ABOUT BOOKS AND BOOKMEN.

Evening Star, Issue 10055, 11 July 1896, Page 2 (Supplement)

ABOUT BOOKS AND BOOKMEN.

The Bird of Paradise, By William Henry

Dutton. There is plenty of printing in this bookover 500 pages of small type —and a word of E raise is due to the Dunedin firm, S. N. rown and Co., from whoso office it is issued, their part of the work being done well enough to enable the volume to pass, so far as appearances go, for a London publication. lu sorrow, however, we are compelled to say that of reading mailer ‘The Bird of Paradise ’ is pretty well empty. Mr Dutton, setting himself to write a romance, has thrown together vast collection of commonplace and uninteresting incidents, and wound about them a great mass of words, and between the confused heap of circumstances and the greater confusion cf the redundant phraseology the reader becomes hopelessly bewildered, not to say exasperated. Other objections may also be taken. One of the few readable pages is that wherein the hero is made to describe in detail the treatment of a case of diphtheria—an inartistic idea as connected with a romance, but pardonable in this case, because in the description there is something of the rare quality of consecutiveness. On the very same page, however, we find a Scotch - woman saying: “What do ye think o’ Ait ? H it might as weel be dead, which Ait will be, I’m thinkin.” A writer who makes a Scotch woman, or any woman, or man either, talk in that way, can hardly wonder if he is asked for his authorities. The book is full of passages regarding which similar questions might be propounded. If Mr Dutton had submitted his manuscript to a competent reader, and given him a free hand in revioion, the characters would probably have been reduced by one-half; the pedantic dissertations on things in general, which deface every chapter, would no doubt have disappeared ; the superfluous and mere dictionary words would have inevitably joined in the general flight to the fireplace; and out of the residue something like a tale might have been evolved.

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City. By S, R. Crockett. Macmillan and Co. (per Braithwaite).

We have read somewhere that this very realistic novel, in which Mr Crockett sketches with the baud of a master the slum life of Edinburgh, owes its origin to the late R. L. Stevenson, who was so delighted with the ‘ Stickit Minister’ that he begged its author to continue the adventures of the many-sided waif who llgurcs in that delightful volume. Those who hail from Auld Reekie, and who knew the worst quarters of that ancient city, will have little difficulty, we imagine, in identifying some of the localities—Meggat’s Close, for instance—that Clog and hjs associates of the Knuckle Duster Club took complete possession of, and mayhap not be unfamiliar with such markedly typical charaolers as Mr James Lugton yclept Fund o’ Cannles, a Scotch Uriah Heep, who is head of the mission school established in Hunker Court, and with whom Cleg has a disputation on matters spiritual, the outcome of which was that he was driven into the streets for the mild offence of executing, in the middle of a bsson, some of those gymnastic feats which every gamin delights to perform to gain the applause of his “chums.”

“Do you know, boy,” said the superintendent, “that by such sinful conduct you are wilfully going on the downward road? You are a wicked hoy, and instead of becoming hotter under your kind teacher, and taking advantage of the many advantages of this institution devoted to religious instruction, you stick pins —brass pins into better-conducted boys than yourself. And so, if you do not repent, God will take you in your iniquity and eaJ you into Hell. For remember God sees everything, and punishes the bad people and roe ards the good.” ... It was at this point in the oration of “ Fun 1 o’ Cannles" that Clog Kelly's startling interruption occurred. . , , la a clear voice, which thrilled through the heart of every teacher and scholar within hearing, he uttered his denial of the eternity of the Trinity. “ It’s a dumb lie-God’s dead," ho said. There was a long moment's silence, and small wonder, as the school waited for the shivering trump of doom to split the firmament. The patient and self-sacrificing teachers, who gave their unthanked care to the youth of the court every Sunday, felt their breaths come quick and short, and experienced a feeling as if they were falling over a precipice in a dream. At last Mr James Lugton found his voice. “Young and wicked blasphemer,” he said sternly, “ your presence must no longer, like that of the serpent in Paradise, poison the instruction given at this Sabbath school—l shall expel you from our midst—”

