THE BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 725, 26 July 1929, Page 14

THE BOOKMAN

Reviews! TSotesj —— '(

DOWELL O’REILLY

AN AUSTRALIAN DREAMER (Written for TUB SUN} T ETTERS are like diaries. They show the mind in its working clothes. They lack artificialities because they are not written for effect. They may laugh, sob, or yawn, without needing to hide the emotion. Especially is this so in the case of diaries, but it is also the case of letters when they are written to a soul at one with the writer. Perfect trust brings perfect frankness. Which brings me to these charming, wistful letters written by that vivid, whimsical Australian, Dowell O'Reilly. Those who have followed the history of the short story on Australia cannot fail to regret his death, just when serenity was within touch of him. He was the sou of an Irish canon and inherited from him the qualities of the Celt. Celts love forays, but weary of campaigns—and life was a campaign to Dowell O’Reilly. He writes down .this clearly in these letters to his second wife. "I was defrauded of youth. 1 never, except for six wonderful weeks among wild mountains, knew serene heavenly happiness that leaves its mark on the soul just as sorrow does—except in glimpses.” # The Celt again, you see! But those glimpses had their own peculiar power. I remember a Celtic doctor saying once that “to be happy chronically would be Hell!” O’Reilly did not share his sentiments. To the end of his life, evidently, he sought peace, which always, by some hide-and-seek perversity, evades its seekers. His wife’s death left him with the care of three children, children whom we feel we know intimately by the 1 ime the book ends. He had been in his day schoolmaster, member of Parliament, and finally a Government clerk, so that he knew all sides of

life. The letters were written during the war period, and the glimpses given of the lonely, scattered little household are at times poignant. Take the dinner O’Reilly gave at which foregathered those ripe wits, Chris. Brennan, Julian Ashton, the artist, J. J. Quin and Lionel Lindsay. “1 wish,” he says, “you could have heard dear old Julian Ashton inveigh against the great masses of wattle. Imagine large trees one mass of sulphur yellow blossom, soft as the down from a canary’s breast. These blaze everywhere in the bush in early spring. Julian objects to our Lady Nature, with her admirable taste in dress, so far forgetting herself as to introduce these splashes of violent yellow. I see what he sees. But I refuse to feel it.” Then comes a rueful description of his little daughter, Pixie, discovered in the early hours in a tumbled, leggy heap of weariness after clearing away the broken meats. After thinking of them as children it came as a shock to see an interview with a married Pixie in a recent “Mirror.” She writes, too, under the name of Patricia O’Rane, strange stoic little stories. The sketch of her was by her brother, evidently the little Brien, the “Whitehaired boy” of the book. They have heard in their childhood the finest talkers in Australia. The letters, written to his first cousin, give many facets of Australian life. "Hughes was a scissors-grinder when he entered Parliament (with me) twenty years ago. He is Welsh, Celtic, a wonderful duodecimo edition of brain, will and imagination. He weighs Sst Gib, has wretched health, and has been the drivingforce in Federal politics since the Commonwealth was founded in 1900.” He explains carefully, too, what the adoption of Protection meant to the election prospects of Hughes, whose constituents were wharfworkers. And there is a curiouslypointed little comment on A. G. Stephens’s “Book-fellow,” which had been trouncing the Labour Government. “Its abuse is grotesque, yet for Art’s sake, right. Art requires a leisured class, a decadent society.’ ” Little wisdoms of his on art and life are equally well worth recording: “Does the skylark sing because he must? Shelley talks about ‘profuse strains of unpremeditated art.’ Unpremeditated fiddlesticks! The skylark sings because he wills to sing: his song and Shelley’s sprang not from the power to sing, nor from the desire to sing, but from the imperious self in each—the will to sing.” Alas, he himself, who had the power to write, too often lacked the will. He had in over-generous mea-su-e that setise of futility that springs from a feeling that all has been at-

tempted before. There warred in him two cries, the "I am I” of Magda and the dirge of the Celt, “They went out to battle, but they always fell.” This he says of life: “The intellectual man has no sentimental dreams about life; he knows that sooner or later it must die—with the dying stars —why not sooner?” There is a very fastidious undercurrent of tenderness in the letters that deepens into love more like the love of an Arthurian Knight than of a modern Australian. Occasionally an Australian phrase comes almost as a shock. His stories are of the soil, but his letters, curiously enough, are European. He “is too sensitive, too sorrowful ever to be taken as a type of an objective, sunny continent. His romance, though born in wartime, was the most tranquil and real thing that he, the fevered dreamer, had known. It has the rich, quiet blaze of a St. Martin's Summer. EILEEN DUGGAN. Wellington.

