THE BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 613, 15 March 1929, Page 14

THE BOOKMAN

Reviews! & Notes

Have You Read This?

Sir Arthur Quillcr-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, reprinted here, will pleasantly refresh the memories of some and stir the fresh interest of others. (xvl.) DREAM CHILDREN. CHARLES LAMB. -—From the cisay on “Dream Children. It is difficult to write of Charles Lamb (1775-1834) without overworking two words —“ whimsical ” and “charm." For his essays, published as by “Elia," are distinguished to an extraordinary degree by the qualities which those words denote. His humour is as indiuidual as his style, lie is at once recklessly imaginative and the embodiment of common sense, intensely personal ivithout being egotistic, wistful but never sloppy. Entrusted with the care of his sister Mary % who was at times mad and in one frenzy stabbed to death her mother . Charles Lamb devoted liis life to her and never married. But for n long while he was hopelessly in love, and his wistful dreams of what might have been are revealed in “Dream Children,” an extract from “Elia."

HERE the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked up and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother. Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W n, and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens —when suddenly, turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of representment, that 1 became in dcubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright liair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech: “We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are wc children at all. The children of Alice called Bartrum father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence. and a name”—and immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in ray bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen asleep.

POE M. 5. SOLD IN U.S.A.

MAY GO TO BRITISH MUSEUM An autograph copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s masterpiece, “The Raven/* has been sold in New York to a private collector, and it is reported that the manuscript will find its way later to

the British Museum, but whether by purchase or as a gift is not revealed. The poem js dedicated to Poe’s friend. Dr. Samuel Whittaker, of Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, and the manuscript lias been in the family until recently, when, tempted by the high prices now given for literary treasures, a member of the family decided to sell the heirloom.

It was bought through a New York bookseller, Mr. Thomas Madigan, who refuses to divulge the name of the buyer or the manuscript’s ultimate destination. Nevertheless, Americans see the lodging of Poe’s poem in the British Museum as an offset to England’s recent loss of the famous “Alice in Wonderland” manuscript. The price given is understood to run into several thousands of pounds. It is said to be the only manuscript copy in existence. “The Raven” was published in 1845, and soon became popular, but its author received no more than £2 for it. Poe was of English descent, though born in America (in 1809). When he was two years old his father and mother died, leaving the children, William, Edgar and Rosalie, destitute. Edgar was adopted by a tobacco merchant, John Allan, who brought him to England in 1815, and placed him at school in Stoke Newington.

efforts, and so long as complacency fails to find a resting-place in their hearts, further progress is certain. The editors and contributors are the standard-bearers at the head of a thin legion of art-lovers in the Dominion, and for what has already been done they deserve praise. The latest number is devoted almost

exclusively to the work of Auckland artists, and several excellent watercolour and oil pictures are reproduced. Mr. Arnold Goodwin is represented by a bright water-colour sea-scape, and an etching. Mrs. Ella Spicer. Mr. John Haley, and Mr. A. J. Brown also have a set of good water-colours.

Strong and effective work is shown i in the oil portrait by Ida H. Carey, of Hamilton. Mr. Roberts Tole is represented by an oil-painting, “The Rehearsal.” No Auckland art record would be complete without some examples of work of Mr. T. V. Gulliver, an earnest labourer in art’s cause. He is given three full pages, two occupied by delicate pencil sketches and the third by an excellent dry-paint. On the literary side, “Art in New Zealand” is strong, and without contending that there is much pertinence in the comment at this stage, it might be suggested, nevertheless, that the editors should endeavour to encourage as many contributors as possible. Miss Jessie Mackay, in a sprightly article, writes of New Zealand Letters. She has faith, discerning possibilities in the future. She gives a sane survey of the present, and sound criticism of the past. The same faith is shown in the article on “The Future of Fine Art in New Zealand,” written by Mr. Arthur Hirst. Other interesting articles come from the pens of Dr. Cam Duncan and Mr. C. A. Marris. There are also some interesting poems by Miss Eileen Duggan, Mrs. Helena Henderson and Miss Alison Grant. The reproductions have been made successfully, and on the technical side there is very little room for improvement. “Art in New Zealand” has a difficult mission, and it has, on performance so far, shown that it deserves the support of all the people In the Dominion to whom art and literature are vital things. “Art in New Zealand,” our copy from the publishers, H. Tombs, Ltd., Wellington. A Peacock's Gaudy Tale. That the author has allowed a vivid imagination to run away with what promised at first to be an interesting mystery story is the impression left on the reader by Brian Fiinn’s latest novel, "The Mystery of the Peacock’s Eye.” One of the characters is murdered early in the story; but blackmail, the affaires d’amour of a Crown Prince, and the stealing of a large and valued sapphire leave the reader wondering whether the murder was worth while, so inconsequential does it become in the succeeding maze of events. The two detectives seem born muddlers, in whose place It is permissible to sigh for the urban Sherlock and “my dear Watson.” For all that, a story that can safely be read at night—it is neither too blood-curdling nor too gruesome. “The Mystery of the Peacock’s Eye.” Brian Flinn. John Hamilton and Co., Ltd. Our copy from the publishers. The Impish Age of Ten. It seems certain that the somewhat nonchalant title, “Just Jane,” was chosen by Evadne Price with deliberate intent to mislead since Jane, golden-haired and angelic-looking, proceeds to assert herself even in the first few pages with a vigour and intelligence rarely credited to a small person of “barely 10.” Jane’s capacity for getting Into scrapes is only equalled by her agility in getting out of them! There are no dull moments when she is about, for it is not mere mischief, but cold-blooded calculation which produces admiring awe in her co-conspirators and nervous prostration in her elders. An imp truly—but an imp to laugh with in the original stratagems directed so successfully against those unfortunates who have incurred her displeasure. “Just Jane.” Evadne Price. John Hamilton. Our copy from the publishers. Two Lives. Intimate glimpses of the lives of two people, usually man and wife, their trials and so on, have come to stand as a fairly common basis for modern novels of the "problem” pattern; but Sydney Walter Powell’s “Barbe” strikes a note of orginality and unexpectedness; and It is a fascinating book. The writer knows his Africa—the petty intrigues of small towns in the back of beyond, the casual acceptance of some things that are normal parts of such a life, the narrow-minded snobbery of the "social leaders” of such a place, the unique outlook upon life of lonely traders, the workings of the native mind—and he puts it all down iB black-and-white without fear and without offence, and in a pleasant style. The mental agonies of the tempted priest, Father Paul, as Powell tells them, are a striking example of controlled but vivid writing. “Barbe.” Sydney Walter Powell. Hutchinson. Our copy from the publishers.