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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 13, Issue 7 (October 1, 1938)

Among the Books

page 47

Among the Books

A Literary Page or Two

It was too late to refer in last month's issue to the passing of Miss Jessie Mackay, New Zealand's sweetest and gentlest poet. I will not elaborate on her gracious years of life. Full justice to this aspect has been conveyed in many articles, kindest and most appreciative of them all being from the pen of Eileen Duggan. I have enduring memories of Miss Jessie that will live with me in the many beautiful letters she wrote to me, and also in the messages she penned for me in her several books of verse. Possibly one of the last letters she wrote was to the P.E.N. on 10th June. It was a reply to a letter of hope and encouragement in her illness, and read as follows:—

“The beautiful greetings and kind wishes of the New Zealand Centre of the P.E.N. carry an uplift all their own in these days of lowered vitality. The P.E.N. from the first gave all for nothing to a representative who could not be present. But at least we are New Zealanders all, and very sweat to an old pioneer are the praises and encircling goodwill of those who carry New Zealand's banner now to far and high places.

Yours always,

Jessie Mackay.”

A beautiful letter and so typical of the writer.

* * *

Many congratulations have been showered on Miss Eileen Duggan over the fact that she has been offered and has accepted an American market for her poems by Macmillans, the English publishers. This means that her last collection of verse, published by Allen and Unwin, with the addition of a few more poems, is to be published in book form in America. I hope that the publishers will allocate at least a hundred or two copies of the American book to this country. Apart from collectors who will be almost frantically seeking for possession of this new edition, there are many keen admirers of Miss Duggan's verse who will be anxious to add the American edition to their libraries. Miss Duggan's books threaten to become bibliographic rarities. Her first booklet, published by the “New Zealand Tablet,” is unprocurable, “Bird Songs” is out of print, and the Allen and Unwin edition of her verse is selling out rapidly.

* * *

Book lovers who have a habit of making Dunedin a landmark because of Newbolds' wonderful secondhand bookshop, will be interested to hear that the establishment has been taken over by a company with the present manager, Mr. Dick White, as managing director. Mr. White has an encyclopaedic knowledge of books, and in appearance and personality fits in admirably with the massive shelves of books that tower around him on all sides. There are thousands upon thousands of books in Newbolds. Many of ancient vintage. It took Dick White years of work to shelve and itemise them, but that was before the good old days, when I used to rummage (sometimes even on my hands and knees) in the glorious disorder.

* * *

Book design for Eric Reeves by Stuart Peterson.

Book design for Eric Reeves by Stuart Peterson.

Reviews.

“Think and Grow Rich,” by Napoleon Hill (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is, to use the words of the sub title, an exposition of “the James Andrew Carnegie formula for money-making based upon the thirteen proven steps to riches.” Seeing the book comes from America the average person might think that the author is out to prove his theories by the simple expedient of getting the public to buy his book. However, the author discusses his subject with obvious sincerity, and a manifest desire to help others to become rich. If he succeeds in making successful converts to his religion of the Golden Calf, the world will quickly be peopled with millionaires. Apparently the first step towards the accumulation of millions is the fanatic desire to be rich and a definite idea of the sum desired. The second rule of the race for riches is that entrants must go just one step beyond the point at which defeat has overtaken them. Also you must turn over the pages of your dictionary and neatly strike out the word “impossible.” Complete faith in oneself and in riches is essential. The author elaborates on his plan in a most interesting and I must admit convincing manner. His ideas are wrapped up in the experience of more than five hundred men of great wealth. He shows how these clever people sold their personal services, and one wonders if many of them did not do the job so thoroughly that they sold their souls as well. I am so interested in this book that I will wait eagerly on the possible sequel, i.e., having gained riches how is one to regain happiness?

* * *

“Wind in Spring,” by Alison Mc-Dougall (Angus & Robertson) is a novel of character. There is a quiet strength about the composition of the page 48 story, a keen knowledge of the artistic temperament and a clear cut analysis of three nationalities, English, Latin and Australian. The story itself is colourful and interesting. In short, you can see that this is more than an average novel. We are going to watch the progress of the authoress with interest. The central characters are Freda, the Australian girl, unselfish and artistic, and her lover, and later her husband, Jeffrey, a self-absorbed and brilliant novelist. Their adventures and their interrupted love-making in Spain, then on the verge of its present tragic war, in England with its sometimes superficial art and literary circles, and then in the great Australian continent, build up into a most interesting story.

