™ BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 589, 15 February 1929, Page 14

™ BOOKMAN

Reviews fe & Notes§

Have You Read This? Sir Arthur Quillet-Couch, Professor of English Literature at Cambridge, recently chose for "The Daily Mail" a series of short passages, the "purple patches" of English prose. It is hoped that the series, re- \ i printed here, will pleasantly refresh the memories of some and stir the fresh interest of others. A MILKMAID’S SONG IZAAK WALTON. —“Th«> Compleat Angler.’* j Izaiik Walton (1593-1683), by trade an ironmonger and by recreation a fisherman, mas a man of one book, but that a masterpiec-e. "The Compleat Angler," is not only a complete guide to the psychology of fish and the methods of their capture, but a revelat ion of its author’s personality like nothing else in literature. His gentle humour and mellow kindliness are in ref resiling contrast to the stormy time I in which he lived. BUT TURN out of the way a little, j good Scholar, towards yonder high honeysuckle hedge: there we’ll nit and sing whilst this shower falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant meadows. Look, under that broad Beech-tree 1 eat down, when 1! was last this way a-flshiag and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention with an Echo, whose dead voice seamed to live in a hollow cave, near to the brow of that Primrosehill; there I sat viewing the silver streams glide silently towards their centre, the tempestuous sea; yet, sometimes opposed by rugged root 3, and pebble stones, which broke their waves, and turned them into foam; and sometimes I beguiled time by viewing the harmless Lambs, some leaping securely in the cool shade, while others sported themselves in the cheerful Sun: and saw others were craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating Dams. As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my soul with content, that I thought as the Poet has happily expressed it: 3 "was. for that time lifted above earth; And possessed Joys not promised in my 1 birth. ' As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me, ’twas a handsome Milkmaid that had not yet attained so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many things that will never be (as too many men too often do), but she cast away all care, and sung like a Nightingale: her voice was good, and the Ditty fitted tor it; 'twas that smooth song, which was made by Kit. Marlow, now at least 50 years ago: and the Milkmaid’s mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Rawleigh in his younger days. They were old-lashioneci Poetry, but choicely good, I think much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this critical age. Look yonder! on my word, yonder they both be a-milking again, I will give her the Chub, and persuade them to sing those two songs to us.

God speed you good woman, I have been a-flshing, and am going to Bleak-Hall to my bed, and having caught more fish than will sup myself and my friend, I will bestow this upon you and your daughter, for I use to fcdl none.

