THE BOOKFELLOW.

Press, Volume LXVI, Issue 13906, 3 December 1910, Page 7

THE BOOKFELLOW.

f. . ■ Bt A. G. Stephens. (SPECIALLY WRITTEN FOR "THF PBESS.") ON THE CHEEK, OK THE CHIN. The twilight died, and the old stars Stood on tliojxoo'f of -night. ' Kind and true wero your clear eyea, And your ribbons pink and white. Dear little dainty Dolly, Pretty, and white, and thin— It was. sweet to kiss you, Dolly, On the cheek, or the chin. Oft in the- sinking summer, When the. world wtva bare nnd brown, Your dainty feet went tripping 'On the white streets, up and down. The leaves dropped into the garden, The cool bright nights camo in—. It was eweet to kiss you, Dolly, On the cheek, or the- chin. Something there is, that all must love, The miserly man his hoard, The sailor lad the salt sea, And the soldier boy, his sword. All the angels I dream of Are pretty, and white, and thin, But for ki&aine—give mc Dolly, On the check, or the chin. Vj c , —Shaw Neilson. TOLSTOY. Tolstoy was a ;?short, broad, thick man; but he lived a-Jong, broad, thick jjfe—an unusually natural and harmonious life —because he lived like a child, and let instinct lead him. At every age, unconsciously, he squared his duty with his inclination. As a voting man he was a sensualist; later, having passed through the grosser sensual epoch, lie became that refined sensualist, an. artist, despising the excesses of his youth, at the last growing weary of art, he was that treblyrefined sensualist, a spiritualist, condemning sensualist and artist , alike, and moralising happily to his death. The way to be "in tune with the iniifinite," he discovered, is to spell "infinite" with an I. What a wicked young man I was! confesses Tolstoy. "I cannot now recall those years without a painful feeling of horror and loathing. ... I put men to death in war, I fought duels to slay others. I lost at cards, wasted my substance wrung from the sweat of peasants, and punished the latter cruelly, rioting with loose women and deceiving men. Lying, robbery, adultery of all kinds, drunkenness, violence, and murder, all committed by mc, not one crime omitted, and yet I was not the less considered by my equals a comparatively moral man. Such was my life during ten years." Then he began to write, and he wrote well. No observation, no description of life, is closer than his; and by fidelity to his vision (in the Sebastonol sketches, or in "War and Peace," or in "Anna Karenina ) he seems to interpret exactly the spirit of his scene, the motives of his characters. Un-

