THE BOOKFELLOW.

Evening Post, Volume LXXX, Issue 134, 3 December 1910, Page 13

THE BOOKFELLOW.

Written for The Post, by A. G. Stephens. (Copyright.— All Rights Reserved.) TOLSTOY. Toletoy was a ehort, broad, thick man ; bub he lived a long, broad, thick life — 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 young man, he was a sensualist; later, having parsed through the grosser sensual epoch, ho became that refined sensualist, an artist, despising the excesses of his youth ; at the last, growing weary of art, he was that trebly-refined sensualist a spiritualist, condemning sensualist and artist alike, and moralising happily to his death. The way to be '*in tun© with the infinite," he discovered, is to spell "infinite" with an I. What a wicked man I was ! confesses Toktoy. "1 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 men, 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 Sevastopol sketches, or in "War and Peace," or in "Anna Karenine") he seems to interpret exactly the spirit of his scene, the motives of his characters. Unluckily 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 the boundary of your little plot of morals — which may be good or bad for you, but are not therefore good or bad for every man. When lolstoy decided, in the course of his physical decrepitude, ,thai> art is a delusion, a snare,, and that all the lesson of life is- in the Christian Gospel read by the light of the Russian peasant (and varied according to each year's revelation, and complicated according to each man's foible), he was still fulfilling himself— that is the beauty of him. When he made a pair of boots, he made a bad pair of boots, but he did a good action, because he acted in conformity with his nature. f It was an unsocial ac tion, because the boots wero bad ; but as far as concerned Tolstoy that did not matter — he had the light within his own clear breast, sat in his clippers, and gave the boots away. And so far as concerned society that did not matter, because his ddsciples did not wear them, but kept them in a glass case, which probably was the best thing that coidd happen to them. A little of Tolstoy's art will live, but it is- not likely that his morality will survive him, because there is not one morality, there are many moralities. As Toletoy meditated, fresh light came to him, and fresh light brought 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. Eddy (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. He 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 nevei hits a man twice in precisely the sameway. "Except ye be 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 pretty 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 o£ heaven. The old alternative, '*Yon can take it fighting, or yoii can take it lying down," is sometimes applied to the mortal combat with the Fates that vex us. Perhaps the deepest philosophy is "You can take it fighting by lying down" — as Tolstoy did. A MILLIONAIRE PQET. W. P. James asks an English paper 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 ponder it. Conceive a poetical Canterbury Cup, with every bard trained by a wealthy backer. New Zealand would hold nothing so exciting. But there '- in Australia a millionaire who did still better — he took up authorship as a hobby. True, Mr. Dome Doolette was not a millionaire when he rhjnied as " Ihe Prodigal." But, on "Bullfinch figures, he is a millionaire now ; and it is presumed that he has not lost the knack of I'hyming/ The Muse is fao rarely associated with money that a specimen of the other Doolette lode, from Kalgooi'lie Sun. may be quoted :~ THE WANDERERS. The rovers' blood is ours by birth, And for us nought avails, But we muft seek the ends of earth And tread the out-back trails. The bush our mi-tress ifc>, »nd we Remain her willing thralls; Who knows her once is never free, But follows where 6he calls. We find in her mysterious faco The Wonder men call God ; Her temples know no secret place Our footsteps have not troo. We watch her home at eventide All rosj from the West; Large-bosomed is she, starry-eyed, Her long last kiss brings rest. But sometimes, by the camp-fire's light, The silence brings Ms -thought, Beneath the canopy of r.ight 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 child ron throng their knees. And lonely id our land of dreams, Recalling as 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 hearts 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 f Now let us hear somebody say that he would rather have written " The Wanderers " than have found " The Bullfinch " ! HITHER AND THITHER. Tho title of Henry James's new set of stories, "The- Finer Grain," is explained/ by the author to mean f l a peculiar accessibility to surprise, to curiosity, to mystification, or attraction — in other words, to moving experience." This is the quality of a Mafficking crowd. Poise is as necessary as aft ectibjlity. The, ,