* * *

“The Modern Ballroom Dance Instructor” is the last word in handbook form of modern dance rhythms, by Miss Adela Roscoe and Mr. Cyril Palmer, British Professional champions for 1937. All the ballroom gyrations are dealt with, from the waltz to the rumba. Robertson & Mullens (Melbourne) are the publishers.

* * *

“The Mysterious Valley,” by G. W. Wicking (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a plain story of love and adventure. Harry Dexter, a popular footballer is menaced with T.B. and his employer provides him with a wonderful caravan so that he might seek for gold in the waybacks of Australia. He meets with adventures in plenty through becoming involved in a tangle of mystery and crime. This is a good exciting novel for a train journey.

* * *

“Round and About,” by G. E. Hunter of Wellington, is an entertaining booklet of travel memories. There is no attempt at a connected story of the writer's journeys to other lands, yet the various chapters do not lose in interest on this account. The author is a keen observer of places and people. He takes us to Bombay, London, Britain, Pitcairn, Panama, Jamaica, etc., and records his impression of these places in an unusual yet easy style of writing.

* * *

“Swinging Into Golf,” by Ernest Jones and Innes Brown (Angus & Robertson, Sydney), is appropriately described on its jacket as a book that “will help the great army of labourers to become players.” The American edition of this book has already run into four large printings. In text and diagram it seems to be the last word in simple and effective instruction. This is the opinion of an expert—not myself, for my knowledge of the game is imperfect.

* * *

“The Victorian Era,” by Professor Walter Murdoch (A. & R. Sydney), discusses the strength and weakness of the greatest period in English history. Here, indeed, is a fascinating subject with one of the finest critical writers of the day as commentator. The period is examined mostly through the quality of its literary productivity.

* * *

“The Auld Sinner,” by Cowan Harper (Professor S. Angus, of St. Andrews College, Sydney), is one of the most remarkable stories published by Angus & Robertson. Davy Duncan, a lovable old character in an Ulster village, personifies the title of the story. Though in the eyes of his kirk frequenting neighbours, he is beyond the pale, he has a greater Christianity than they, for he practises the greatest of all virtues, charity. Each incident or chapter of the story reveals his lovable personality, but it is not until after his death that his neighbours realise that old Davy will be waiting at the Gate for them in the hereafter.

* * *

Stephen Gerard, a young Wellington pressman, evidently loves adventure, because of the thrill and the copy there is in it. I believe he has made some remarkable journeys in open boats. One of such adventurings he describes in his book” Strait of Adventure,” recently published by A. H. & A. W. Reed. It is a fitting opening to a very interesting collection of tales about old-time navigators and warriors, of Cook Strait and its environs. In this opening chapter, which has a fine graphic style about it, Gerard describes a lone journey he made in a “somewhat unorthodox yacht” from Lyttelton to Wellington. Then he opens for us many interesting pages of history. We meet Te Puni, Bully Hayes, Ensign McKillop, the lonely lighthouse-keeper on the Brothers, and Te Rauparaha, and visit with the author places coloured with the purple patches of the past—Greville Harbour, Tua Marina, and Cannibal Cave. The book is well-written and well-illustrated, and should meet with a popular demand.

Several times I have referred to the poetic gift of Douglas Stewart, of Eltham. The latest news about this promising writer, now on the staff of the Sydney “Bulletin” is that a collection of his poems, “The White Cry,” is to be published by Dent's. In a preliminary announcement the publishers state:—”Douglas Stewart is a young New Zealand poet whose romantic and swift-flowing verse is enriched with the scene, the mood, and the character of his own country and his own people. He does for the Antipodes what Roy Campbell, a poet of similar impulse, does for Africa. The fine sensuous imagery, the almost Swinburnian rhythm of his poetic verse, the immediate intelligibility of its content, offer another proof of the fact that our younger generation of poets is returning once more to a joy of life, to a faith in love, and a sense of an audience to whom they offer work which can be immediately understood and enjoyed.”

