ABOUT BOOKS AND BOOKMEN.

Evening Star, Issue 11068, 21 October 1899, Page 4

ABOUT BOOKS AND BOOKMEN.

In the August' Atlantio Monthly' Mr H. D. Sedgwiok-sifigs a ptejn for Maoaulay, and does it in olear, ringing tones. Where ■bind, he asks, Newman, Ruskin, Carlyle, Maoaulay? "• Tract XC is already old with hoary age, * Sartor Resartua' is powerless to arouse youth to-day, the period of Raskin's tyranny is past, and still Maoaulay'* essays, although it is fifty years aince they were first published, are read continually from London to Melbourne, from New York to Singapore." And what is the cause of this constant popularity t It is his " modesty, his honesty, his hate of sham, his carelessness of metaphysics, his positiveness," and positiveness ia a sterling English trait, though Maoaulay has been oalled "the oock-sure man." Mr Sedgwick tells us that Macaulay "is never afraid. He never says or "maybe," or "the facts are obscure, or " authorities differ." The " ifs," " buts,' and "howevers" he eliminates as would be flats or sharps due to the uncertain fingerings of the instrument a musician uses. "There is one dargjr," writes Mr Sedgwick, "into which Macaula,'s critics often fall. In the picture of a man, in the narration of an episode, they find an error in fact, and conclude that the picture is unjust, that the episode is false. Shall no versemaker but Homer nod ? May not the ablest of historians present a thing incorrectly? May he not even make a slip of his pen T" That Macaulay made something more than a mere "slip of the pen" is true. Aytoun tackled him severely over his • Claverhouse'; others have defended Sir Elijah Impey from his attacks ; and his Boswell has been the source of much adverse criticism. Professor G. B. Hill, of Pembroko College, has said : " I can never read Macaulay's famous article in the' Efinburgh Review' on Boswell's ' Life of Johnson' without a feeling of amazement that, with all its brilliancy, it could have been written by a man who was thirty years of age. Ia its grosß ignorance of human nature it was scarcely worthy of a hopeful lad, a scholar of Balliol, or of Trinity College, Cambridge, in his freshman's year." But with all these errors and prejudices Macaulay to-day remains exactly where Mr Sedgwick places him. Matthew Arnold, it iB true, talked of him as a brilliant rhetorician " who seldom penetrated beneath the historical truth of things," and referred to the 'Lays' as "pinchbeck." Well, Maoaulay died nearly forty years ago, and the " pinchbeck " lives and stirs and thrills the heart of the multitude ; but what of the great oritio's own work ? And, be it remembered, nothing in literature or art will ever persist unless it be true to the highest. This is, perhaps, the only test of a man's work, whether it be great or not. Andrew Lang has recently been saying something about the writing of history. He believes that the imagination plays as important a part therein as the scientific spirit. So do we. But how few hwe the two. We have many dry-ae-dust records and compilations that leave the heart untouched and the brain weary. But Macaulay had both—more, perhaps, of the former than the latter, and for this three generations of men have been grateful. History is but a record of human passions, and these, as Maoaulay knew, aro never dull. His Bcoru for the men who deemed the most essential facts—such as a king's or leader's passion for a woman, through which "sin" kingdoms have fallen—as beneath ''the dignity of history " is known to al', and the standard Macaulay established changed beyond return the method and manner of the historian who came after him. For which much think".

