THE BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 553, 4 January 1929, Page 12

THE BOOKMAN

Reviews! & Notes!

The Wooden Horse An Occasional Column And with great lies about Ins u>ooden horse Set the creio laughing, and forgot his course, — J. C, blccLer, Kaleidoscope .... in a passion of grief and remorsefulness at the time of his wife’s death he had burned the original bundle of his manuscript poems with her, laying it in her coffin among the rich strands of her golden hair. . . . During the serial publication of “Middlemarch," 1 particularly remember his taking me apart one day as I came in, and holding me by the button as he announced to me in confidence concerning one of its chief characters, “Celia is going to have a baby!" This with an air at

once gratified and mysterious, like that of some female gossip of a young bride in real life. .. . To have shaken the hand which plucked Shelley’s heart out of the ashes was an experience one "was not likely to forget. .... The best trumpet that I can suggest is to read Thomas Carlyle’s Essay on Burns. ... You are too rough on “The Egoist.” The book is as good and not as bad as you say. It is an attempt at art by an elderly apprentice of genius. ... I admire half of Stevenson very much, but I only look even upon this half as a Sort of trinket that Landor could wear 011 his watch-chain and which might drop off without him being aware of the loss. ... In the mind’s eye of many of us there still lives freshly the aspect of the half-silvered hair setting off the all but black eyebrows aid gipsy eyes: of the chiselled features, the smiling, languid face and grace behind which there lurked intellectual energies so keen and varied, accomplishments so high, so insatiable a spirit of curiosity and research, under a guise so airy and playful. . It is recorded of James how in the pursuit of this branch of human study he, in the earlier days of his London career, dined out in the course of a single twelve-month not less than a hundred and eight times. ... H. G. W., who is really a dear ... I shall be very happy to come if I am alive, but 1 fancy I shall he frozen dead in another 48 hours. Never again will I spend another winter in this accursed bucket-shop of a refrigerator called England. ... If you were to peep magically into my study you would see me sitting absolutely motionless, like a crabbed, unasiatic-looking Buddha—and not even twirling my thumbs —all day long. . . Concentration and suggestion, Colvin, concentration and suggestion, those are the things I care for and am always trying for in poetry. .. . What is something that will do as well as beauty? An excellent substitute for beauty? So I have seen in a Goodge Street grocer’s window, “Eggs equal to newlaid.” .. . Do you know the story of "Keats, what’s a Keat?” One day at the Trinity High Table that was said. “O. B. is going to lecture this evening on Keats.” A Science Fellow said, “Keats? What’s a Keat?” . . . He would describe Edward Fitzgerald as he was accustomed to see him in his shawl about Woodbridge, a rather frightening figure to childish eyes. . . . The moment the story commences it seems to pare from him, to strip him of all the qualities we admire. In a story we get Stevenson as if skinned. .... And here, to tell the nimble reader who has been skipping about these sentences whether he has rightly or wrongly decided who says what about whom, is a key or map to them. They come from E. V. Lucas’s “The Colvins and their Friends.” (i) Sir Sidney Colvin, of Rossetti; (ii) Colvin, of M. G. Lewes. George Eliot’s husband: (iii) Colvin, of meeting E. J. Trelawney, the friend of Byron and Shelley: (iv) R. L. S.: (v) W. E. Henley: (vi) George Moore; (vii) Colvin, of Andrew Lang: (viii) Colvin of Henry Jsmes; (ix) Henry James,’ of H. G. Wells: (x) Rudyard Kipling: (xi) Joseph Conrad; (xii) George Meredith: (xiii) Professor W. P. Ker; (xiv) Oscar Browning: (sv) e". V. Lucas, of Colvin; (xvi) George Moore: (xvii)’ J.H.E.S. OF N.Z. POETS SOME NOTES AND COMMENTS NO. 5 MR. A. R. D. FAIRBURN TTXGLAND’S Georgian poets, so prodigal of song for a time, and now so silent, sang briefly and sweetly, finding their brothers among the honeytongued Elizabethans. They sang of the familiar things about them; the beauty of the earth the pain of loving, and the little disillusionments all men must come to know. Meticulous in choice of form, they w-ere singers rather than philosophers: but they

