BOOKS OF 1890.

Press, Volume XLVIII, Issue 7778, 4 February 1891, Page 3

BOOKS OF 1890.

.am a Letter to the Country

By Cara. lam glad to see, my dew Phyllis, that you are not yet so deeply plunged in your new world of agriculture and bucolics an to forget any interest at all in the world of books, and the sedentary tasks that farrow brows instead of cornfields. But what a comprehensive kind of inquiry it is you pat I and even supposing I bad, as you say. " done my duty as a critic in reading all the good authors that come out," bow could I fairly sum up all that these excellent persons have offered as as a whole year's reading, in my impertinent few pages? Besides, we in New Zealand, critical or not, labour under disadvantages as to supply of "all the good" modern authors. Many books reach us late, many never reach us at all. Study only the autumn publishing lists in the Athcncevm for September-—there are Qve columns in one number nicely

filled out In closest

™ devoured "Dwkest AfricaJ know, the great book of last year t-o°c critics professed to be disappointed with it, a state of mind I cannot iv the least comprehend. What more could •"/«>«• desire than such a record of brave wow, patiently and manfully carried throjltfU* You and I at any rate, and hundred? more, find no fault with a hand that oouli describe so stirringly the lonpt the sufferings and the terrors in the dens*, cruel forest, and then that slad escape n last into the fair grass lands beyond. _ % certainly laid the took down only with_| new and profound admiration for a flwi who could do so much aud write so well. The flaw in his work, per* haps, is chiefly in a certain magnificent arrogance of style. One can understand this rather offending his masculine readers. Wβ women are more ungrudging hero-worshippers, and indeed do not so much dislike a little arrogance in a man who can once do enough to earn a right ta

