceptional dramatic force, and these are little triumphs incidental to a great success. Mrs Morrow has wisely avoided the showman’s trick of making Lincoln's pungent and racy talk a “feature”; but the voice is the voice of Abraham. no doubt of it: “I know pages of it by heart,” said the President, rising to pull off his coat and vest. “There was a copy around the office at Snringfield. That fellow Whitman isn’t a poet, hut he’s the prophet of democracy. He’s helped me a good deal when I’ve |got bilious wondering if any Government which is not too strong for the liberties of the people can he strong enough to maintain itself.” “Forever Free.” Honore Willsie Morrow. Jonathan Cape. Our cory from the publisher. The Tale of the Ant “Go to the Ant, thou sluggard;'consider lier ways and be wise.” Such was the proverbial wisdom of King Solomon, but he did not know all that was to be known about Antland and its industrious peoples. It has been left to a German to tell the world the modern tale of the ant, and to emulate Maeterlinck, who wrote the epic of the bee, and to take rank with

Fahre, whose comprehensive book on the wasp and other insects is a classic. Dr. Ewers’s excellent work, admirably translated into English by Clifton Harby Levy, is a fascinating story that should be read by everybody, and particularly by politicians and those who make a study of the division of labour and co-operation in industry without stupid political interference. The book is an entertaining encyclopaedia, packed with interesting information. Since its author hates the ultra-scientist and ridicules the technical jargon of the tribe, the layman need not be shy in approach. As a talented man of literature, this German investigator knows how to present his facts in readable form. He appears to have poked his nose into ant nests in almost every land, and has suffered the penalties of inquisitive intrusion. He retains a wholesome respect for the wicked bull-ants of Australia which, he observes, give tone to Antdom —a most unlovely race, not open to friendly intercourse, utterly opposed to scientific investigation, and able to practise their objection most painfully. Against them he has sworn eternal enmity. It is impossible to summarise this notable book and do it justice. Enough to say, as prosaic truth, that it tells us how ants grind corn, knead it into dough, .and put it to bake in the sun; how they suckle their young and milk leaf-lice and field fleas —the ants’ cattle; how ants play ball, wrestle, make love and war, and hold conferences (possibly about peace in industry—the new infectious disease in many lands); and how all sorts of ants may not only teach sluggards, but might have taught Solomon more wisdom if he had been more interested in ant royalty than in the Queen of Sheba. A remarkable, splendid book. “The Ant People,” by Hans Heinz Ewers, translated from the German by Clifton Harby Levy. Our copy from Angus and Robertson, Sydney. The Great Physicists In one of a recent series of small volumes of scientific history, “The Great Physicists,” Dr. Ivor B, Hart, confines himself to the broad movements in the development of physical science. From Thales of Miletus, a Greek philosopher, engineer and man of civil affairs (670 8.0. : 546 8.C.) who discovered that amber, when rubbed, attracts light

substances such as paper, on through the ages, the author follows the pathway of the science of force and energy as evidenced in heat, sound, light or electricty. A story which provides a setting for such bright beacon lights of science as Archimedes, Roger Bacon, Galileo Galelei, Otto von Guericke, Sir Isaac Newton, Michael Faraday and William Thompson (Lord Kelvin) who formulated his famous Principle of the Degradation of Energy and who, incidentally, laid the first Atlantic cable. The story is attractively written and should appeal to readers who have no special knowledge of physics and mathematics as well as to all lovers of science and natural philosophy. “The Great Physicists,” by Ivor B. Hart, 0.8. E., Ph.D., B.Sc. Methuen and Co., Ltd., London. A Good Poet's Poor Novel. Mr W. H. Davies has written dozens of poems almost impossible to praise too highly—who can forget “Sweet chance, that led my steps abroad”? A rainbow and a cuckoo’s song May never come together again: May never come This side the tomb. He has written several books, like “The Adventures of Johnny Walker” and “A Poet’s Pilgrimage,” fichly alive, every sentence of them. His first novel, “Dancing Mad,” is as distressing as these others are delightful. There, that’s said, and it’s sorry we are to say it. “Dancing Mad” is the story of an ill-matched pair, of a wife (dancing mad) who is never and a husband who is always at home. He can stand it no longer, throws a guest out of the house, and marches out of it himself, never to return. We get an episodical account of his life in America, a less episodical account of her life in London. There is little interest and less point in both. Years ’ater he comes back to London, bis wife recognises him and seeks a reconciliation, which he coldly and brutally refuses. She dies. He goes to the war and is killed. The outline conveys no idea of the stiff and awkward strokes with which Mr Davies fills it in. It is evident that in attempting to write a novel Mr Davies has forced his light-footed genius to a cobbled road, where it can only limp. “Dancing Mad.” \V. H. Davies. Jonathan Cape. Our copy from the publisher. The Deeping Charm

While other authors strain for new effects, while the younger members of

the literary world cudgel their brains and produce a welter of daring themes and bold expressions, Warwick Deeping goes his own quiet way, writing stories which still have a wonderful appeal. He is one of the older school whose methods have not been affected by the experimentalists and there is a restraint about his books which .is almost foreign to the writers of to-day. Mr. Deeping rose above mediocrity with “Sorrell and Son,” and now he has given us “Kitty,” a wonderfully human story of a woman’s fight for the man she loves. “Kitty” may be sentimental, but it is healthy and honest and delicately written. Mr. Deeping is never maudlin and always keeps within the bounds of possibility. He gives us interesting characters—a whole gallery of them. “Kitty” is admirable reading.

“Kitty,” Cassel and Co., London, Melbourne and Sydney. Our copy comes from Whitcombe and Tombs, Auckland.