| Books Reviewed |

"BEAUTY CN EARTH.” JULIETTE Milliquet is the Beauty which the turn of fortune brings to one small corner of Earth, a French Alpine village. Accustomed to the peasant type, the villagers find in this ! half-French, half-Spanish orphan from Santiago a new realisation of beauty. The story tells of her brief, unhappy story with her innkeeper uncle and his 1 shrew of a wife; of her refuge with Rouges, the fisherman by the lake; and of how she finds the one link with ; her former happy existence in Cuba in the music which Urbain the hunch- : back draws magically from his ac- | cordion. And it is the call of his ! music which frustrates the plans of 1 all who would have possessed for ' themselves this “Beauty on Earth.” ; The author, C. F. Ramuz, the jacket tells us, is a Yaudois who at 50 has attained an international reputation. This is said to be “the most recent and mature” of his novels. It is certainly a very firm and vital piece of work. “Beauty on Earth.” C. F. Ramuz. G. P. Putnam’s Sons. Our copy from the publishers. In Three Colours. Jonathan Cape, Ltd., faced no inconsiderable task when they started to compile their Children’s Library. The books, graded according to age, and dignified by a succession of colours, range over the great stories and myths of the world. And it must be said that Mr G. B. Harrison, who is responsible for the editing of the books, has done his work well. The Blue Book (up to seven years) contains some of the old stories oi Greece, simply told, and with a charm that will make Nature live for the imaginative child. The Green Book | (up to 10 years) is the book of the j sea, and Drake and Magellan and the 1 old mariners come alive in its pages. The Red Book is for older children. ■ and the strange wild myths and sagas 1 of the Norsemen form the theme of its ! stories. * It is well to be cautious when considering the purchase of any work of educational interest for a young niece or nephew, but even the most discriminating and sensitive of uncles ! and aunts may rest assured that the Green Book, the Blue Book, and the Red Book will meet with the approval of the most critical young foil:. (i) “Greek Nature Stories.” E. 1. Robson, (ii) “A Rook of Seamen.” F. H. Doughty, (iii) “Tales of the Norsemen.” B. A. F. Wallis. Jonathan Cape. Oar copies from the publishers. By A Christchurch Author. “This is real Wild West stuff,” said “T.P.’s Weekly” in reviewing “Jean Of The Tussock Country,” the first novel from the pen of the Christchurch author, Walter Smyth. The second of Mr Smyth’s books to be published (a third has been accepted for publication), “The Girl from Mason’s Creek,” is equally full of exciting incident. The scene is laid in the New Zealand hill country between the Mason Creek station and a poWer construction camp, and the story opens with an attack upon the camp paywagon by a band of strikers whom the construction company has recently dismissed. The strikers do not get the money, but someone does. Suspicion falls now upon one, now upon another, but the guilt is cunningly concealed until the last chapter. Jess Sinclair, a rabbiter’s daughter, is the heroine and a stranger camped in the heart of the bush lends a fine air of mystery to the tale. There is some shooting, considerable drinking, much hard work, a pig hunt, a thrilling rescue, an illicit still and two or three good fights to help keep things moving in merry fashion. Mr Smyth has not attempted to sketch New Zealand character, but he gives a tolerably good picture of the j?ough-and-readi-ness of life in the back country, and has succeeded in capturing some ar resting landscapes. “The Girl from Mason’s Creek.” Walter Smyth. Mills and Boon. Our copy lrorj Whitcombe and Tombs. Sombre Hues. A story revolving round four char- i acters only—two men and two women —concerned with absolutely nothing but their loves and jealousies, and relentlessly pursued to an inevitable and disastrous conclusion for each of the unhappy four: that is Kathleen Freeman’s latest novel “This Love.” It is an admirable if sombre study in psychology, well constructed and showing a subtle observation of human nature. “This Love.'* Kathleen Freeman. Jonathan Cape. Our copy from the publishers. More About Physics The latest addition to the excellent little series of monographs on physical subjects issued by Messrs. Methuen is a worthy successor to the three earlier volumes. It should prove a welcome addition to the student’s bookshelf. The book deals in a technical manner with the conduction of electricity through gases, but it is clearly written and can be understood easily by those who have a grounding in the subject. The writer compiled this volume largely from authoritative works, a list of which is given for the information of students who wish a fuller knowledge of any particular aspect of the subject. “'The Conduction of Electricity Through Gases.” K. G. Emeleus, M.A., Ph.D.,, Methuen and Company, London. Our copy from the publishers.

