A JACOBITE WHO JOKED

New Zealand Listener, Volume 10, Issue 252, 21 April 1944, Page 18

A JACOBITE WHO JOKED

Centennial of Andrew Lang

(Condensation of a talk prepared by

ALAN

MULGAN

and broadcast trom

2YA)

E are told we needs must. | love the highest when we. see it, and no doubt we should. But in literature, as in life, it is not only the highest that attracts. Sometimes the lesser man is loved better than the greater. Charles Lamb has won much more affection from his readers than Milton. Many a smaller man than Lamb on the roll of letters keeps a place of his own with the lover of books long after he has passed away. So we mark to-day (April 2, 1944) the centennial of Andrew Lang, who was not a great poet or a great prose writer, but who was very gifted in both lines. He was, indeed, a minor genius. The chatm of the man, which is still fragrant after many years, lies not only in these gifts, but in his rare personality, his versatility, his gaiety, the breadth and depth of his interests, his zest for life, and his genius for friendship. For more than 40 years he was a figure that none could ignore. He was leaderwriter, essayist, poet, novelist, critic, publisher’s reader, anthropologist, historian and translator. So large and ‘varied was his output that someone said he must be a syndicate. Yet he found plenty of time to fish for trout, and if you went to Lord’s for an important match, you would probably see him sitting through the afternoon there, for cricket was another of his loves. Parodying an old ballade, he wrote one of the best cricket poems:

The burden of hard hitting-Slog Away! Here shalt thou make a "five" and t a "four," And then upon thy bat shall lean and say, That thou art in for an uncommon score. Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, : And thou to rival Thornton shall aspire, . When low, the umpire gives thee legbefore, This is the end of every man’s desirel And the envoy of this ballade runs: Alas, yet liefer on youth’s hither shore Would I be some poor player on scant hire Than king among the old who play no more, This is the end of every man’s desire! This man who could enjoy cricket in the sun co-operated in what is probably the most popular translation of Homer. He wrote a sofinet on the Odyssey, which is fit to go into the best company; he was a pioneer in modern anthropology; he wrote, among other books, a history of Scotland and a biography of Joan of Arc; besides writing novels of his own, he collaborated in one with Rider Haggard; and as an essayist he was one of the most learned and witty of his time. He Preferred Journalism Lang got a fellowship at Merton College, and might have settled down for the rest of his life as a don. But the (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) academic life attracted him less than London journalism. In 1875 he married, gave up his fellowship, and started his astonishing career in London. He made his mark at once, as a man would who could write well about anything anywhere at any time. You sometimes hear journalism compared very unfavourably with literature-"Meré journalism," "Good journalism but not literature," and s0 on. The fact is there is no clear dividing line between the two. Journalism is often literature. Andrew Lang proved it, and he was only one of many. He touched nothing that he did not adorn. When he wrote, he wrote well, with charm, wit, style, and no scholar-and he was a very fine scholar-ever bore his learning more lightly. For years and years he was one of the shining figures in the world of English letters. His biographer in the D.N.B. calls him "the greatest bookman of his age, and after Stevenson the last great man of letters of the old Scottish tradition." Anthropologist It was his work in anthropology that Lang considered his most important. By comparing the folk lore of many countries, some of them separated by the width of the world, and drawing conclusions from this comparison, he changed the face of the science. He found that many tales were common to many peoples; the names were different but the stories were the same. This folk lore has been cofisidered a literary offshoot of primitive mythology. Lang showed that it was the foundation of such mythology. Bear in mind that he did this before the late Sir James Frazer wrote his epoch-making work, The Golden Bough. Yet Lang could get fun out of this serious subject. Consider this "Ballade of Primitive Man." He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon mn ae and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a But he shaved with a s i when he chose, "Twas the manner of primitive He eahle the rain and the breeze, He worshipped the river that The get And the and the Moon, the trees, And bogies, and serpents, and crows, He buried the dead with their toes Tucked up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under ‘their nose, *Twas the manner of Primitive Manl Jacobite Lang was a Jacobite-with reservations. He wrote a biography of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and one gathers that the Prince wasn’t quite so bonnie to Lang as he was to some other Scots. Lang preferred the Old Pretender. Two of his most poignant poems were written about the tragedy. of the "Forty-Five," and Charles Edward. Here is Lang’s picture of Charles Edward as a child, as a young man, and after. In the whole of Jacobite re is there anything more moving? These portraits describe the Young Pretender at ‘different ages11, 24 and 53. THREE ron® [od PRINCE gro ms ing Mirthtul and tender, and thes My heart is heavy for theel

(24) Beautitul face of a youth, As an eagle poised to fly forth, To the old land loyal of truth, To the hills, and the sounds of the North; Fair tece, daring and proud, Lo! the shadow of doom even now, The fate of thy line, like a cloud, Rests on the grace of thy browl (53) Cruel and a face, Hateful a heavy with wine Where are the gladness, the grace, The beauty, the mirth that were thine? — Ah, my Prince, it were wellHadst thou to the gods been dearTo have fallen where Keppoch fell, With the war pipe loud in thine earl To have died with never a stain On the fair White Rose of Renown, To have fallen, fighting in vain, For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown! More than thy marble pile, With its women weeping for thee, Were to dream in thine ancient isle, To the endless dirge of the sea!