luckily he does not remain content with that. He persists in adding a moral to his fable; the artist turns preacher. That is a logical blunder, because art is universal, morals are particular. As long as you permit art to be x, the implicit, moral is every man's, each can take his own in harmony with his conception of the art. If. as author, you do not content yourself with saying, 'This is so." but add, "This means thus." then at once you lessen and limit your art to tho boundary of your liitie plot of morals —which may be •rood or bad for you, but are not, therefore. '. r ood or bad for every man. When Tolstoy decided, in the course of his physical decrepitude, that, art is * a delusion, a sanrc, and that all the lesson of luo is in the Christian Gospel read by the li«ht <ti the Kussian peasant (ana varied according to each year s revelation, and complicated according to each man's foiMei, he was still fulnUms him-if—that is the beauty of him. When he made a pair ot boots, he made a bad pair of boots, but he did a food action, because he acted in confofmitv with his nature It was an unsocial action, because the boots were bad; but as far as concerned• Toktoy that did not matter—he had the light within his own clear breast, sat in his dippers, and enve the boots awa\. And as far as concerned society, that did not matter, because his disciples did not wear them, but kept thorn in a glass case, which probably was the best thing that could happen to them. A little of Tolstoy-s art will hive, but it is not likely that Ins moralitywill survive him, because there is not one morality, there are many morahties \s Tolstoy meditated, fresh light came to him. and fresh light broughfc a corrected text, cancelling the old text • that is the happy way of prophets from Joseph Smith (and before Joseph Smith) to Mary Baker G. Lddy (and after Mary Baker G. Eddy). But Tolstoy is clearly to be extolled for this, that he kept himself mobile, fluid, responsive to every breath of life. Ho would pause in his advocacy of vegetarianism to go to the pantry and tuck in at the cold beef, and return, still advocating vegetarianism. That may seem illogical: but then life is illogical —like Jack Johnson, it never hits a man twice in precisely the same way. "Except ye bo converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven." Tolstoy permitted life to convert him from youth to age; he had that nretty faculty. Non-resistance was not only in his creed, it was in his spirit. Remaining all his days a child, whatever his deeds, doubtless he entered his kingdom of heaven. The old alternative, "Yon can take it fightins, or you can take it lying down," is sometimes applied to tho mortal combat with the fates that vox us. Perhaps the deepest philosophy is Found in "You can take it. fighting by lying down"—as Tolstoy did. A MILLIONAIRE POET. W. P. James asks an English pajxn , why millionaires do not take up publishing as a hobby. "Why, when so many rich men can be found to back horses, can none be found to back authors?" Let our rich men pondpi' it. Conceive a poetical New Zealand Cup, with every bard trained by a wealthy backer. New Zealand wouH hold nothing so exciting. But there is in Australia a millionaire who did still better—ho took up authorrship as a hobby. True, Mr Dorrie Doolette was not a millionaire when he rhymed as "The Prodigal." But, on "Bullfinch" figures, he is a millionaire now; and it is presumed that ho has not lost the knack of rhyming. The Muse is so rarely associated with Money that a specimen of tho other Doolotte lode, from Kalgoorlio "Sun," may be quoted :— THE WANDERERS. The rovers' blood is ours by birth, And for us nought avails. But we must seek the ends of earth And tread the out-back trails. Tho Bush our mi-stress is, and we Remain her willing thralls; Who knows her once is never free, But follows where ehe oalle. Wβ find in her mysterious face The wonder men call God; Her temples know no secret place Our footstepe have not trod. We watch her home at eventide All rosy from the West; Large-bosomed is she, starry-eyed, Her long last kiss brings rest. But sometimes, by the camp-fire's light, Tho silence brings us thought, Beneath the canopy of night In wondrous pattern wrought. The thought of those who midst the din Work on, or take their ease; Though little cities hem them in, Yet children throng their kneee. And lonely is our land of dreams, Recalling aa we roam, How bright the fire-lit window gleams— The harbour light of home. And though with faith unmoved we go Nor falter from the quest, Within our secret heartß we know Through love life finds the best. What did Wolfe in the story say—that he would rather have written Gray .s "Elegy" than take Quebec? Now let us hear somebody say that he would rather have written "The Wanderers" than have found "The Bullfinch"! NOTES AND COMMENTS. When the big drum of London "Times" was beaten to. boom the "Encyclopffldia Britannica," how many purchasers of twenty-eight volumes and a book-case dreamed that a now edition would be already on the market? It is being published by the University of Cambridge, and is still incomplete; but clearly it will supersede the far-back-dated' "tenth edition," and reduce still further tho cash value of that edition to owners. Publisher Heinemann interests us by advertising the adjectives lhat have been applied to "The Dop Doctor." The novel has been called : Pulsatingly real Great Gloomy Wonderful Humorous Actable Dignified Strong Tragic V'nle Sustaining 1 '-ire Absorbing Sweet . Fine and moving Of enduring Splendidly indivi- worth dual * . Poignant Strange Striking Deep in sympathy Impressive Cruelly viVid Stupendous -and' ma.iv other things. Curiosity led us to refer to our own adjective*, and we found "sensational, vivid, and a trifle vulgar." But "pure ! But . ; t -M are vanquished. Aylter Maude's story of To stoy'e life is best of the sympathetic Engl«h accounts. His new book on Tolstoy c "Later Years," just published by Constable, comes pally t«1 advertisement. But we want a good critical biogrßphj, such as may be expected presently from France. , ~ „, .„ Now that the London "Daily leegraph" has backed the legend, Australian munificence will be a topic tor the whole world. Suppose Nat Gould actually turned up at the bush capital with his drama and five hundred press cuttings, declaring that Australia fiad voted £4000 a year for its production, what defence would Mr King O Maney have in an action for damages? But what defence would he need J \\ould lie not rather attack the role of the necessary hero, and earn his share or the £4000 by "playing throughout the English provinces" to the glory of "Gods Own Country" (latest edition).The autumn announcement number of the London "Publishers' Circularadvertises "nearly five thousand books and new editions 1" A nursery siant. smelling the blood of an .hlugtwiimuft nowadays, would detect a pronounced eavour of ink. „_,,. , "The Collected Works of .William

Morris" are presently to be published in twenty-four Tohunes. The dust is thick upon them already. Only 100 conies of the signed edition of N C 's new book! Only £2 2s net. Advance New Zealand? Mary Gaunt and Louise Mack have become regular contributors to commercial fiction. It is the only way seemingly. An hour a day, a book a year— or, when you become famous, half an hour a day and two books a year. Wny is there no "For Ladies" series on the. counters to show how it is done? "Literature for Ladies" is an enticing title. Then. "Law for Ladies." and so on.