The Lyttelton Times. TUESDAY, JAN. 2, 1894.

Lyttelton Times, Volume LXXXI, Issue 10235, 2 January 1894, Page 4

The Lyttelton Times. TUESDAY, JAN. 2, 1894.

Whkn previously it Las been our task to look backward at tbo books of a year just ended we have always struggled against tbe temptation to indulge in complaints. It is so easy for a discouraged critic to raise the cry o£ literary barrenness, yet time usually discovers the cry to have been unfair. Wo can only hope that experience and investigation will enable posterity to make the same discovery of the books of 1893. But for ourselves ws must admit an inability to survey this year’s work in any spirit of optimism. To speak plainly, we have encountered since last January some bright new books, a few useful ones, and large number whose destiny must be to be speedily forgotten. Of course the publishers’ records for the year show the same long and regular procession of volumes as of yore. But volumes are one thing and books are another,

unless we adopt Charles Lamb’s Eromenelatuve and speak of liblia abiblia —books which are not books. Indeed, this method of classification would come iu very conveniently to include this colony’s sole contribution to the advertising lists of the year. We refer to “ Murray’s Handbook of New Zealand ” which, edited by Mr Pennei'ather, one time secretary to Governor Jervoia, has at length made its appearance. It must, of course, be remembered that the work of the English printing-houses is by no means confined to the issue of what is new. Some of their beet efforts are given to providing the reading world with now and improved editions of classics. For example, among the literary events of the year has been the completion of the splendid edition of Drydea, which has for long been a labour of love to Mr George Saintabury, and the appearance of several instalments of the Border edition of the Waverloy Novels. The last is by common consent the most satisfactory dress yet given to Sir Walter Scott ? s deathless fiction. The mention of Sir Walter Scott recalls the fact that of all great English writers ho was almost the most fortunate iu his biographer. Would that some modern writers of memoirs possessed something of the skill and tasce of Lockhart! The great English biographies are few, even the good ones are not many, and the year Just ended has not added a single one to the ranks of either class. The voluminous life of Sir Bichard Burton by his wife is a conspicuous example of the way in which a third-class writer oan spoil first-class materials. Whilst struggling through it the reader cannot but be vexed beyond measure at the thought of how good it might have been and how poor it is. Surely the picture of this extraordinary man’s extraordinary life will some day find the master hand it deserves to paint it. Mr Cosmo Moukhouse has published a workmanlike account of Leigh Hunt, and Mr O’Connor Morns an excellent study of the first Napoleon, but both are sketches rather than finished pictures. The appearance of the first, volume of the life of Dr Pusey, which was begun by the hand of Canon Liddon, and is being carried on by others, only serves to remind us how entirely Tractariauism has become ancient history. Passing from biography to its sister branch of literature, history, wo can easily give the place of honour to Gold win Smith’s short history of the United States. Written with that force which comes of a complete knowledge of the subject Joined to an absolute mastery of the English language, Professor Smith’s too brief book leaves us only impatient for the companion volume, in which the author is to conclude the story of the great Eopublic. Mr Baring Gould, better known as a novelist, has within the last few months made two successful attempts to win laurels as a historian. The first of these, “ The Tragedy of the Cas.jare,” would be worth looking through, if only for the moot interesting collection of engraved portraits therein contained of the great Homans of the early empire. Mr Gould’s other book is a history of the Christian churches of Germany. A certain Mr G-revilie Tregarthen has tried to give uo the story of the “ Australian Commonwealth ” in popular form and has not succeeded. In the walks of social science Professor Charles Pearson has gained some notice with his “ National Life and Character : A Forecast,” wherein ho endeavours to show that “ what we call the lower races are likely to play a more important part in the world’s history than heretofore,” Mr Pearson, in fact, asks the famous question, “ Is the Caucasian played out ? ” and his answer ia not encouraging. Mr William Morris, who, many think, would be better employed in writing poetry, has conspired with Mr Belfort Bax to give us a history of Socialism. Socialism, it seems, can attract the novelist as well as the poet, for Mr Howells, of all men, has wandered away into Utopia and published, as the result, “ A Traveller from Altruria.” A little American book on industrial arbitration, by J. S. Lowell, may bo referred to by all interested in that knottiest of labour questions. Before he died Mr John Addington Symonds lived to show that his skill as an essayist had not abated by giving us “In tbe Key of Blue.” In the department of criticism Mr Edward Delille must be congratulated oh “Some French Writers.” Of poetry—even good minor poetry —the year has not been fruitful. Mr Watson’s “Eloping Angela” raised doubts in the minds of even his staunchest admirers. Mr Le Gallienne’s “ English Poems ” contain both music and fancy. But on the whole, a little book called “Fleet Street,” by a Mr Davidson, has struck us as the moat original bit of verse of a barren year. Not barren, however, of fiction! No year can be that in our time, not at any rate while Mr Stevenson lives and is industrious. The hermit of Samoa has equalled his beat work in “Island Nights’ Entertainments,” and in “ Catriona ” has at last shown that ha can write a love story. Then, Mr Eider Haggard has regained what cricketers would call his “ old form ” in “ Montezuma’s Daughter.” Mrs Craigio, who ia pleased when aho writes to call herself John OlUvor Hobbes, has bean once more brilliant in “A Study in Temptation.” Mr Marion Crawford has seldom written anything more charming than “ The Children of the King.” We wish vre could say as much of Bret Harte, whose “Susie” and “Sally Dows” seem, to show that time ia at last withering his admirable invention. Quito otherwise is it with Mr Eudyard Kipling, whoso now collection of short stories is as good as any ho has published. We shall not attempt to criticise tho version of the great Christian tragedy given in Marie Oorrelli’s “ Barabbas.” For a very different reason we shall have nothing to say of that thoroughly readable story, “The Heavenly Twins.” A really bright book, it has deservedly made a reputation for its authoress, and wo fool wo can do our lady readers no better service than to send them expectant to its pages.