The editor of the 'Century' has secured John Morley to write for the 'Century Magazine' a life of Oliver Cromwell. In every way this will be an important literary and historical everit. If there is one man of letters who can do justice to England's great Protector that man is John Morley. •Oliver Cromwell' will begin in theNovembsr ' Century,' and will be continued for a year. In the October number the frontispiece will be a portrait of Mr Morley drawn for the purpose by John W. Alexander, who went to England especially to make it. Accompanying it will be an anonymous sketch of Mr Morley by a member of Parliament. The frontispiece of the November number will be a reproduction of what is regarded as the beat portrait of Cromwell. Tno author disavows any intention to write a formal and exhaustive life of Cromwell. What he would produce, he Eays, is rather a historical study of the Protector as a soldier and statesman. To him Oliver Cromwell appears as a mystic. In a prologue to his study he writes :—"Of tho historic sense it has been truly said that its rise indicates a revolution as great as any produced by the modern discoveries of physical science. It is not, for instance, easy for us, who are vain of living in an age of reason, to enter into the mind of a mystic of the seventeenth century. Yet, by virtue of that sense even those who have moved furthest away in belief and faith from the books and the symbols that lighted the inmost soul of Oliver should stilt be able to do justice to his free and spacious genius, his high heart, his singleness of mind." Contrast this utterance with those of the men who, in the British House of Commons, recently presented a petition and spoke against the erecting of a statue to Cromwell within the walls of Parliament. Mr James Lowther on that occasion had the honor and the impudence to suggest Madame Tussaud's Caamber of Horror?, where the effigies of celebrated malefactors are on view, as a fitting place for it! But the world, we believe, does move, morally, intellectually, and spiritually, though yery tlowly, and, ev* < as Mr Miohael Duviic uses tfie iifee'om a2'jrded by the Bhelt r of the British flag to utter treason ac.a nst that flag, bo, too, man will to-day be found who will slander and vilify the memory of him without whom, in all human probability, England would have become ere now a petty appanage of some European despotism. Somebody, says a critic, has truthfully described Mr George Meredith's new poem, ' A Night Walk,'as " ob3ourity, complicated by semicolons." The' London Globe' thinks fiat " a night walk without a lantern" would do equally well in the way of description. The value of a name is forcibly illustrated in the publication of this "poem." To speak quite frankly, it is utter trash, with no title to be ranked as poetry. No elitor would look at it twice if it bore not Mr Meredith'd name, but that of an unknown, and it is etrarge that a man so wise in o her directions should play such tricks with h's fame. We have not read 'A Night Walk,' but we have tried to read some 150 lines published in the ' Daily Chronicle,' by fie same master hand, entitled * A Poem of Peace,'with a sub-heading ' Tne Caging of Ares' (Iliad f>, verse 385), dedicated to the C>uncil at the Hague. We do net propose to attempt to define the indefinable, nut we hj imbly submit a person need not necessarily bs a genius io distinguish between twaddle and poetry, or to affirm that the latter should not be comprehensible only to the learned. In fact we have a strong suspicion that the greatest poems in the language, our own or any other, are the simplest. Howe er, here are a few lines from George M ;redkh'd ' Poem of Peace': How big of breast our Mother Gaea laughed At sight of her boy Giants on the leap Each over other as they neighbored homo, Fronting the day's descent across green slopes, Ariel up tired mountain crags their shadows danced. One with them in their fun, she scarce could guess, Though these two billowy urchins recked of craft. It signalled some adventurous master trick To set Olympians buzzing in debate, Lest it might be their gou-head undermined, The Tyranny menaced. Epbialtes high On shoulders of bis brother Otos waved For the bull-bellpwinga given to grand good news, Compact, complexioned in bis gleeful roar; While Otos aped the pawner's wrists and knec3 With doleful sniffs between recurrent howls. Till Gaea's lap receiving them, they stretched, And both upon her bosom shaken to speech, Burst the hot story out of throats of both. Like rocky neadfounts, baffling in their glut The hurried spout. And as when drifting storm Disburdened loses clasp of here and yon A peak, a forest mound, a valley's gleam Of grass and the river's crooks and snaky ceils, Signification marvellous she caught, Tarough gurglings of triumphant jollity, Which now engulfed and nowgave eye; at last Subsided, and the serious naked deed, With mount.in-cloud of laughter banked around, Stood in her bight confirmed ; she could believe That these, her sprouts of promise, her most prized, These two made up of lion, bear, and fox, Her sportivo suckling ruatmnothf, her young joy, Still by the reckoning infants among men, Had done the deed to strike the Titan host In envy dumb, in envious heart elate. " Aad so on. If out icuda the story upon