Hero Cleg’s teacher interposed. He was far from disliking his scholar, and had anticipated no such result arising from his most unfortunate reference of his difficulty to the superintendent. For he liked Cleg’s ready tongue, and was amused Ivy the mongrel dialect of Scots and Irish into which, in moments of excitement, he lapsed. “ I beg pardon, sir,” he said, “ but I am quite willing to give Kelly another chance—ho is not such a bad boy as you might think.” . , . "The boy is a blasphemer and atheist?" he said ; “he shall bo cast out from among our innocent lambs. Charles Kelly, I solemnly expel you upon this Christian Sabbath day as a wicked and incorrigible boy, and a disgrace to any respectable mission school.”

So as the resisting felon is taken to prison, Cleg Kelly, heathen of twelve years, was haled to the; outer door and cast forth of Hunker Court. But as tlie culprit went he explained his position : “ It’s all gammon, that about prayin’,” he cried ; “I've tried it heaps of times—never fetched it once ! An’ look at my mother. She just prays lashings, and all the time. An’ me father, he’s never a hit the better—no, nor her neither. For lie thrashes us black and blue when he comes home just the same. Ye canna gammon me, Fund o' Canales, with your lang pray-prayin’ and your short weight. I tell you Coo's dead, and it’s all a dumb lie! •”

But the class teacher was right. Cleg was “not such a bad boy after all.” His was pne of those natures that might have made Inm famous had his environment been favorable. His mother had the spirit of an apgel; if good deeds and pure liyes ensure everlasting life her reward was assured, but his father was a professional cracksman and a brute. Yet the boy abhorred his father and his ways, and developed a spit it of manly independence that won for him the admiration of the police of his district and found him a patron in Oalie Tennant, the favorite daughter of a wealthy manufacturer, who helps to make a man and a Christian (f him. Gleg has the quick wit of his Irish father, and inherits the virtues of his dead mother, whose dying wishes constitute the motives of his life. In the slums he is a hoodlum of hoodlums ; feared by most of bis companions, but loved by the weaklings, for whose protection his strong arms are ever upraised. His adventures are ntftnerous—some quite comical, others bordering on the heroic. His encounter with Kit, his rival in the affections of Yara Kavanagb, the child-mother of the genial Irish poet whose life is ruined by a drunken, shameless wife, from whom he is forced to fly, is so vividly described —so very natural in all its phases—that one can readily believe Mr Crockett is here narrating some encounter of which he was an eyewitness. There are some delicious bits of character sketched in this book ; notably Vara’s journey with the bairns in search of her father; the Netherby carter and his wife who succor them ; and honest Muckle Alick—as true a hero as eyer drew breath, though desperately afraid of figuring in that capacity in the papsrs—whom every reader will forgive for the trick he played on garrulous Mrs Fraser, and drop a tear of pity over the memory of the lion-hearted porter at Netherby station, who sacrificed his life to save the position of a comrade. The whole of this scene is so tragically pourtrayed that we make no apology for giving it in its entirety ; Within, Muckle Alick’s ear noted instinctively a strange sound, which did not appear to he part of the routine of Duncan Urquhart’s shunting. He looked at the clock above his. head. The express was already two minutes overdue. Alick seized his cap and rushed out. He glanced up first of all at the signal-box. It seemed strangely dim and dusky. “James Cannon has surely let his lamp go low,” muttered Alick to himself.

The Junction itself was dark, for the sudden gusts had snatched out most of the lamps, and those that remained flickered uncertainly. Alick glanced up and down the line, shading his eyes from the splashing, gusty rain with his hand. All at once, just outside the circle of feeble illumination spread by the remaining lights of the “passenger side” Alick saw a dark, unaccountable bulk lying upon the metals of the “up” line. Without a moment’s delay he ran along the platform sj far as it extended, and then leaped between the metals of the down line. But when he reached the dark bulk Alick’s heart nearly stopped. For he found the corner of the derailed truck extending over the metals along which the boat train would in a few moments more come flying eastward. Above, the signal cabin was dark. The signals were all clear for the express. Obviously, James Cannon could not have seen the accident to the waggon, though it had happened within a short distance of the window of his signal-box, and it was his duty to keep an eye on the shunting. Just then the rending shriek of the express pierced to his heart. Alick shouted with all his might, but the wind whirled away his cries as if they had been those of little Gavin.