have left a pleasant legacy of song that lingers sweetly in the mind. Markedly influenced by these men, A. R. D. Fairburn, a young Auckland writer, has quietly taken up the silver pipes that they have cast away, and is doing in New Zealand what they did in England. He is sensitive to the same inspiration, and has the same happy gift of selecting slender yet beautiful themes. With lyric power strongly developed, he sings with graceful sincerity, the notes welling from him w-ith the naturalness of music from a singing bird. There is no studied artifice about his work, and he sings because he must. Mr. Fairburn, as a poet, has no grave concern with the major tragedies of life: he prefers to give polite recognition to transient sorrows, change of seasons, and the flowers that he meets on the wayside. Beauty is his friend, and he is persistent in his denial to meet the heavy sorrowing of mankind, or indulge himself in sombre philosophical speculation. His work does not mark him as a New Zealander, and the only homeland touch he ever gives is an occasional allusion to a New Zealand flower or tree. He has chosen themes of universal interest, and handled them well. The younger New Zealand writers, unlike those of the past generation, are not attempting to seek their inspiration in the surroundings familiar to them. Perhaps some complaint can be made against this ten-, dency; but the answer seems to be that there is not yet developed in New Zealanders a strong enough sense of nationhood to make them so very much different from England. In the meantime most of our writers are the shadows of hers. So long as the shadow has the beauty of the original, there is no substantial cause for cavilling. It is in the little, unambitious lyrics that Mr. Fairburn excels. “When She Speaks” is typical:

Lovelier are her words Than the exquisite notes That speak the souls of flutes. The songs of birds At dusk , when the first-born star Swims in the willow tree , Are not more dear to me Than her songs are. 'When she speakSj all sound begins To tremble, and melt In music rarer than the lilt Of violins. Her voice is more delicate Than the croon of wind in the coppice; All the world’s songs are poppies Under her feet. That might have been written in England, America, or Australia, but it has sweetness, and a sureness of touch. “The Sun Has Spread His Shining Wings” is a) familiar theme, treated w-ith nervous vigour; The sun has spread his shining wings And mores upon his endless way : He tells the passing of the day, And mocks the breath of mortal things. Across the desert of the sky He trails his burning caravan : He lights the dusty ways of man. And whispers him that he must die. His light is music in the leaves All day with sunbeams stretched for strings : Yet as he touches them he sings — And wise men know the tale he v:eaves. There is a suggestion here of the reflectiveness which is shown in other of his poems. That he is) capable of little protesting angers is shown in “ The Flowers,” where he complains of “earth’s spring vesture” being “trussed for a funeral wreath.” He goes on: O God! that the flowers be tortured To pageant men to the dust! Flowers that the old earth nurtured All twisted , tied, and trussed. But see! they have laid his body Close by yon field of corn, Where the poppies are gathered ready, Their lips all wreathed in scorn. God! like the sting of nettles, Like scorpions bound for whips. Is the smile on the myriad petals Uf those cruel crimson lips . Then we are able to glimpse other power in an appeal for the protection of beauty. He tells it all in the lines “To a Youug G. rl”: No crown of thorn She bears for shield Like roses born In sheltered field . O Life, tread not, Capricious clown , This gentle plot Of lilies down. Some day she will « Be old and wise As Eve, yet still May her brown eyes And golden hair Be lovely yet, Still shining fair Through toil and fret. O Life, tread soft Upon this heart Till pale winds waft Her soul apart , And she be laid Where lovely eyes Must surely fade And heart be wise. Mr. Fairburn has written well, and with enlargement of experience, it is probable that he will write still better. He has command of the singer’s art, and there is much that he might do. —IAN DONNELLY. Note.—All the poems quoted have been published in The Sun, to which Mr. Fairburn is a regular contributor. NEW ZEALANDER WRITES STORY FOR BOYS A JR. ELLERSLEY HALL, of Christchurch, has joined the ranks of New Zealanders who have written books. An adventure story for boys has been accepted for publication in England by Messrs. Whitecombe and Tombs, Ltd. Mr. Hall has already won approval as a writer of thrilling stories for boys. His serials in the “Weekly Press,” written under the