to the music of life; to the dust of l roads and to the glory of the winds.” ; I take down my well-thumbed copy f of "Streets and Starlight” and idly ; turn the pages. Feterson went through j j the war and suffered much disillusion- i s ment. So much is obvious from the i I nature of such poems as “The Monu- l s ment,” “Fame,” “Bones.” “Poetry is j t produced by the culmination of social j s emotion crystallising in the indivi- j ® dual.” he somewhere tells us. One is „ reminded of this statement when one f reads such lines as:— £ v They are our dead—our dead, my many v i mothers, O German, Belgian, British mothers mine, Our sons, our husbands, and our brothers, *- All lulled to slumber in one sorry a shrine. d It is pleasant, to turn from these * war-time verses with their note of 3 super-sophistication and bitter dis- c illusionment to such a poem as "Night” - —a poem full of the magic of a Shet- r land summer—dim, and full of pity for t the Shetland ponies that are serving f life sentences In the coal mines. And June kneels glimmering at your feet, * Purpling your shimmering, silver waves, I But the comely rovers of yester dawn Are chained to Night with a million slaves, Never again to greet your smile With a gracious wonder, strangely wise, Hill-bred ponies with wind-blown manes, And elfin ponies with kindly eyes. Like the majority of our younger poets, Peterson has experimented with free verse, but unlike the majority of free verse poets he succeeds In painting pictures. It is in a free verse poem named “The Prodigal” that he Bpeaks of “a man under the crouching hills by the shadowy sea who drinks deep, dark sorrow fraught with fear because the shadows sleep and night swoons in lakes of loveliness." Yet while the pictures painted in those free verse poems are very beautiful and very skilfully done, I find myself pausing more and more often over such simple, conventionally metred things as “Old Meldrum.” 'Midst the hurry of the years, Here’s a nook where days do linger. Passing soft with faery feet, Tip-toe, tip-toe through the street, 'Midst the, hurry of the years, Sleepy, grey Old Meldrum. Born and brought up on a handful of rocks flung down at random on the rim of the world, Peterson has listened to the ageless, age-old song of the sea, and his spirit has been permeated with It. The thunder-boom of the wide Atlantic on some western crag. The tiny wavelets on the shingly shore that sadly chant the requiem of departed years. The snap and snarl of the vexed tide-rip by some rocky helyer or by the mouth of some lonely gio—Peterson carries it all in his blood, and as a result he writes much and understandingly of the sea. The greatest of Shetland poets is unquestionably J. J. Haldane Burgess, who died last year, but the poet who has handled the Shetland dialect most ' skilfully Is not Burgess, in my opinion, but Anderson, Basil Anderson. Anderson’s "Aald Maunsie’s Krd” is one of the best dialect poems in English. 1 Peterson is quite at home in the i dialect and has written some charming little poems in it. I wonder how > many readers of The Sun can read ' with understanding such verses as: ! Bricht da toonship lichts is blinkin L Ower \hint da muckle e-lift; And da hurrin horsegock’s birrin * Somewhere i’ da starny lift. or;—• Sho’s a laand ichor winter’s souchin Trow da spondrift an da sqaal, An da smoring mooricavvie Fills da Nort-wind’s cabin waal. S. ANDERSON. Horahora. n

A Detective’s Holiday Detectives, like criminals, have holidays, but do not always have opportunity to enjoy a happy freedom. This, at any rate, was the experience of Inspector Wilson, of Scotland Yard, who, on medical advice and accom- j panied -with his adviser —a sort of poor cousin to Sherlock Holmes’s Dr. Watson —set forth on a walking tour for the purpose of mending his nervous system. The vacation proved to be a busman’s holiday. They came upon almost as many murders and crime mysteries as milestones. Fortunately, for the inspector, extra work did more good to his nerves than routine service had done. He revelled in tasks, with such enthusiasm and benefit as to demonstrate that his doctor’s advice had not been worth a specialist’s fees. Still, it was worth the money to have a medical witness on the spot. Eight different mysteries opened to their investigation and their collaboration was no less clever than that of the authors who conjointly tell the stories of intriguing crime and extraordinary detective ability. Here and there in the ingenious narrative, however, the reader occasionally is tempted to wish that Inspector Wilson might have been given a less arduous holiday. Still, for those who appreciate adventure in the world of criminals, the latest success of the collaborators is worth attention. "Superintendent Wilson’s Holiday," by G. D. H. and M. Cole. W. Collins Sons and Company, Ltd., Glasgow, Sydney, Auckland. Our copy from the publishers direct.

Deceiving Uncle Another, but more than usually amusing, variation of the theme; What a tangled web we weave When first we practise to deceive. Anxious to impress, a young married man, with his wife as an unwilling accomplice, misleads a wealthy uncle by living, ostensibly, in the atmosphere of millions —wealth purely imaginary. Hence the title “Honeymoon Millions.” The mild deception, appearing quite harmless, threatens to fail the conspirators, and to bolster it up fresh excuses and prevarications have to be essayed with the result that the young couple, with fearful steps, totter still further into miry depths where their every effort to extricate themselves is fruitless. In the midst of all this intrigue “the father of all uncles” moves unconsciously. His breezy, forceful character is the greatest charm of Mr. Emery’s story. An unexpected climax frees the young people from the toils of their own deceit and leaves them in the lap of prosperity. "Honeymoon Millions,” by Steuart M. Emery; E. P. Dutton and Co., New York. Our copy from Dymock’s Book Arcade, Sydney.