"JUST OUT"—BOOKS WORTH READING

Ladies' Mirror, Volume I, Issue 4, 2 October 1922, Page 30

"JUST OUT"—BOOKS WORTH READING

A Review of Current Literature

pOEMS of Today.” Second Series. A Published for the English Association by Sidgwick and Jackson, Limited, 1922, London. If the war has not yet inspired any poet of outstanding greatness, it has at least quickened the imagination of a number of minor singers, who have crystallised their experience into poetry of a high degree of excellence. These are mostly young men, and their work reflects very clearly the influences and experiences inseparable from a devastating war. Love of their own England, of school, of college and home, of nature, of life, sense of comradeship—all these inspire the writings of these brave young souls. They have passed through strange happenings. They have wrenched themselves apart from the life of peaceful well-ordered routine, and have embarked on a Great Adventure, voyaging with new companions to new countries. Romance has thrilled them, but realism is everywhere about them. And they see life from a new angle. To them came a new vision and a new interpretation, hence we find in them a freshness and a departure from convention, as well as a deeper sense of the mysteries of life and death, and a fuller understanding of what it is that really matters. Among the carefully selected poems in this delightful little anthology may be found many gems. Rupert Brooke is represented by “The Great Lover,” but it is too long to quote here. It is among his best, and contains, moreover, a premonition of his early death. In "Oak and Olive,” by J. E. Flecker, is revealed the longing for England and home that tugs at the heart of most Englishmen:—

“Oh, well I knozv szvect Hellas now, . And zvell I knezv it then. When I with starry lads zvalked out — But, ah! for home again! Was I not bred in Gloucestershire?

One of the Englishmen!”

In ; his “Song of the Saracens” one hears the tramp of the armed men, the rush of the attack

“We are they zvho come faster than , I fate; zve arc they zvho ride early i or late; 1 We storm at your ivory gate; pale ' . kings of the sunset, beware! Not on silk nor in soviet we lie, not j in curtained solemnity die ' Among women zvho chatter and ; cry, and children zvho mumble a

i . prayer. But we sleep by the ropes of the camp, and zve rise zvith a shout, and zve

tramp With the sun or the moon for a lamp, and the spray of the wind in our hair.”

Selections from the pen of Thomas Hardy, John Masefield, John Galsworthy, John Drinkwater and Francis Thompson, are included, since they reflect the present-day spirit. A few women, too, are to be found in this select company. Charlotte Mew is represented by “The. Changeling.” and in “The Little Waves of Breffny” Eva Gore-Booth has imprisoned music of rare sweetness :

“The grand road from the -mountain goes shining to the sea, And there is traffic on it and many a horse and cart, But the little roads of Cloonagh arc dearer, far to me, And the. little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart. •

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill. > And there is glory in it and terror on the wind. But, the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still.

And the little zvinds of tzvilight arc dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic szveep storming on their way, Shining green and silver zvith the hidden herring shoal. But the little zvaves of Brejfny have drenched my heart in spray, And the little zvaves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.’’ It is full of a haunting quality, or is it merely the witchery of the sea? With it may be compared this stately measure of this "Chorus from Hippolytus,” by Gilbert Murray : — "Could I take me to some cavern for mine hiding. In the hilltops zvhcrc the Sun scarce hath trod; Or a cloud make the home of mine abiding, As a bird among the bird-droves of God! Could I wing me to my rest amid the roar Of the deep Adriatic on the shore. Where the zvater of Er an is clear. And Phaethons sad sisters by his grave Weep into the river, and each tear Gleams, a drop of amber, in the zvaz'C! To the strand of the Daughters of the Sunset, The Apple-tree, the singing and the gold; Where the mariner must stay him from his onset. And the red zvavc is tranquil as of old; Yea, beyond that Pillar of the End That Atlas guardeth, zvould I wend; Where a voice of living zvaters never ccaseth In God's quiet garden by the sea, And Earth, the ancient life-giver, increase th Joy among the meadows, like a tree.” These are but a few poems culled from the collection, but they indicate in a measure the beauty and high quality of the selection made under direction of such authorities in English literature as Edmund Gosse, C. 8., and E. V. Lucas. “ f T , HE House of the Beautiful - 1 - Hope,” by Robert-Stuart Christie. Cecil Palmer, ' Oakley House, London. A first novel always brings with it a breath of fragrant anticipation. It is a store house of possible'treasure. One scans' the title page, runs the eye over foreword or - prologue, and then comes the joy of tasting the flavour of the first few sentences. Half a dozen will suffice to reveal the truth about the author—he is an artist or a dauber whether

he has surprised the hidden workings of the human mind, or whether he is merely a superficial trickster.

There can be no doubt about this first story from the pen of Robert Stuart Christie. From the very beginning the attention is secured and maintained until the last word is read. Moreover, there is a freshness of treatment that is intriguing. The two love stories, inextricably mingled as they are, and pulsating with intense feeling, do not alone supply the pathos that amounts almost to tragedy. Over and above this is the development of a soul on the one hand, on the other is the rapid deterioration of the one who puts self and self-inter-est first, until she becomes incapable of fine feeling, or even of understanding anything noble in human nature.

An artist, sincere, utterly unselfish, and guided by high ideals alone, is fascinated by a beautiful face and gracious manners, and wakes up to find that the woman behind used them merely as a mask. In temperament, aims and ambitions, she is of the earth, earthy. When her hard, calculating greed and falsity are revealed to her husband, something dies in him. The mainspring of life is broken. Most mercifully for the saving of his reason he meets with an accident which robs him of memory. And then, amid strange romantic surroundings, he meets a pearl among girls. She is unspoiled and wholly sweet mystic without knowing it —a child-woman of rare clarity of vision. And then Fate, in the form of his wife, intervenes. Suddenly memory returns, and the triangle is straightened out —how, it would not do to tell.

Such a book is not meant for hurried reading. Its romantic atmosphere amid modern surroundings is a distinct departure from the novel of today, and as such it certainly merits a high place among current fiction.

“ A RT in Australia.” Published by J - r *- Art in Australia Limited, Sydney. This fine quarterly maintains its high character, both in the matter of letterpress and illustrations. Among the latter are excellent colour reproductions, of which “Grace,” an oil painting by George Coates, and a landscape by Arthur Streeton, are fine examples. Augustus John’s “Portrait of a Boy” is another notable study. Of the articles much might be said. In the realm of constructive criticism the articles on Art, Literature, Music, and Architecture, as treated by Lionel Lindsay, J. F. Bruce, Howard Ashton, F. Bennieke Hart, Harold Parker, Arthur Jose and Jack Lindsay take a high place. No Australasian art lover can afford to pass them by. Other articles of much interest include one by Hardy Wilson, giving the history and des-

cription of a remarkable model of a horse found in a grave in China, and supposed to have been executed in clay during the Han or Wei Dynasty, about 300 A.D.

Our copies are from Whitcombe and Tombs Limited.