LITERARY.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIV, Issue 3, 3 January 1903, Page 2 (Supplement)

LITERARY.

Nothing is more marked than the prevalence of fashion in literary affairs, as in the more material affairs of dress and custom. Romance begets romance and realism realism, until the publications of an epoch may be overwhelmed in a tide of some particular class of literature. In a lesser degree from year to year we take "modes" like measles or the- whoop-ing-cough. For example, if any one were asked to characterise the year of grace 1902 from a literary point of, view he would say that it was the year of anonymous literature (says a writer in the "Daily Mail"). It was, no doubt, the Englishwoman's "Love Letters" that began it. And yet we understand that only by an accident was Mr Murray led to believe that Mr Laurence Housman's effort of imagination was an authentic However that be, the anonymity and supposed bona fides of the "Love' Letters" made the success of the book. It was not a genuine success, for it is obvious that what would be interesting if true is not necessarily interesting if invented; ana the "Love Letters" were invented, as much as Chatterton's "Eowley." Since then the number of anonymous books has bulked quite largely. We cannot pretend to rehearse them all, but here are some of the current season: —"An English Girl in Paris," "The Confessions of a Wife," "Betty's Husband, "The Story of Mary Maclane," "The Letters of an Actress." The suppression of name can hardly be attributed in all cases to modesty, and undoubtedly there are certain attractions in anonymity for an inquisitive public. A "confession," or what purports to be a veracious life history or vie intime of any human being, has always been provocative of curiosity. Hence the vogue of Marie Bashkirtseff. But Marie Bashkirta real personality to discover, whether it was healthy or not. The mischief of most of these so-called confessions and diaries is that they have neither literary excellence nor the merit of being true.

Mr Walter Jerrold, who is, by the wa y. a grandson of Douglas Jerrold, hag commented in his pleasant bookish essays "An Autolyous of the Bookstalls" (Dent) on the contrast between Hood's reputation as a humorist and his reputation as a writer of serious poetry. Mr Jerrold congratulates himself on having picked up for one shilling Hood's "Plea of the Midsummer Fairies," published in 1827, The pathos of the situation is that it was his last "find" in Book-sellers-row before the demolition. But the pathos of the situation is really deeper. Hood struggled to obtain recognition as a poet, and was only known as the author of "Miss Kilmansegg," or, at the best. "The Song of the Shirt." He was, however, indubitably one of our truest poets. People would keep him hammering away at punning nonsense, when what he wanted to write was works such as "The stars are with the voyager," or (what Mr Jerrold quotes) "Fair Inez." Autumn particularly seems to have appealed to Hood, as many beautiful stanzas witness, including those beginning "The autumn skies are flushed with gold."

Mr William Watson evidently does not mean to weary a Philistine generation with too much of his poetry, His output, ; take the sum total of it since he has been before the reading public, is not large. But he has chosen to sift that down in his latest essay, and the result is a minute, sage-green volume, modestly garbed: "Selected Poems."

Since poets often times, prefer their lamest children, we may be glad that some of the most beautiful of Mr Watson's efforts are preserved in this little volume. Whatever one may say as to the political moral of "The Unknown God," for instance, none can deny the insistent majesty of the lines:— When, overarched by gorgeous night, I wave my trivial self away: When all I was to all men's sight Shares the erasure of the day; Then do I cast my cumbering load, Then do I gala, a sense of God. The beautiful, almost impassioned, lines on "Shelley's Centenary" are altogether worthy as a remembrance of the sublime author of "Adonais," himself the most divine of English singers. Mr Watson has a fine poet's scorn of these prosaic days. So he glorifies Shelley in a. -wild burst of praise of days departed: — And in this world of worldlings, where Souls rust in apathy, and ne'er A great emotion shakes the air, And life flags tame, And rare is noble impulse, rare The impassioned aim, 'Tis no mean fortune to have heard A singer who, if errors blurred His sight, and yet a spirit stirred By vast desire, And ardour fledging the swift word With plumes of fire. If that was true of Shelley, it is also true in some lesser degree of Mr William Watson. He has the gift of music, and he is above all things, sincere. He may not have come into his own yet in the.way of public acknowledgment, but then both Tennyson and Browning had to wait weary years. Keats died heartbroken, and Shelley himself died contemptuous oi "that unrest which men miscall delight," bitterly inveigning against "the contagion of the world's slow stain," Mr Watson may not reach the level of his giants, but he has written not a little that will endure wfcile English literature lasts as a serious faotor in the functions of the world. If we roam ftirther afield we find that Gray rhymes "men" with "pain" in the "Distant Prospect of Eton College," and '•'abode" with "god" in the "Elegy," while Goldsmith couples "might" with "fault" in the "Deserted," and Wordsworth has "meadow" and "shadow" as well as "heaven" and "forgiven"—this last cacophony being, indeed, almost as general as "devil" and "civil." "In short, the minor poet may with justice contend that there is no rhyme so bad as not to be justified by 'illustrious authority, bnt when he complains of hypercritfdsm fhe obvious answer is that when he shows the genius of his predecessors he shall be pardoned if he also shows some of their defects. — "Daily Post."