which the poem ib based be can catch a glimmering of what the writer ia driving at; but we respectfully submit that the terms puzzle and poetry are not ajnonyms, although, like prunes, prism, plums, and potatoes, these verbal gymnastics as auch may have their üßes. It ia said that Mr Kipling's latest book, •From Sea to Sea,'is already in its thirtyGfth thousand in the United States, and «The Day's Work Ms in Its one hundred and seoond thousand. The total sales in the United (states of •David Harum' during the month of July were 40.00S Tho book is now selling in its two hundred and fortieth thousand. Mr Winston Churchill's (not to be confounded with Lord Randolph's son) historical romance, ' Richard Carvel,' is now selling in its seventieth thousand, and the paper for another edition has already been purchased. Writing upon the probable causes for the differences in French nature and other human nature—its cruelty, hysteria, nervousness, etc—a London critic says : "They have always been ready to mingle with the Native races. This faculty of assimilation, of which they are apt to boast, not uncommonly assimilates the white man to the savage, as it did with the French Canadians, who btcime worse than the Mohawk or the Iroquois. Then the infernal stuff which French literature has been pouring out for generations is exquisitely adapted to develop all the bestial instincts of man. M. Zola's realism, the ironic criticism of life of M. Anatole France, M. Octave Mirbeau's so-called plea for pity and humanity, and dozens of other things all tend to soak the minds of Frenchmen in all uncleanness. If anybody wishes to see to what incitements to lust and ferocity the French mind is tubjeoted, let him. take tho ' Jardin des Supplicea' of this last writer, a greater Dreyfusard and justice man, read it, then wash in running water seven times, and be unclean until the evening. There is ever a fine pretence of love of truth, or love of humanity, or what not in all this; but the writer revels in every abomination, and his moral comes like this tag of a dirty old Restoration comedy." The other day the cable told us that the London • Daily Telegraph' intended sendirg Lionel Decle to survey the proposed Cape to Cairo route, and report. This traveller is also an author, and his latest work is entitled ' Trooper 3 809,' a volume which the Scribner3 aro bringing out. Therein the writer describes the sufferings of the private in the French Army. In his preface he says : " The recollections I am now offering to the reader of the time I served in the ranks of the French Army will show that Dreyfus h<u baen a victim not so much of individuals as of a faulty system. It wdl be seen how, in a regiment, the colonel) forms his opinion of a private from the character given to him by his corporal or setgeatit, and how the mere fact of appealing against a punishment is considered a3 an act of insubordination. It i* always the same principle—le respect de Ix chose (the upholding of a judgment, without considering upon what grounds or evidence it has been delivered). I wish it to be clearly understood that this little book has not been written for the purpose of attacking the French Army as represented by its officers. It is intended merely as a faithful account of the hardships I endured when I served my time in the ranks, hardships which every Frenchman has still to bear." Lionel Decle became a naturalised Englishmm after leaving the army, some twenty years ago, aDd latest advices intinute that the book ia selling well, but its truth and accuracy have been seriously impugned. A building of historic note has recently been pulled down to make way for the Lon don Post Office Savings Bank. The building was the old Bell Tavern, and a tablet will mark the site. In it, on the 25th October, 1598. Richard Q.iiney wrote a letter, of which the following is a copy, to William Shakespeare. It is the only letter extant so addressed, and tho original is kept in the museum at Stratford-on-Avon. The letter, put into modern form by the librarian of the Shakespeare Memorial atj"Stratford-upon-Avon, reads thus : " Loving Countrymen,— I am bold of you as of a friend craving your help with £3O; upon Mr BushelFa and my security or Mr Myttins with me. Mr Rorswell is not come to London as yet, and I have cpecial cause. You shall friend me much in helping me out of all the debts I oi* a ia London. I thank God, and much quiet my mind which would not be indebted. I am now towards the Court in hope of answer for the despatch of my business. Yon fhsdl neither lose credit nor money by me, the Lord willi g, and now but persuade yourself so, as I hope, and you shall not need to fear, bub with all hearty thankfulness I will hold my time and content your friend, and if we bargain further you shall be the paymaster yourself. My time bids me hasten to an end, and so I commit this to your care and hope of your help. I fear I shall not be back this night from tho Court. Haste. The Lord b3 with you, aud with us all, amen. From the Bel', in Cirter lane, the 25th of October, 1598 —Yours in all kindness, Richard Quiney (address). To my loving good friend and countrjman, Mr William Shakespeare, deliver these."

Ir, ia estimated that there have been altogether about 800 English editions of Shakespeare's works. There were about ninety editions in the last century, and not all of those found ready sale.

J. M. Barrie has written a little history of the cricket team he captains, illustrated by Bernard Partridge and others. It is in * limited edition of twenty copies for private circulation. The most amusing portion is said to be the account of a match played with an artists' team captained by iho American painter E. A. Abbey, from the oolony of American artists in the little village of Broadway, Gloucestershire. . Elizabeth Stuart Phelps spends all her passionate enthusiasm on the woes of vivisection in her 'Atlantic' story entitled ' Loveliness.' She certainly manages to give an almost human gentleness and lovableness to tbe little dog that is its hero—the little dog that in days past had saved the life of his beloved mistress and wi.B the invalid child's joy and idol. The child's father traoes the stolen dog after long months of search to—the operating table :

There, stretched, bound, gagged, gasping, doomed to a doom which the readers of this page would forßid this pen to describe, lay the silver Yorkshire, kissing his vivisector's hand. In the last few months Loveliness had known to the uttermost the matchless misery of the lost dog (for he had been sold and restolen more than once): he had known the miseries of cold, of hunger, of neglect, of homelessness, and other tirmeuts of which it is as well not to think; the sufferings which ignorance imposes upon animik' II» was about to endure the worst torture of them nil—that reserved by wisdom and power for the dumb, the undefended, and the small. The officer seized the scalpel which the demonHtratorhad laid aside, and Blashed through the straps that bound the victim down. When the gag was removed, and the little creature, shorn, sunken, changed, almost unrecognisable, looked up into his master's face, those cruel walls rang to sach a cry of more than human anguish and ecstasy as thev had never heard before, and never »»y again. The operator turned away. He stood iu his butcte/s blouse and stared out of the laboratory window, over the head of the lily, which regarded him fixedly. The students grew rapidly quiet. When the professor took Loveliness into his arms, and the Yorkshire, still crying like a human child that had been lost and saved, put up his weak paw 3 around his master's neck and tried to kiss the tears that fell, uuashamed, dowa the cheeks of that eminent man, the lecture loom burst into a storm of applause; then fell suddenly still again, as if it felt embarrassed both by its expression and by its silence, and.knew not what to do.