A Literary Page or Two

New Zealand's biggest newspaper war is being waged in Christchurch at time of writing. Possibly before these notes appear in print at least one of the contestants will have fallen and the battle will be over. Regrettable and all as it is, it seems probable that Christchurch could not really support four dailies. My sympathies are for the poor fellows who may have to find new jobs. The average New Zealand pressman takes a lot of beating. Somehow, New Zealand seems to produce brilliant pressmen with the same facility that it gives to the world brilliant cartoonists. The pity is that any of them are ever forced to leave this country.

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The frontispiece of the December issue of “Art in New Zealand” is, I think, one of the finest examples of colour work reproduction I have seen in this country. The picture is “The Ruawahine,” an oil painting by H. Linley Richardson, R.B.A. Well worth framing, that is, if one does not mind lifting one page from one of the most precious of New Zealand literary and art files. With an eye to the publisher's interests I would suggest buying an extra copy. There are many other fine things in this December issue. On the literary side I was struck with the revelation of another side of the genius of Miss Eileen Duggan. This is her power as a reviewer. She reviews three New Zealand books with uncanny skill.

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All New Zealand writers should beg, borrow, or buy a copy of “The Australian Authors' and Artists' Handbook,” a copy of which I have received from the editor, Mr. W. E. FitzHenry, of “The Bulletin.” Although the directory side deals purely with the Australian field, the supplementing articles are extremely valuable. Here the aspiring writer, artist, song writer, play writer, etc., will find the advice he has been pestering myself and other old hands for, over the last several years. The book is as complete and as satisfying as any young or old newspaper contributor would wish. And all for a modest half-crown.

May Hubert Church be called a New Zealand poet? Eileen Duggan asked this question in the course of a graceful tribute to Church a few years ago. The logical answer is that, although Church was born in Tasmania, he spent the greater part of his life in the Dominion and because most of his verse reflects the colour of this country he belongs to it. No New Zealand poet has made such beautiful and dignified music of his adopted land than has Hubert Church. I might instance “New Zealand,” one of his longest poems, where his words roll out in solemn orchestration in a tribute to this land. Again quoting Miss Duggan: “To appreciate Church's ‘New Zealand’ we should read it in a foreign country where the very names of Cloudy Bay and Egmont would do violence to one's heart.” The great beauties of New Zealand gave Church surges of a mighty exaltation. Driven into himself by his extreme deafness he made music in his own soul, transcribing in majestic language the glories of nature. Leading critics have placed him as one of New Zealand's greatest poets. A. G. Stephens considered that Church's “Ode,” the final poem in his first booklet, was the best poem ever written in New Zealand.

Looking into the life of this poet, the most remarkable fact is that for a long term of years he occupied an inconspicuous desk in the Treasury Department, Wellington. It is incomprehensible to me, as it must be to many, that a man of his temperament could endure such uninspiring toil. His deafness was a severe affliction and narrowed his friendships to a few. The disability dated from his schooldays in England and was due to a blow from a cricket ball. It is sad to note how often the poet reverts to sound in his verse. He writes of “the note-betangled calling, of the birds and rivulets entwined.” Again: “To listen to a waterfall that winnows slumber thro' the pines.” Then, when writing of Sinclair Head, he speaks of “the wild surges chanting without end.” Finally the pathetic thought in his beautiful poem “Echo”:

Sweet Echo so divinely heard
Distributing a spirit word,
How rich the benison you give
For weary listeners to receive.

Although comparatively an old man when the Great War broke out, Church went to London and did voluntary war work there with his wife. After the war he settled in Melbourne still clinging, as he had done through all his wanderings, to his small library of rare books. He died there in 1932.

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Book-plate collecting may bring one in touch with all manner of notable people. Every mail brings me letters from strange folk and strange places, but I hardly thought it would give me contact with Royalty. It came recently in the form of an imposing looking envelope, the flap of which was ornamented with a huge silver seal. Inside was the gorgeously coloured book plate of Le Prince Eugene Lascaris. A letter in French, on chaste notepaper ornamented with the Royal Arms, conveyed the intimation that His Highness was pleased to exchange plates with me. “Agreer, cher Monsieur,” concluded the princely missive, “l'assurance de ma parfaite estime. Votre tres devoue.

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Eugene.” The Prince sent me also a photo of himself, his wife and child. The letter may be a valuable passport one of these days when I make enough money from writing these notes to travel abroad!

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