MR.

R. STARRETT'S passion for books, of which he is an inveterate collector, has tinged many of the poems in these volumes. There are several dozen on more or less bookly themes, and one cannot help wishing as one reads them that Mr. Starrett would write more poems like "Villon Strolls at Midnight" and "Cresent Moon" and fewer sonnets to D'Artagnan and to Joseph ("After Reading Charles Wells's Joseph and His Brethren"). Not that these literary poems are inferior-many of them are excellent-but that one reads literary poems, however good, with a qualified pleasure.

It would be dishonest in praising Mr. Starrett's good poems not to take exception to his bad ones. That some of these verses are ill-advised, there can be little question. Especially among the poems in more jovial vein are some which seem either altogether too superficial or simply poor. There are several more serious poems, too, which for one reason or another fall flat. But, admitting that all in these books is not gold, one can

proceed more easily to a fair appraisal of the really fine poems and passages.

In his best work Mr. Starrett writes with an admirable sustained technique, soothing the ear with distinguished diction and moulding his cadences with exquisite attention. He is kin to those artisans in beautiful language who flourished in the Nineties and for whom it is evident he has a strong sentiment of comradeship. At his best Mr. Starrett is a very good poet indeed. He

would produce more of his best, however, one believes, if he would escape from his pre-occupation with literature and a too-often selfconscious penmanship.

The poems in, "Ebony Flame" and "Banners in the Dawn" can be divided broadly into serious creative poems, literary poems and light verse. A merger of the literary touch and the good-humored vein (such as Praed and his peers used to rare advantage in the last century) is found in "Scotland Yard":

I see a building ominous and gray
With cat-eyed windows looking on the
night,

Across whose green and scrutinizing sight
Fantastic shadows race in frantic play.
Dim scoundrels unfamiliar with the day
Slip through the dark in animated flight,
Pursued by men invincibly polite
Who puff at pipes and haven't much to

say.

Inside, the click of secret panels; stairs
That climb in dizzy flight to sudden
nooks,

And noiseless doors that open unawares
Revealing silent men with gravid looks-
I learned all this at night, in rocking
chairs,

Surrounded by a multitude of books! Mr. Starrett has in both these books a number of poems and passages in the gay manner which are extremely pleasant. Kin in one direction to the men of the Nineties, he is kin in another to Dobson, Thackeray, Lang, Praed, Stevenson and the other merry bards. And, like those poets, he is able to blend quaint conceit and good humor, on occasion, into verses which leap out of the category of charming vers-de-société into that of exhilarating poetry. I should like to quote here "Crescent Moon," if it had not already appeared in The Double Dealer.

As an example of Mr. Starrett's more serious work. I quote "Villon Strolls at Midnight." It is doubtful, in my mind, whether he has surpassed it:

"There is an eerie music, Tabary,

In the malevolence of the wind tonight: Think you the spirits of the damned make flight

O' midnights? Gad, a wench I used to

see

Heard all the ghosts of history ride past Her window on a shieking gale like this... Look! Where the moonlight and the shadows kiss!

Saw you aught move?... Poor jade, she died unmassed.

"See where the gibbet riseth, gaunt and slim...

(Curse me! The wind hath thrust my entrails through.)

It beareth fruit tonight-Not me, nor you!

Hark to the clatter of the bones of him.
They rattle like-Ah, do you catch your
breath?

Like castanets clapped in the hands of
Death!"

One wishes Mr. Starrett would write more poems like that.

Both "Ebony Flame" and "Banners in the Dawn" are attractive examples of bookmaking. Both are limited editions and both are going to be scarce, valuable and sought-after by collectors. It is to be hoped they will be reissued so there will be enough copies to go round among readers of poetry who do not collect.

writes better when he is talking of cool tombs than when he is eulogizing in particular terminology the "hog butcher of the world." Whitman arrived at real poetry only when he avoided his inventories of United States resources and became lyrical over eternal substances or moods which would be as familiar to a Chinaman as to an American democrat. The best poetry in English is not noticeable for its geography.

I bring up this point in connetcion with "Carolina Chansons" not because I wish to attempt to belittle the poetic talent of the authors, but because they and a group of other writers in the South have championed this fallacy of localization. They have advanced the theory that,if the South is to develop a distinctive literature, it must exploit southern subjects, southern scenes and southern sentiments. I venture to assert that this has been largely the obstacle in the way of production of literature in the South for two generations. The southern writer has been too engrossed in his immediate tangible surroundings. There is a great difference between the Platonic idea of soil (with which the artist is primarily concerned) and the perception of the soil-of-Boonecounty.

This fallacy can cause a devil-of-a-lot of mischief.

The art of poetry is a matter of sound, of imagery, of intellectual concept, of form, and the exhortation to exploit particular subject matter can for many an incipient poet befog the issue. The poet is supposed to fabricate beauty in word and thought. That is his business. He is not an archivist, though his poems may become archives. A Shrop

shire lad may weave some Shropshire into his art, but it is incidental. Shropshire is one of a multitude of images. So is Boone county.

These words are penned in reply to a manifesto by the authors of "Carolina Chansons" which I remember to have read, or which I think I have read. As to "Carolina Chansons" I have no hesitancy in admitting there are good things in it, and that both Mr. Heyward and Mr. Allen reveal much talent. This talent in the case of both writers is, I believe, descriptive. The narratives lack

the distinction of the pictures, which often are excellent poetry.

I am sure that "Carolina Chansons," as a volume of poems, is marred by its intensely local aroma. As a memorial to the authors' city and state, that low country with its rare traditions, the book is pleasant reading and sometimes charming. And in it are a few poems and a number of passages which show that Mr. Heyward and Mr. Allen can, when they will, produce verse beautiful in itself.

J. W.