An Intimate Picture The history and development of the average family as it stands today is told from the mother’s point of view in “The Pendulum,” by Mrs. Burnett-Smith. The book describes the struggles throughout the great period of change which has taken place in family life in the past twenty years—the change, and its effects on the parents who have been compelled to watch their children departing from the standards laid down by an earlier generation. The greater part deals with the war period and the effects which it had on the life of England. The struggles of two people, happily married for many years and faced, thanks to the mental changes wrought by the social upheaval, with the break-up of their lives and with apparent disaster to their children, are depicted with wonderful skill and insight. The efforts of the mother, who sees her husband growing farther away from her every day, to continue to guard her children and to keep them from what she considers to be the evils of modern society and at the same time to keep from them her own trouble, are the theme of the story. The book gives

an excellent picture of middle-class family life. It is probably an accurate account of what must have happened in many homes whose occupants were unable to adjust themselves immediately to the new conditions brought about by the war. Though, in places, it is crudely written the fact that the writer is supposed to be a “plain woman” and therefore not a practised author excuses this and, according to a foreword, “the story is a true record of things which happened to certain persons in the war and no incident has been imagined, exaggerated or misrepresented." I “The Pendulum,” by Mrs. BurnettSmith. Published by Hodder and Stoughton, Limited, London. Our copy from the publishers’ Sydney agent. A Cheap Eclipse. Mr S. P. B. Mais has been a proific writer, and most of his books have “go.” A 3/6*reprint of “Eclipse,” first published in 3 925, makes good reading, /fluent dialogue, and plenty of it, the people being fashionables, artists, nannequins, and others, getting their love-affairs not too seriously tangled. “Eclipse.” S P. B. Mais. The Richards Press. Our copy from the publishers. Palludian Philosophy. Meet Gregory Forrest—an elusive yet powerful figure, American by birth, philosopher by nature and Conte di Palladia by right of purchase. He is the creation of Anna Robeson Burr, and she surrounds him with an aura o£ aloof mystery, though his changing background, the Maine coast, the secluded English forest, and later Rome, she details in clear-cut impressionistic style. Thero is no lack of incident or depth; one reads with the pleasant feeling of something intriguing to happen just over the page. The other characters. Alba, ward to Palludia, aud Amory, his nephew, in whose affairs the reader is chiefly concerned, play but subsidiary roles. Palladia dominates, whether as dreamer, j artist or statesman; yet one does not ' weary of his power, since one never i quite comes to grips with his person- j ality. He is known only by his rela- I tions to others—“ One was always ! stumbling over the threshold of Greg- 1 orv’s mind and picking oneself up with a sense of injury.” The writer’s theme and philosophy are treated in an unusual and readable style. “Palludia.” Anna Robeson Burr. Andrew Melrose, Ltd., Londc:’ Our copy from the publishers. The Scarlet Pimpernel Again. The picturesque figure of the Scarlet Pimpernel flashes his way through urther adventures in Baroness Orczy’s .atest novel, “Sir Percy Hits Back.” /here are Armand Chauvelin, at home t good parent, but at heart a loyal itoyen and thorough disciple of the yrannous gospel of Danton and lobespierre; his daughter, demure ittle Fleurette of Lou Mas, from whom he father hides the darker side of his ature; Amede Colombe, her lover; nd last but not least, the Scarlet .’impernel himself. Sir Percy Blakeley, and his band of adventurous colcagues. The old, brisk, thrilling stuff. “Sir Percy Hits Back.” Baroness Orczy. Hodder and Stoughton, Ltd (3/6 edition). Our copy from the publishers’ Australian representative. For Business Men For the man who is not ambitious, Herbert N. Casson’s latest work, “The Twelve Worst Mistakes in Business,” has no appeal. The author attacks several of the time-worn axioms of business, and provides a tonic for the downhearted. “The old-fashioned, casual way of doing business has now become dangerous,” states the author. “There is a new knowledge abroad in the world, and gradually we are learning to have a greater measure of control than our fathers ever i dreamed of. Our ideal will be reached ! when we can say, as Drake did, at j the end of one of his cruises:—‘All ! that I have said I would do, I have I done.’ ” The author shows that nothing is impossible in modern business.

“The Twelve Worst Mistakes in Business,” by Hei'bert N. Casson. Our copy comes to hand direct from the publishers, Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Sydney.