name of “Peterkin,” were popular and as “Peterkin,” his voice is still heard from 3YA, where he reads his stories to the children during the youngsters’ hour. The title of his book is “The Secret Station” and it deals largely with broadcasting.

Books Reviewed j

AN ACTOR’S SELF-ANALYSIS. TO BE A COWARD at heart and know it, but yet ’in a crisis to overcome that ;'ind do what the world calls a brave action, was the fate of Val Godden, scion of an English county family. He was a born actor, much to the disgust of his father the squire, who had destined him for the Army. He becomes independent through the death of a great uncle, and eventually finds his way on to the stage, where he becomes a public idol. The various people he meets and their differing characteristics are described by Horace Annesley Vachell in “The Actor.” Some of the characters seem to be drawn from life —and rather mercilessly drawn, too. Mr Vachell has an intimate knowledge of the theatre and the folk connected with it, and skilfully depicts their foibles and excellencies. The love affaii'3 of Val, starting at an early age, run throughout the story, which switches from the theatres of London to the theatre of the Great War. It is a story of the self-analysis of a man

“The Aclor.** Horace Annesley Vachell. Cassell and Co. Our copy through Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd.

Art in New Zealand ! The reception accorded the first number of “Art in New Zealand” has pleased the enterprising promoters of this excellent publication. The second volume will please the subscribers. This number is chiefly made' up of representative work by Christchurch artists —and there is a fine, healthy art movement in the South from which to draw. Mr. A. F. Nieoll, the best portrait painter in the Dominion, has pride of place with a reproduction of his portrait of Mr. H. E. Nicholls which, like his famous portrait of Mr. Justice Alpers, is a splendid piece of work. Mr. Cecil Kelly offers a delicate oil study of Mount Cook; Mr. Richard Wallwork, Director of the Canterbury School of Art, is represented by a vivid impression of evening light at Amuri Bluffs; veteran Menzies Gibb contributes a seascape, and that brilliant colourist, A. W. Baxter, with “Battlements of Mount Rolleston,” gives splendid treatment to a familiar theme. These reproductions are all in colour. In black and white there is work by E. Rosa Sawtell, L. H. Booth, Elizabeth Wallwork, R. Spencer Bower, Grace Butler, A. J. Rae, C. Lovell Smith and others. Mr. Gerald Jones, of Auckland, whose photographic art has been recognised in many lands*,has an atmospheric camera study of Grafton Bridge and the sculpture of Mr. F. A. Shurrock (a fine artist in this field) is represented by two photographs—one of “Peter” (the youth who posed for the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens), and the other of a bust of Professor Shelley. The letterpress includes an article by Johanees C. Andersen, on “Maori Literature,” and some very interesting personal reminiscences of the late “Jimmy” Nairn, by M. E. R. Tripe. “Art in New Zealand,” Volume 1, No. 2. A quarterly published at 22 Wingfield Street, Wellington. Our copy from the publishers. “Evoe’s” Humour Who better qualified to describe (or invent) “Wonderful Outings,” than E. V. Knox, famous as "Evoe” of “Punch”? And if we have no more outings than that which takes us with him to the studios of the British Broadcasting Company (to deliver a lecture, -with a cold in his head, on “Need We Edvy Our Gradparents?”) we shall have done well. But here are a whole set of outings, some of them ■with “Evoe” himself; some with Uncle James and two amusing small boys, Posh and Charles—all containing that quietly effective , English humour which E. V. Knox's work typifies. A companionable volume,' in pocket format. “Wonderful Outings.” Methuen and Co., Ltd., London. Our copy from tbe publishers direct. The Dividing Fence South Bentley, with its more than precarious grip on the social hem of Bentley Village, saw the birth of Penelope Dane, who early learned at a children’s party, to which she had not been bidden, the bitter lesson that the smugly select can administer to the offspring of the socially impossible. That one brief storming of tbe dividing fence, with its ignominious outcome of being “sent home,” rankled in the mind of the motherless child and haunted her leisure hours when she sought refuge in her own private sanctuary under the crumbling rafters of a forsaken mill. Here solitude and the desire to be under-