Hero-worship is responsible, one must suppose, tor the curious satellite that haa followed in the wake of the greater volume, "How Stanley Wrote Durkest Africa," by E. Marston, of the publishing arm. I can't say I admire this last de« velopment. By this precedent any booß that has appeared, or may appear, migh{ eive occasion for a kind of sldt-current ol book-making, and it Is too troublesome « prospect if in future we are not only ta read the books themselves, but to be deluged by an accompanying stream of "How Jerome K. Jerome wrote Ihrej Men in a Boat," " How Rolf Boldrewood wrote " Robbery Under Arms, &c, lor ever ! " Robbery Under Arms" adventure again, though In fiction this time instead of reality, made the second distinguished success among the booka of last year. Rolf Boldrewood has written busily since, I suppose witfl the natural idea of equalling this first per* formance, and bis books will cell ot course, for there is plenty of rough interest ana bold workmanship about tnem all. For all that, it will be as they used to say ot Kinglake after the production of Eothen —*• His greatest rival is the author ot Eothen." The exact success of" Kobbery Under Arms " is not to be wrought twice. Story and setting came over for all to the Hocne world as a wonderfully new strange picture from worlds not realised, to colonials full of the most complete panorama scenes from a land already known by experience or half known by repute. It is astonishing to find how absolutely vivid the impression of the big spaces, the "wild out-door life, lias been made to us, and all without an atom ot fine writing. Then the characters are so good (as creations I mean—l am not answering for their moral propriety). Who carea for Hereward Pole, or Joe Bulder—is that his name?—in the " Miner's Right f" But here Dick himself, the old father, Maddie Barnes, are all as individual iv themselves as In their mauuer of speech. Then it was a very cleverly pathotlc touch to bring in, among much "reckless law-breaking, such a character as the younger brother Jim is, simply a good young fellow with a pretty love story, l«jd into •' cross" ways by stupid fealty to the rest. I quite admired the good taste of the literary maid-servant I card of absorbed in "Robbery Under Arms " one day, who fairly put aside a call from her mistress with " Yes ma'am, directly ; but I mast see what becomes ol poor Jim I" Starlight is much zaore of the conventional picturesque highwayman. The Athenoßurti lately in reviewing " A Marked Man." by the Australian author Ada Cambridge, makes it a special tribute of praise that it gives one something to think of; "and herein the book differs from most novels which avoid all food for reflection." " A Marked Man," of course, deserves the praise, but X think that rather a sweeping accusation as regards novels general. ' At least a large class may be found pleasant read" ing, and not too inanely devoid of sense even by the thoughtful; Speaking generally, L. B. WaTford — whose "Sage ol Sixteen " is a charming little being, very delightfully fresh and natural to read about—W. E. Norris, the Hon. E. Lawless. E. Gerard—whose last volume "Recha," everyone should read; a striking Jewish story again, in much the style of " Orthodox:" these have all been doing good work, and are usually well worth keeping up to time with, as their books come out. " Toxar," by the author of " Thoth," far rather an impressive semi-allegorical tale, I need not remind you of Barrie, terse and masculine, and something of a Scotch George Meredith in thought and style] nor of Rudyard Kipling, the wonderful young story teller, whose rise into fame we shall remember as one of the literary events of 1890. One pleasant feature In modern writing is the way in which men whose wont U to amuse occasionally come forward as grave biographers or teacher?. NO one writes such delightful scientific essays as Grant Allen, who in novelise as well as man of science. And naturally In travel and biography they shine still more. A new edition this year revived ad mc good books of travel by Amelia B. Edwards, the popular novelist; the best of these "A Thousand Miles up the Nile," quite a lone ago book of course, but brightly and cleverly written, audgiving in the liveliest style a good deal of popular and elementary Egyptology. Mrs tiaruett's *' Women of Turkey" has a minute account of thelt ceremonies, superstitions, and folk lore. Then the"Lifoof Principal Tullocta,» by Mrs Oliphant, gives a .splendid picture of a ilnely interesting mau. Andrew Lang haa written of Lord Iddeslelgh, and Besaut of Captain Cook. The last in one of the current series of literary monographs, among which, however, I think few examples are likely to boat the fascinating sketch of Cromwell, by Frederic Harrisozr in tho "English Statesman"eeriee. Mrs Deluud in her new story > "Sydney," introduces us, after the fashion oi American novelists at least, to Almost more thought than she can manage. Sydney herself id uot an unusual type of vouug woman, but she has been elaborately trained by her father into an utter disbelief cither in human love ox divine. There is un abnormally conscientious younu; man whose acute overseuskivenesi leuds him into all kinds of distresses. Add various other interesting people, for the nio*t part more or less in conscientious straits, and you will see there is room for a jjront deal of mental debate. Also there is a great deal of pretty writing, a» one would expect from Mrs Deland, particularly in the story of Miss Sally. There It only one point I take exception to; Miss Sally at thirty-seven may have been too old, no doubt, for anything but a pathetic love-story; but why represent her at that ag-j with tue elderly ways and gentle Infirmities that would have been very suitable indeed had nhe been meant for a woman of sixty? Here, too, was a life and character that one caunot but think tnoro likely to have developed such a sweet young elderly maidenhood aa that iv the heroine of "A Counsel of Perfection." You know that lovely bic ol delicate workmanship by Lucas Malet? A book, noc of this year, of course, but one caunot resl-st mentioning Id when there comes an opportunity. It is curious, though, bow oddly at fault many authors are over that question of matching the behaviour and even personal appearance, in any way to the supposed age of their chnracter*. Even Tliuciceray, you rerneoiber, streak* Amelia's hair with silver «t thirty—sofc brown hair too, which Iβ never in great haste to assume antiquity— and then seems rather to pride hiuiseli upon lea wonderful tine behaviour in being only streaked. In real life need ope reckon even thirty as an age a.z which most women must be gray! And it ia quite the name with writers for the young, who run a great chance ol making their child-characters by turns toe childish or too old. Mrs Moles worth in her laat two volumes, "The Kectory Children," and " The Story of a Spring Morning," falls a little Into the former extreme. Otherwise they are fairly interesting little books, pleasantly and cheerfully written, if rather too studiously mild and unexciting. Have I wearied you long enough about novels and novelists ? Only two more, and I have done. MacmHlan's Colonial Library has done a good deed for us lately Iα sending out Marion Crawford's " A Cigarette* maker's Romance," and Mrs Ollphant's "Kiratecn." Personally I had so little esteem for Marion Crawford In the days of "Mrlsaacs" and " Dr Claudius," that I am agreeably surprised as well as pleased, to find his name to anything go charm" ing as this " Romance." And Mrs Oliphant is Mra Oliphant still, always interesting, and rising at times to very noble heights of womanly pathos. There Is one greatly touching ana tragical chapter in which Klrsteen bids good-bye to her life's hope, and receives back again their one betrothal token from the far-away dead young lover —at which point I can't help wishing the book had elected co end. It would ate least have saved introducing the displeasing: element which follows in the story of the young: sister Jeanie: pne probably the author knew beat, and had it) i ended were we should have been as&ag to know more of JBrefccea*