“There Is A Younger Generation ”

T‘ HERE is always "a younger generation.” This is how Mr Hugh Walpole traces the arrival of i that which is now knocking at the door; IS9s—Bennett, Wells, Conrad. Galsworthy. 1900—John Oliver Hobbes, Zack, George Douglas. 1910—Forster, Lawrence, Brett Young, Mackenzie, Onions. 1915—Robert Nicholls, Wyndham Lewis, Sassoon, W. H. Davies. 1920—Huxley, Virginia Woolf, Blun- | den, and 1930 | Mr Harold Acton, poet and novelist. Mr Robert Byron, art critic, j Mr Christopher Hollis, Catholic j apologist, Mr Peter Quennell, poet and critic. Mr Adrian Stokes, philosopher, j And Mr Evelyn Waugh has very conI veniently defined the “spirit of the | age,” the spirit this younger generation is going to express, if it can. Mr Waugh—the startling Alec’s startling younger brother—rides with it. "I see,” he says, “certain common tendencies which may be called’ the Spirit of the Age. One is a tendency to be bored with the problems of Sex and Socialism, which so vexed our seniors; another is the horror of the *ye olde’ picturesque folk-dancing art-and-crafty relaxations of our seniors; another is a disposition to regard very seriously mystical experience and the more disciplined forms of religion; another is a complete freedom from any kind of prudery, from either the Victorian facility of being shocked or the Edwardian will to shock; and lastly, we all have the earnest wish (hat people will soon realise that there a younger generation!” A little bird, twice immortal, ana tn its end more fortunate than they. I have only one complaint to make of Hardy. He never read “Wuthering Heights.” The reason he gave will make you like him more than ever. He said he heard it was depressing. Well, ladies, don’t worry. I guess be will find a copy there. Our greatest woman. A Word to the Young. Before sitting down just a word of warm greeting to those with whom the future lies. Your motto, I suppose, is “Whatever was, is wrong,” and though it is possibly wanting in perfection 1 am sure it is better than the one that I now see did for me, “Whatever is, is Hght.” Be bold. May you scale Parnassus; if you think it is pleasant up there. Hail and farewell. Is it true that some of you recently climbed a mountain to see the sun rise, and when it rose you diSn’t think much of it, so you hissed? Well, a magViificent gesture. At any rate, be forbearing, won’t you, with the old ’uns, though we may occasionally forget our missions and steal out to smell a rose. I suppose the roses were shown up long ago. Perhaps Shelley and Hardy were all wrong about the skylark. Let us keep it dark. And so, ladies and gentlemen, your servant. However reprehensibla It may in novels, all speeches have a happy ending.

Poets' Corner

SONNET

[Written for The Sun. 3 I thought my soul companioned hers at will. The fair familiar chambers of her mind Were free to me as the free sun and wind: No secret places, windowless and still, No fastness but the keys of love might find A penetrable bower, lit, and kind, And sweet with her own graciousness—until. Mysterious as the knowledge of the blind, Intangible as echoes in the air, Imponderable as shadows on the wall, I felt the bar that held me from some shrine, A hidden threshold, and a strangeness where Love and dear daily use on silence fall, And no light shines from any torch of mine, ALICE A. KENNY. Pacroa. THE MING VASE (Written for THE SUN) She sits beside the lake all day, The rose-winged heron drinks his fill Contentedly. In flowered robe gay, She sits beside the lake all day. Held in a gracious dream alway By artistic hands, that long are still She sits beside the lake. All day The rose-wingecl heron drinks his fill. S. M. SUNLEY.

BOOKS IN DEMAND AT THE AUCKLAND °UBLIC LIBRARY

FICTION “ SHOW BOAT," by Edna Ferber. “ THE BROWN DOOR," by R. Oakeshott. “ THE WOUNDED NAME," by D. K. Broster. “ SCARLET CABLESby Catherine Dodd. “ KITH AND KIN," by E. C. Booth. ‘■THE STORM OF STEEL," by Ernst Jiinger. “SQUAD," by J. Wharton. “ CHILD OF THE DEEP," by Joan Lowell. “ the love of the foolish ANGEL," by Helen Beauclerk. “ TALES OF MYSTERY AND IMAGINATION," by Edgar A. Poe. NON-FICTION “FRINGE OF THE MOSLEM WORLD,” by Harry Frank. “FIELD-MARSHAL EARL HAIG." by J. Charteris. “ THE GREAT GALILEAN," by R. Keable. » “ THE LOG OF THE ‘ CUTTY SARK, 1 ” by Basil Lubbock. “ THE CONQUEST OF THE AIR," by C. L. M. Broicn. “JANUS. OR THE CONQUEST OF WAR.” by William McDougall. “ TWO PLAYS," by Lion Feuchticanger. “LORD SHAFTESBURY," by J. Wesley Bread u. “IS LABOUR LEAVING SOCIALISM." by L. Haden Guest. “ THE SUN, THE STARS AND THE UNIVERSE," by W. M. Smart.