beauty of Nietzsche's image of the dancer is that it contains the idea of easy motion with perfect balance. Q. " Worker's " philosopher solves the birthrate problem by asserting that the most prolific animal species are found in the mud. " The higher we ascend in the scale of being the fewer we meet, till at last at the summit God alone is met — the Supreme Solitary ; Begetter of all things but His own kind." As an example of distorted logic that challenges rivalry. If all the projected "Labour dailies" are as well conducted as Adelaide Herald the press of Australia will certainly gain by their advent. Considering the population of South Australia, and the difficulties that every daily paper has to combat, the Daily Herald's success is remarkable. It means something that the other side has imperfectly appreciated — it means that with a great many Australians the cause of "Labour" .is a religion. The votaries bring to battle a binding faith, a self-sacrificing enthusiasm, that cannot be bought for money. When the big drum of London Times was beat-en to boom the " Encyclopaedia Britannica," how many purchasers of twenty-eight volumes and a book-case dreamed that a new 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-dfated "tenth edition," and reduce still further the cash value of that edition to owners. Mr. W. A. Osborne, Professor of Physiology in Melbourne University, last year published with T. C. Lothian " The Elements of Animal Physiology" — an admirable book which, for what seemed at the time insuperable reasons, was issued in an unattractive form. It is hoped that the edition promised by the English house of Walter Scott will display the author adequately. LOVE A MICROBE. "An American scientist claims to hay« discovered the microbe of love." Love, it is a microbe ; oh, young man, beware! It liveth in the laughing eyes, and in the floating hair. And in the pretty parted lipß, that deadly thing is there. 'Twill come at noon ; 'twill come at eve ; 'twill come at dawn of day, In every inconceivable and inconvenient way; The merry microbe moves the world, and dances blithe and gay. In all a maiden's wraps and gowns, in every tuck and frill, Quite half a million strong he lurks ; he bides his time until He knows the hour, he knows the man, he works his deadly will. A champion strong man, Samson was ; great-hearted brave and tall ; Delilah, she made eyes at him, but, ah! that was not all, The microbes marched him to his death, he fell beneath the wall. Young David smote Goliath sore, the Bible tells us so ; And David was a first-rate man, with any stand up foe ; But the little miorobe took him, and made him mean and low. Just take the case of Solomon — a man we all must praise ; But the microbes came in batches, seven hundred different ways ; They ruined him entirely and spoiled his latter days. Oh, Sunday is the miorobe' s day; the boldest boys will call ; -- The girls get on their pretty things, ay, ever since the Fall; How daintily they dress themselves — the microbe knows it all. They walk to church ; the miorobe moves ; they hear the organ play; Oh, prettily they sing the psalms — the microbe feels his way ; Oh, the little microbe takes us, yes, even when we pray. The mirthful little microbe, he moves in every dance, In every dainty flying foot, in every tender glance ; In lights, and flowers, and melody, tho microbe sees his chance. The girls are all good friends with him. See little Tot and Sis, Theii dresses lengthen every year, until no man may kiss Their pretty mouthb ; the microbe knows, he rarely makes a miss. He loves the da,wn, he loves the day,, he loves the bright moonshine When the tenderness is in our hearts, and the red blood warm as wine, In the soft sweet time of mystery, he works his fell design. He knows our many weaknesses, he knows the time of flowers, In the early most delightful time, in the scented summer hours, He walks within the wilderness, the gardens, and the bowers. Of all his pranks by land and sea, the half was never told ; Ay, stronger far than Life and Death, or Hate or Greed of Gold; He hops bis Hornpipe in the heart, he canters in the cold. Love, it is a microbe ; oh, young men beware ! It liveth in the laughing eyes, and in tho floating hair, And in the pretty parted lips, that deadly thing is there. Vie —Shaw Neilson.