* * *

“The Making of a Scientist,” by Raymond L. Ditmars (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) tells weird and wonderful stories of a scientist's adventurings in the animal kingdom. As a boy the author was the terror of the neighbours because of the strange and uncanny pets he harboured around his home. When his hobby turned to snakes the police intervened. Later, young Ditmars realised his ambition, and became an assistant at a big American museum. Later he journeyed with famous scientists in search of animal wonders. They met the tropical frog that is a giant when young and dwindles to a dwarf with age; they met a multitude of snakes and all manner of extraordinary reptiles. There is a quaint chapter on monkeys, the story of a bear hunt, the quest of the giant bat, etc. Altogether, the book is as engrossing as a detective thriller. Many plates illustrate this beautifully produced volume.

page 49

The Peerless Playground of New Zealand

(Continued from page 16).

Sounds diadem of beauty. Here the trees are the thickest, the waters clearest, the panoramas richest in surprise, the changing views daintiest in their delicate adornment.

The soft-coloured hills here ring waterways that are in all shapes and sizes, from the tiny tarn to the long narrow fiord. Now and again a slender pass unexpectedly broadens a little and appears to be proud of displaying a small beach of glittering sand. Now and again the emerald waters are fathomless right to the rocky or bush-clad shore.

Reflections are myriad, and the moving ripple of the launch's wake makes crazy patterns in the mirrored picture of tree and hillside.

It was heartbreaking to leave the defiles of Tennyson Inlet, but another kind of beauty was now emerging. As the board waters of the Tawhitinui Reach flashed in the sunlight, they gaily turned a washing blue, and, by manoeuvring the launch, my friend of the camera got a peep through the distant miles of the northern Pelorus Sound at the entrance to the open sea.

I advise folks taking trips about the Sounds to take a map. It is impossible to remember where you are, or where directions lie, in this delightful but confusing maze of channel and hillside. I can quite understand our host telling us that it was years before he would risk a night journey. “No traffic signs,” he said, “and no corners to recognise.”

The journey home was just as fascinating. We called in at “Homewood” to find the meeting over. Launches were leaving in various directions, rowboats busily plying between the shore and the bigger craft, folks going aboard in the matter of fact fashion of a crowd getting into taxis on the arrival of the “Limited” at Wellington. And again we called at landing-places of various designs, and deposited passengers.

Then came Sunday; Sunday morning was the “Sontag” of Bendl's tone poem.

Dreaminess was over everything. The sun was hot on the wide verandah, flowers glowed, and a blue-eyed small guest named Margaret Ann floated joyously about the pretty grounds like a piece of coloured thistledown. Even The Portage wharf lost its mundane air and seemed to be a toy standing on satin.

In many respects, the long views here resemble those at Lake Waikare-Moana. Here are the same successive mystery ridges, fading in the distance to a blue haze. But here, one knows, that between those far lines of veiled mountain heights are hidden winding reaches of shining water.

From a tall summit, too, the lower, irregularly shaped peninsulas, islands, promontories, hummocks and forelands look like Bobdignagian monsters afloat in silver seas.

Never in a life-time of sight-seeing have I felt so loath to leave a place. Time ought to stand still here; there is, by the way, an old clock in the little Portage post office which shows 8.40 permanently, reminding me of Rupert Brooke's “Stands the church clock at ten to three?”

It is easy to see why the same people have been coming here year after year. It is a mark of the natural genius of these born hosts, Mr. and
Typical cottage annex at “The Portage.”

Typical cottage annex at “The Portage.”

Mrs. Lawrence that the modernity of this imposing private hotel, and its range of metropolitan comforts, have left untouched the homeliness and “Sounds” atmosphere of this elysium of peace and contentment. I can understand the gracious personality of Mrs. Lawrence, for she is of the Sounds, an emanation, as it were. Mine hosts are known as friends in a thousand New Zealand homes; formality melts in the presence of either; they seem to be the handiwork of their surroundings.

I repeat that the most obstinate case of worry, the most disagreeable example of vexation, the most desperate form of pessimism will vanish in Pelorus Sound. Beauty is healing, and beauty in this idyllic place comes in plentitude, unbidden and in quiet.

The stout-hearted settlers who wrest a living from the hillsides here have compensations; their ugliest troubles must have often looked trivial when they looked about them at Nature's largesse. They live in a land which Captain Cook described as “a fairyland of beauty and music,” and his words remain true to this day.

The little British war-brig after which Pelorus Sound was named is an immortal vessel now for this wonderland known as the Marlborough Sounds will give increasing happiness to future millions.