stood combined to make a -writer of the lovable outcast and, incidentally, led to an intrigue with the son of the founder of Bentley Village, startling the South Bentley gossips into small talk aud the smugly select across the social hedge into horrified censure. “Penelope’s Web” makes the reader a willing captive at the outset. This novel, with its setting on the fringe of New Y’ork, has an immediate appeal in that it deals with human | situations common in the walks of ! everyday life. ; “Penelope’s Web,” by Harriet T. Com- j j stock. Our copy comes from tlie pub- ; Ushers. Messrs. Angus and Robertson, ! Sydney. Typically Australian j “Miss Billy” is a typical Australian j story that has its opening or a large | sheep run. Willa Morton, commonly known as | “Miss Billy,” is tlie generous, warmhearted elder sister of a large family, who gives with both hands and asks nothing in return. Early in life she forms a giplisli attachment for Will Curtis, the son of the family tutor, who, after taking his degree at Varsity, goes to Queensland, where he eventually Invests In an embryo sugar plantation. Following the death of her parents Miss Billy is thrown on her own resources and takes up the profession of teaching quickly endearing herself to her young charges. Her ready sympathy, however, soon demands a wider outlet and she finds that nursing has a stronger appeal. Then the return of Curtis brings her face to face with the dreams that have lain temporarily dormant in her mind and her thoughts are diverted into the quiet channeds of matured love. The picture of this open-hearted, sympathetic Australian girl, who faces each day bravely as it comes, is vividly drawn.'

“Miss .Billy,” by Constance Mackness Our copy from the publishers, Messrs Angus and Robertson, Sydney.

Jay and Quin. Jay Norton was 23 ancl fed up with village life in Standbridge when the chance came for her to go to New York. An aunt had died and left her an apartment house. So Jay left the pleasant country vicarage with its rose-laden garden, and set out alone and friendless for the great, hungry city. And New Y’ork “got” her, got her with its rush and bustle, got her into its social whirl, got her with its dazzling and ruining shops—got her and held her until it wrung this farewell from the tip of her pen: “Dear Quin, I am going back to Standbridge —to the old ladies and the picnics and socials and the rose garden. The wolves threatened to eat me. lam running away from them.” And she went back. But Quin, whom she had found in New York—Quin went after her. A pleasant story.

“Heydcy.” Jane Abbott. J. B. I.ippincott Co. Our copy from the publishers. When Greek Meets French.

Unlike the modern impressionistic study which has often neither continuity nor proportion, Maxwell St. Bar’s “Kassandine” is a workmanlike novel, covering a long period and many characters, beginning at the beginning and ending at the end. Though sometimes a little involved, the variety of plot, character and description is a real merit. Kassanc.ine, a Greek of the noblest character and the most exalted ideals, is won through subterfuge by a peasant girl of France. Though to him the penalty of dishonour is death, she is unfaithful more than once, and even plans to kill their son. Ultimately she sinks into a boiling whirlpool. Other characters now intervene, until Kassandine, at last finding the woman of his dreams, goes with her to a desert island. “Kassandine.** Max-well St. Bar. JarOur r»p.v from the publishers.