Mucklo Mick had no time left for thought, but, running back a few steps, he snatched up a heavy bar of metal, which was used for turning round the engine on the table by the engine-house. With this ponderous tool in his hand Mnckle Alick rushed to the overturned waggon. It was, of course, impossible for him to lift the truck itself, but, clearing the debris of the load and inserting his bar beneath the waggon ■ frame, he found that it lay so poised that he might just manage to “ slew " it round clear of the metals. With the strength of Samson, Alick bent himself to his task. Slowly and unwillingly, inch by inch, the truck swung clear, “ God help me just a minute more—for the sake o’ thae hundred folk and their wives and bairns !” prayed Mnckle Alick, his whole soul in the muscles which gripped the iron. With a hoarse roar and a leaping volcano of fire-lighted smoke, the express leaped by, the glow from the engine illuminating for a moment the strong man bending with tense arms and set'face over the bar beneath the overturned waggon. “Thank God ! thank God ! thank God !’’ muttered Muckle Alick between his set teeth, as each winking carriageful tore past, the travellers within reading their papers or settling themselves to sleep, alike unconscious of their deadly peril and their brave deliverer. The way of the express was clear.

But something, it was thought the iron framework of the catcher on the postal car next the guard’s van, suddenly caught Muckle Alick, and jerked him thirty feet from where he had been standing. And' then, without so much as a quiver, the express flew past the Junction ami out again into the darkness, the black tempest hurtling behind her, and the engine whistle screaming a true man’s death knell.

None had seen Muckle A'iek. None had noted his deed of heroism, save only Duncan Urquhart, who, unconscious of danger, had cried cheerfully as he passed : “ What are ye hanging on to a post there for, Alick?” It was fully a quarter of an hour later that Urquhart went to look for Muckle Alick. He thought he would walk the first part of his way home with him. It was always wholesome and always cheerful to w'alk with Muckle Alick, even when he was going home from a long spell of overtime.

At that moment the station-master woke up with a start. It was twenty minutes past ten. The express / He rushed out. The signal-box was quite dark. Duncan Urquhart was coming up the platform alone with his coat over his arm. lie called out to the station-master:

“ Is your signalman dead or only sleepin’ ?” A few minutes after James Cannon was rudely awakened from a pleasant dream of the Ross lighthouse.

“Get up, man!” cried the station-master, stand ng over him with a lantern; “God kens how many lives ye hae lost through your ill deeds!” Dazed and bewildered, James Cannon arose to the damning fact that the boat train was past, and he knew well that he had never watched the shunting or seen that the metals were clear for its passage Five minutes later Duncan Uniuhart found Muckle Alick. He was lying half on and half over the embankment of the cattle-shipping bank, where the express hail tossed him like a feather. “Oh, what’s wrung, what’s wrang v Alick?” cried Duncan Urquhart in terror. “ It's a' richt, Duncan," said Muckle Alick slowly, but very distinctly. “I slewed the waggon and held it till the express won by.” “Can ye bide a minute, Alick?” said Duncan tenderly. “On aye,” said the wounded man, “dinna fash yoursel’. There’s nae hurry—Mirren wasna’ ex? pectin’me 1” Faster far than his cwn train had passed the points Duncan Urquhart sped back to the station. “Alick’s Ding killed on the cattle bank,” he cried. “ Help us wi’ that board !”

And, rushing into the empty waiting room, he laid hole! of a newly-erected partition which, with unwonted consideration, had been set up to keep draughts from the waiting passengers. It resisted ids single strength, but with the stationmaster to help him, and a “ One, two, three it yielded, and the men tore down the platform with it. With the help of poor dazed James Cannon and another, they laid the giant tenderly upon it. But they had to wait for other t\yo, hastily summoned from the nearest railway houses, before they dared try to lift Muckle Alick.

