Review.

Evening Star, Volume III, Issue 824, 27 December 1865, Page 2

Review.

" Shadows on the Snow," a Christmas Story, by B. L. Farjeon. (Wm. Hay, Dunedin.)

We share with the author of the book before us the regret expressed in the preface, "that Christmas in this and other colonies should have been so often allowed to pass without some literary effort being made to recognise its genial influence." A great deal of this apathy is no doubt traceable to the fact that the younger generation in the colonies, from which such a tribute might be most naturally expected, knows nothing of an English Christmas, nor the timehonored joyous surroundings, ■which attend it in the old country which, gave their sires birth, but look upon it rather as a season for festivity beneath the shadows of the giant gum-tree, or 'neath the fringed shadows of the bending fern. Snow, as a rule, is a stranger to the season which accompanies the advent of Old Christmas in Southern climes ; yet there must be many who look back to Christinas days never to return,

and who yearn for the happy hours they have spent when the pearly surface of the earth reflected the outlines of those they loved so well, now for ever vanished. The -shadows on the snow of the dear parent, child, or lover, may have faded, but the loved forms still live in many a faithful, fond, and true remembrance.

" Shadows on tlie Snow" is a title well selected, and admirably adapted to the story. ISTo one could peruse the modest and unpretending preface, prefixed to the little volume before us, without entertaining a respect for the author, whose production we are called upon to notice. He does not affect to assume to himself any position as a right ; but modestly tells us that '' he hopes for welcome as much from the kindly feeling engendered by the time, as from any merit of the work"itself." We heartily give that welcome. Had the work been of a far inferior stamp to what it is, it would still have merited the welcome of all who can appreciate the first effort of an industrious and clever writer. All who would desire to see a Colonial literature spring forth and grow to maturity, will welcome the production of Mr Farj eon, and -with intensified sincerity echo the wish— ' * may we meet again." The book must be a success. The story i.s well conceived, aud carefully worked out ; the language is terse, poetic, and flowing. There is no one character -which strikes you as overdrawn ; no striving after the sensational ; no love passages which are not purely natural ; —it is a genial and masterly story, healthy in tone, and artistically framed. It would be wrong to say that it is faultless. We have-observed indications of haste ; and we think it might have been elaborated with advantage. It is not an imitation of Dickens ; but there are sufficient evidence that the author has made Dickens a study. In the next (we hope wo shall have many more), we doubt not the crginality of style, of which we have unmistakable indications, will be more marked and distinct. The story opens with a description of a " quiet lane in Devonshire " on a wintry day in December : *' A narro'w, quiet lane wi ere, in the suroaner,

the flowered hedgerows on either side shut out from view the pretty homesteads in their rear, and where, in the winter, the naked branches threaded the air with snow lines' fantastically, while the sharp, thin twigs were whitely lighted up with pearl-drooping eyes of icicle. A quiet, narrow lane, luxuriantly dotted with violets and forget-7ne-nots, delicious in the drowsy summer, when the hum of bees could be faintly heard in the tangled bush of honeysuckles and wild roses. A quiet, narrow lane, at the end of which came, suddenly and quaintly, a view of a shallow reach of a noble river fresh from the sea, where the clear water lay calmly in its rustic shelter, while on its bosom glowed the shadow of its gardened banks. A quiet, narrow lane, wherein, summer and winter, a thousand new graces unfolded themselves, and where Nature made holiday in every season of the year." The locality is Warleycombe, the principal personages being Laura Harrild, the heroine, and her father, Ruebin Harrild of Warleycombe Lodge, William Fairfield, a well-to-do young farmer, Stephen Winkwortk, and Doctor Bax. Stephen "the woman hater" as he is called by the villagers, stands before us in the following description : "It made one bad-tempered to look at the surly wrinkles in his face, and people felt an inclination to snarl at each other when he was in their company. He was ungainly, either, and was still in the prime of life ; but as he showed himself to the world, he was like a dried up piece of anatomy, with every drop of the milk of human kindness squeezed clean out of him."

He is hated by all except his little deformed daughter Alice, who with angelic sweetness strives to melt the ice and infuse into his heart the milk of human kindness. The poor deformed Alice loves William Fairfield, the betrothed of Laura Harrild, and on Christmas Eve, whilst at Warley combe Lodge, during the quietude of the evening, under the snow-charged sky, confides her secret to her father. This is one of the best portions of the work, and Alice's humility and patience are admirably depicted. She says :

" 'Doctor Bax said I could never come straight again ;' and she cast a look of pity upon her stunted shape. ' And I might be -worse, you know. I can see, and hear, and speak ; all these are blessings of which I might have been deprived, and so I am thankful. When I look up to the sky, on such an evening as this, I feel almost happy. And the time is good, father, is it not ? Christmas is a good time.' But no assenting answer fell from his lips. He stood there, with his poor maimed child by his side, gazing at the floating clouds, and fighting with his heart."

The first shadow begins to appear. Stephen seeks William to endeavour to dra,w him away from Laura, in the hope that he may transfer his affections to Alice. The quaint idea in the following extract is clevei-ly conceived : "And so they went out into the air. The snow-fall had ceased, but had left a thick, soft carpet upon the earth. The moon was peeping out, and the Heavens seemed bright -with the glorious whiteness beneath them. As far as the eye could reach, everything was shrouded in white. The tall elm trees stood like -white sentinels, erect and watchful. The sloping roofs sloped whitely down to the eaves, and the chimney pots reared their heads whitely to the skies, while the cowls upon them looked like the shrouded heads of white monks bending in prayer."

Stephen tells the story of his wrongs to William, and his rage at the recollection of his false wife is vividly described, whilst the reader is made aware for the first time of the cause of poor Alice's deformity : " 'The thoughts and memories which clung about me in those few moments of time would make an epic. Amidst them all, one picture struggled to the foreground. I saw, in my fancy, the face of my wife lying upon the pillow in the early morning—a face of child-like, almost angelic beauty—a face which, could an artist paint and call it Innocence, would immortalise his name through all ages. She had fallen asleep in my arms but a few hours before, with words of lo\*e upon her lips. I saw her face, and it was heaven to me. But I could not see her heart ; and now that it was laid bare in all its naked untruth, faith, love, religion, fled from me affrighted. I looked round and saw her child lying in her cot ; she opened her eyes and smiled; and as in that innocent smile I caught the reflex of her false mother's beaiity, I raised her in my arms, and in my rage dashed her to the grotmd.' '' The memory of that terrible time raised thick beads of perspiration upon his face ; and again, in a wild, reckless manner, he scooped up a handful of snow, and scattered it over his head."

Stephen proceeds to rouse William's jealousy, by telling him, that lie has seen his love, Laura, " pressing to her heart a man who was not William Fairfield," and make an appointment to meet him again. William watches at midnight, and

" Stealing out from the house, he saw a female, her foi-in throwing a long shadow upon the Snow. He could not mistake the step, the graceful turn of the neck as she looked around, lti was .Laura ! Another form meeting hers—the Shadow of a man upon the Snow ! As the two met, William pressed forward in mad excitement : lie saw warm kisses pass between them-—he saw them clinging to each other in foiicl endearment—he saw her, his Laura ! lying in another man's arms: and he dropped into ids seat with a bitter cry i Mis love was stricken dead I"

He quits Warleycombe for New Zealand, and the scene of the story is chauged to the snowclad ranges of Otago ; but our limited space compels us to defer the continuation of our notice to another issue. In the meantime, we are sure that the crude outline of a portion of the story which we have given, will cause ths whole to be, as it deserves, extensively rea i. (