BRET HARTE.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 253, 24 October 1936, Page 1 (Supplement)

BRET HARTE.

A FASTIDIOUS PIONEER. POLISH AND SENTIMENT. (By CYRANO.) Last year fell Mark Twain's centenary; this year is Bret Harte s. The two men have long been bracketed in the affections of the world, though the connection is less close to-day than it was a generation ago. They were contemporaries and they were both dealers in a new kind of humour, that of a raw and yeasty life strange to other countries and even to many Americans. "The Jumping Frog" and "Journalism in Tennessee," "The Heathen Chinee" and "The Luck of Roaring Camp" were regarded as coming from the same source. Really the two writers were very different. Mark Twain.was a natural genius whose output flowed deep, and strong like a great river. He was prodigal of words; not for him the painful search for the right phrase. He was a true son of the frontier and he depicted its life not only in bold strokes but in lavish detail. In his attitude towards traditional culture Mark Twain was largely a Philistine. Bret Harte was brought up in this culture and approached the delineation of Californian life in the 'sixties with the fastidiousness of a conscious artist. All through his life he took great pains with his writing. It was said of him that he could not answer an invitation to dinner without this kind of effort. And he took for his province much less of the life about him than did Mark Twain. He chose a few types and used them over and over again. He picked out the material that suited his talent and made no attempt to depict society as a whole. If Mark Twain is a river, Bret H'fte is a stream. The Silent Popularity. Bret Harte was born and educated in the Eastern United States. As a boy he went with his family to California. The product of a civilised and cultured society, he was an alien in the community whose humour and pathos he introduced to the world. In California he turned his hand to many things, and then world-wide fame came to him through the publication of "The Luck of Roaring Camp." Editors clamoured for his stories, and no wonder. He wrote about romantic industry, gold-seeking, set in particularly romantic surroundings, and he gave a new form to the short story. He was the founder, or the developer, of the American local colour school. His tales had action set in a background of attractive scenery and glamorous endeavour. They were well constructed and particularly - well written. Dickens was the greatest influence in his art; he learned from the master the combination of laughter and tears. So the English-speaking world quickly took to its heart Jack Hamlin and Mliss, Colonel Starbottle and the protagonists of "The Iliad of Sandy Bar," "Truthful James" and the young heiress who wrote

"Her. Letter." Perhaps if success had dallied a little, it would have been better for Bret Harte. For one thing his tastes were too extravagent for his income, and probably the nature of his success accounts largely for the fact' that for the rest of his life he kept on trying to repeat it. He left California at the age of thirty-two and never returned. A great part of his life, indeed, he spent abroad, some of it in the service of his country. He was for a time consul in Glasgow. He died in London thirty odd years ago, and was cared for in his last illness by the late Mr. A. S. Boyd, the illustrator and "Punch" artist, and his wife, who alter the war settled in New Zealand.' Forgotten Stories. One imagines that nearly always he must have been worried .ab.out money. One reason was that lie kept on:exploiting the same old California field. What lie wrote was always good; I remember a few years ago receiving reprints of two of his novels I had not read,. ■•aid finding in them much of the old charm. He was too conscientious an artist to put out poor work. But the trouble was that he did not develop. He was rather like that English R.A. who, to the end of a very long life, went on painting sheep and cows. It was inevitable "that lie should fail to sustain the first fine careless rapture. Fashions change. Sentiment and humour become out-moded. Fiction has grown much more sophisticate®, more analytical, more psychological. To many readers of to-day, no doubt, Bret Harte's sentiment seems mawkish and his characters, despite their unconventional surroundings, boringly conventional. Certain it is that the greater part of his work is read no longer, if, indeed, it ever was read by a majority of his admirers. Those of you who remember "The Outcasts of Poker Flat" and "Tennessee's Partner" —how many of you have even heard of ''A First Family of Tasajara," "Cressy," "A Ward of the Golden Gate" and "Gabriel Conroy" Bret Harte's fame depends upon a few short stories and a few poems. (Style and Humour. But, making all allowance for his shortcomings, especially the narrowness of his range and the limitation of his character-drawing, we may in this centenary year recapture the old delight and in gratitude' pay tribute to his memory. To begin with, and it is a very important beginning, he could write. Take the opening of "The Outcasts of Poker Flat": As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker Flat on the morning of the 23rd of November, 1850, he was conscious of a change ill its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as lie approached, and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air, which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous. Mr. Oakhurst's calm handsome face betrayed small concern in these indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause was another question. "1 reckon they're after somebody," he reflected : "likely it's me." He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture. . In point of fact, Poker Flat was "after somebody." It had lately suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reactiou, quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked it.

Is there a word too much here? The passage has the art that conceals art. Or take this from "Mr. Thompson's Prodigal": "After a hard and wilful youth and maturity, in which he had buried a broken-spirited wife and driven his son to sea, he suddenly experienced religion. 'I got it in New Orleans in '50,' said Mr. Thompson, with the genera] suggestion of referring to an epidemic. 'Enter ye the narrer gate. Parse me the beans."' In his use of surprise endings —"Old man, there was too much saleratus in that bread!"—Bret Harte anticipated and possibly instructed 0. Henry. Of course, you may think 0. Henry hopelessly artificial. Personally I consider any forerunner of O. Henry should have a statue. "The Heathen Cliinee" (or to be accurate, "Plain Language from Truthful James") is one of the great humorous poems of the world and has added to its savings. Could anything be better of the kind than the indignation of Nye (who himself had cards up his sleeve) when he found that Ah Sin was cheating? And lie rose with a sigh, • And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour"— And he went for that heathen Cliinee. "Her Letter." Bret Harte was a romantic, and in powerful quarters to-day romanticism is in strong disfavour. It may come again. He believed in sentiment, and perhaps to-day a mask of frankness and hardness conceals plenty of sucli feeling. That he could flay sentimentality vigorously enough liis sequel to "Maud Muller" shows. It was his union of sentiment, and humour that endeared him to the world, and the spell is still potent. Do you remember the picture of the goldfields dance in "Her Letter''? Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall; Of the candles that slied their soft lustre And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queen vis-a-vis; And- how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee. The poem may not be a complete picture of life at "Poverty Flat," but must one bo branded as a sentimentalist for thinking it is true enough of certain aspects of life there and in other places nearer home ? I do not know whether there were any roses in Poverty Flat, but I do know that, to me, the scent of roses comes down the years with "Her Letter."