“Does it hurt, Alick?" said Duncan of Inverness gently, like the kindly liighlaudmau he was.

“ It’s no that fair’,” said Alick, as quietly, “ but juist try no’ to lie ower lang wi’ me.” - They carried him to the left luggage office, into which a few weeks before he had taken the children whom, at the peril of his life, he had saved from death. They were going to lay down the partition with its load upon the table on which he liad been arranging the insured parcels half an hour before. "Put me on the bench," said Alick, calmly; “ dinna meddle the parcels. They are a 1 ready to gang oot wi’ the first delivery the morn." 80, even as ho bade them, on the wide bench they laid Alick down. What like ho was I know, but I am not going to tell. His wife Mirren might even now chance to read it. There were tears trickling down Duncan Urquhart’s face. The station-master had already run for a doctor.

“ IMnna greet, Duncan," said Alick. “The boat train won by a’ richt, and I manned to hand the waggon for them." But Duncan Urquhart could answer him no word. In the eornersat James Cannon, with his head on his hands, rocking himself to and fro in speechless agony of soul. “Oh, I wuss it had been me !” he wailed. “I wuss it bad been me 1”

“ Hoot na, James,” said Alick. “ It's hotter as it is; ye hae a young family.” Then, as if he had been thinking it over—“Duncan,” he said, “Duncan, promise me this: ye’ll no let Mirren see me. Mind ye. Mirren is no to see me. 1 dinna want her to think o’ me like this."

“She was aye sae taen up aboot mo, ye see," he added, apologetically, after a little pause. The doctor came. He heat over Alick. Ho moved him tenderly, this way and that. Then he ordered all out of the left-luggage ollice, except Duncan Urquhart and the station-master’s wife, a quiet, motherly woman. Then, while the doctor did his duty, Alick sank into a kind'of stupor. Presently lie woke from it with a little start. “Doctor, is that you?” he said. “This is terrible kind o’ ye. But it's a cauld nicht for yon to be oot o’your bed so late—and you wi’ a sair hoast! ”

“ Whecst, Alick ! ” said the doctor, and said no more for a little. For, like everyone else, he loved the soft-hearted giant. Then Alick beckoned the station-master to him from the door of the left-luggage office, where ho stood nervously clasping and unclasping his hands. The station-master came and bent his head.

“The boat train," whispered Aliek; “ye’ll hae to enter her in the schedule five meenites late. But ye can say that she passed Netherby all well —anil the signals standing at clear.” He was silent for a moment. Then he looked up again. ‘ '' “ Mind ye, there’s to be nocht said aboot it in the papers. Doctor, you’ll see to that, will ye no? It’s my wish. But if the company likes to do aught, it'll aye be a help to Mirren.” There was a sound of stifled sobbingatthe door, and the station • master suddenly shoved the younger porter out on the platform wit!) his foot. “ lias—ony—body gaen to tell Mirren ?” asked. Alick in a little. The doctor nodded. He had, in fact, sent his own coachman over to Sandy knowes with a gig, “I’uir Mirren,” said Alick again; "I’m some dootsomc that she’ll tak’ this hard. She wasna' expectin’ it, like.” He looked about him apologetically again. “She was aye that sail - set on me, ye see—maybe wi’ us haein’ nae bairns, ye ken.” He was quiet a little while after this, and then he said more brightly: “There’s three coined noo, though. Maybe they’ll be a blessin’ to her. The Lord sent them to her, I’m thinkin. He wad ken o’ this aforehand, nae doot.” Suddenly Alick held up his band,-and there was a light shining like a lamp in his eyes. “ Hearken ! that's the whistle I" ho cried. “ Are the signals clear? There was no train in the station, nor yet near it. Muckle Alick went on. He lifted his head and looked through the open door out upon the dark platform, as one looks ahead under his hand when the sun is strong.

“ I can see the distant signal. IHs standing at clear I” he cried, and sank back. And thus the soul of Muckle Alick passed out of the station—with the distant signal standing at clear.

