'A Short Selection of Novels and Poems of Unending Fascination Members of the Union Church Literary & Social Guild were tertained to a very great literary treat on Thursday night, when Mr. G.S, Foster Kemp read a paper titled "Choice bits which we read again and again." He had an appredative audience and his views on pieces worth perusing often' and anon were emphasized by readings with which he punctuated his paper. In this he was sisted by Mr. Browne who recited passages from Wordsworth, while with Mrs. Browne and Mr. H. B. Lobb, who took the part of Dunois, with himself as page, the third scene from "Saint Joan" w given. Passages from Shakespeare, Thoreau and Alfred Noyes were also given with effect.
In presenting the subject to his audience Mr. Foster Kemp attended a sale at auction in England six years ago of the effects of an old clergyman who had died, and the auctioneer, commenting on a low prices bid for some really and the weekly tue, in fact as a result of inquiries, one is goon convinced that in this city of Shanghai there is an insistent lemand, not only for new books, but {or the works of authors who wrote 10, 40, 50, and even more than 50 years ago, It is true that there is demand also for the modern paycho-analytical or—sex-problem novel, but whereas this type of book is, ab a Tale, read once and once nly, the books that are really worth while appear to be read, cither wholly or in part, again and Most of us here, T suppose, have If of favourite books. to which which we hope to vals during the rest of our fay out here, if not the rest of our lives. do hot mean the "hundred best books." Books are such personal thing that it is a fallacy to think that anyone is abl exactly wh One might neighbour to select one's personal friends.
The Pleasure of Re-Reading The pleasures we get from reading now books undoubtedly cover a far wider field than the pleasures of resreading, yet there are certain subtle delights which we cannot taste till a book is well known to ws. Most people are content with a single reading of the novels of, say, Charles Garvice, Elinor Glyn, oF Locke, oF even of a novel such Comes," but how istled with reading the novels of Thackeray, Dickens, Scott, R, L, Stevenson, Anthony. Trollope, George Meredith or Kipling only once? Who is content with a single reading of Galsworthy, J.M. Barrie, Shaw? Let us from a list issued last week that, reprints of hhis novels are still in demand here, but it is hardly possible to understand in this present day, when novels are multiplied into a weariness of the flesh, the feverish excitement and, anticipation "Pickwick" caused when it was first fesved in monthly parts: when Oxford men raced each other for the mail coach to secure the first copies, and men told each other seriously in London that "Quilp is dead!" We all remember, this bit from "A Christmas Carol."
Thackeray's Beatrix Then what of Thackeray? "Never ould T have believed," declared Walter Savage Lander, "that Thackeray, great as his abilities are, could have written so noble a story as "Esmond.'" never could any man have believed that, in his remorseless regard for truth as he gaw it, the novelist would permit the Baroness de Bernstein, the rad-died old woman, "tired of most things and most people,...nodding stories, stout, high-coloured and sleeping over the Chaplain's
id lady, with a very dark pair of to be identified as the wreck that magnificent Beatrix, who Taoved, in sinister splendour through the stately pages.of "Esmond." the hall of Walcote House is a tit Reproduced staircase that leads from an open gallery, where are the doors of the Sleeping chambers: and from one of these, a wax candle in her hand, and illuminating her, came Mistress Beatrix—the light falling indeed tupan the scarlet ribbon which she wore, and upon the most brilliant White neck in the world....So she came, holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, and her taper before her, tripping down the stairs to greet "Esmond." Then there are Pendennis,"
The Newcomes," read and enjoyed.
That "The, Neweomes" was as-led by the "Times" on the grounds of morality and religion, seems now inconceivable." For assuredly. more lofty-minded and lovable character than the. Colonel figures in the whole vast realm of English romance. Of the many old men with Whose "counterfeit" presentments" Thackeray was so signally successful, Colonel" Neweome remains for all time the model of an intrinsic gentleman, just as Lord Steyne is the worst type of blsckguard.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let yoing and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart.
Who misses," or who wine the prise?
Go, love or conquer ax you But if you fail, or if yon vise, Be each, pray God, @ gentleman. dear old head was bent down over his prayer-book. He wore the black gown of the pensioners of the Hospital of Grey Friars. His Order of the Bath was on his breast. He stood there amongst the poor bre-throu, uttering the responses to the The steps of t At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, Newcome's hands out bly beat time. And just as the bell struck, a peculiar, sweet smile shone over his face, and he lifted up his hand a little, and quickly said "Adswn" and fell back Tt was the word we used at school when names were called, and lo! he, whose heart was that of a tittle child, had answered to his name, and stood in the presence of the Master."
The Golden Treasury Most readers have their favourite pieces of verse, enshrined probably in the "Golden Treasury" or some other anthology, to, which they frequently turn. The beautiful lyrics of Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, Tennyson-Tyrn the Brownings and Matthew Arni to mention only a few, how oft do they refresh Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory—Odoura, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves when the rose is dead, Arve heaped for thy beloved's bed? And 40 thy thoughts, when than art gone, Love itself shalt slumber on.
—P. B. Shelley A thing of beauty is a joy for Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quite for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing, Or perhaps we prefer the lighter: flowing melody of Austin Dobso:
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.