They brought the little wife into him a quarter of an hour after. Already her face seemed to have shrunk to half its size, and was paler than Alick’s own. The doctor had him wrapped delicately and reverently in the station-master’s wife’s fairest linen. The face was untouched and beautiful, and as composed as it was wont to be on Sacrament Sabbaths when he carried hi the elements at the head of the session, as it is the custom for the elders to do in the Cameronian Kirk. His wife went up to him quietly, and laid her hand on his broad white brow. “My man; my ain man” she said. And she bent down and touched it, not with her lips, but with her cheek. She looked up at the station-master’s wife. “He aye liked me to do that,” she said, smiling a little, as it were, bashfully. And in all the room, where now stood ministers and doctors, men and women that had loved him well, hers were the only dry eyes that dark midnight. “ I wad like to get him hame the nicht, if it's nae great trouble till yc,” she said ; “ I think I wad be mair composed gin I had him harac to me the nicht!” So they took her dead home to her at quiet Sandyknowes. They carried him in between the beds of dusky llowers and laid him in his own chamber. Then they left her quite alone. For so she desired it, The wandering children, Hugh and Gavin, were asleep in the next room. So Mirren watched her man all that night, and never took her eyes off the broad noble brow, save once when little Gavin woke and cried. Then she rose calmly and prcpired him a bottle of milk, mixing it with especial care. As she did so she raised her eyes and looked out into the dissolving dark. And there on the brao face was the light of the distant signal, still shining like a star in the midst of the brightening sky of fnorn.

To pass on to the hero of the story. He rises in the social scale, becomes a florist and a man of means, and marries Vara, the object of his youthful affections. She is one of those delightful creations for whom everybody will find a warm side. And Cleg determines that educational advantages that were never within his reach shall be at the disposal of the future denizens of the Cauongate. With the assistance of Bailie Holden, now provost of the city, he established a wonderful club in that region, and was one of the conspicuous figures at the opening function, whereat he made a characteristic speech ; “ Mind, you ohaps, if I hear o’ ouy yin o’ ye making a disturbance,

or as muckle aa spittin’ on the floor—well, ye ken Cleg Kelly.” There is only one real blemish, to our thinking, in the entire book. Janet of Inverness was a good girl, with only a weakness for bragging, which might have been cured without subjecting her to the cruel humiliation she underwent at the hands of Miss Celie and her sweetheart.

The Rajah's Sapphire. By M. P. Shiel. Ward, Lock, and Bowden, London (per J. Braithwaite).

This well-told little story, which belongs to the Nautilus Series, is founded on an incident related to the author by Mr W. T. Stead. A Prussian nobleman attached to the Foreign Office of the German Empire, and who stood high in" the favor of the Kaiser, was entrusted with a delicate mission to London during the most important period of the China-Japanese war. Instead of reaching London by the quickest route he, at the call of bis fancte, an English girl, journeyed to Amsterdam, and there obtained possession of the Rajah’s sapphire, which belonged to her family, and which she desired to deck her brow with at some great county ball. But the precious stone has an evil repute, and brings nothing but trouble and misery to its possessors. So it happens that the ship which is carrying the Markgraf Stephan from Bremen to London is run into by a crack-brained millionaire, Ralloner alias the High Flyer, who takes it into his head to race his steam yacht over the high seas. Toe Markgraf is one of the few 7 of the steamer’s passengers who escape a watery grave, and he alone was able to identify the man at the wheel of the yacht when the collision occurred. They meet at the county ball, where the heroine slips and sprains her ankle, so that she takes little or no part in the festivities. A lover’s quarrel ensues, and they part only to meet again after she has become the wife of the High Flyer, though never caring for him. There is a tragic denouement, and the Markgraf, who attains eminence as a diplomat, is united to the woman he never ceased to love.

Paddy's H'oman. T. Fisher Unwin, London,

Tuis is a collection of stories of Irish life from the pen of Humphrey James, who has studied character to some purpose. The book is brimful of fun, but it is of that spontaneous, innocent kind that one can absolutely relish and is all the better for participating in.