LITERARY-NOTES.

Lyttelton Times, Volume C, Issue 11751, 1 December 1898, Page 3

LITERARY-NOTES.

[CORHESPONDENT “CANTERBURY TISIES. "J LONDON, Sept. 16. Sir T. Wexnyss Reid, who was elected President of the Institute of Journalists last week, in succession to Sir Edward Bussell, is (he managing director of tire leviathan gang of “ tamo authors ” employed by Cassels, Limited, and the editor of l the “ Speaker.” He discovered Barry Pain,.Max Pemberton, Quiller Couch, and many others, and was one of the Erst of the “ alumni ” of letters to practically recognise Eider Haggard’s sumptuous imagination. - “ Dawn ” and “ The Witches’ Head,” you remember, were" favourably noticed by many of us reviewers, but tire general public would have none of Mr Haggard till Cassells brought out “ King Solomon’s Mines.” I recall that I got an early copy of the latter, and so was able to announce it in Australia as the most captivating adventure story of the year'- a fortnight earlier than my rivals. Mr Wemjjss Reid began life as a'reporter in Newcastle and Leeds, drifting thence to the gallery of the House of Commons,’ where he represented the “ Standard ” and “ Leeds Mercury.” Recalled after a time to edit the “ Mercury,” then a great power in the provinces, Mr Reid introduced a new conception of an editor’s duties. He did nob believe in being chained to the desk, and often might have been found dining with Mr Gladstone, staying with Lord Houghton at Fryston Hall, or in London, In his vacations he rambled over Europe. He became the biographer of Lord Houghton, and of Mr W. E. Forster, and also often found time to lecture to local societies, particularly on subjects connected with the Brontes, concerning whom he is an expert. Wemyssßeid has written three novels, the best-of them—indeed the only one worth mentioning—being “ Gladys Fane,” a tale of political life, which contains some excellent portraits of the statesmen of the early eighties, and ran through five editions in three months. Mr Reid left the “ Mercury ” to join Cassells as editor and adviser-in-chief. He soon after started the “Speaker.” At first this paper did fairly well, bub it has long now been decaying, and may not last. Sir Wemyss is popular with the profession. He has a venial temperament, acute observation, and thoroughly understands journalism. The Merry Monk of Modern England is a sorry creature if one may believe the allegations of Mr Joe M’Cabe, erstwhile Father Antony, of the Order of St Francis. This person some time ago produced • a volume entitled “Twelve years/in.a’Monastery,” but it mainly dealt with* his reasons for Verting to Protestantism’,’ .andwas,. of little general interest. In Mr M’Cabe’s new book, " Life in a Monastery,” he really does, give us a glimpse of monastic existence. •And what an existence it is: a dreary round, seemingly, of solemn, hum-drum, • trivial pursuits,' childish altercations, vapid and puerile chatter. You do not find'behind monastery walls now, as in the middle ages, great artists, skilled book-binders, cunning artificers. The occupations of the holy fathers ate trumpery to a degree. They, daub —it very rarely , reaches; the stage' r of painting ; collect childish’ pictures, and the like, in a thousand varieties of amateurish incompetence. The author goes so, far as to say of the majority of monks, that four of their five hours of prayer, and six out of their seven hours .of labour, are time wasted. They are average men plated in a situation in which they must be heroic or nothing. In charity, temperance, and even chastity, we are told, the general tone of the average monastery is not far, if at all, removed from that of ordinary unconsecrated establishments. Apparently not one in the hundred has the true spiritual-vocation. Few soldiers are born fighters, few , monks born ascetics. Many, probably, enter the monastery for, a livelihood. Those who are called in the deeper sense would still do better in helping the world by living in it, and with it, and in teaching it to resist temptations, and to cultivate the Christian virtues by the force!of a shining example. Such, at least, is tpe ex-nriest’s view. He maintains. I should add, that monasteries are rapidly growing all over England, and gives an amusing description of how, when a new house has been decided on, the thin end of the wedge-is inserted. Unfortunately this is too long to quote, but you may like to have the following brief description of the Grande Chartreuse of England: —lt is situated a.t Parkminster, in Surrey, and is the only real monastery of the ancient type in this country- The surrounding land, to the extent of many hundreds of acres, belongs to the monastery, but the roads are public up <s to the very walls. Yet the monks are as completely isolate as if they lived in the midst of the Sahara. Not a single window looks out : upon the world of men, and no monk is ever permitted to occupy himself with it. About forty in number, they are practically buried alive in their vast tomb. Each monk has a small house and garden, and as these, to the number of a hundred, are placed end to end in a long row round two sides of the quadrangle, the vastness of the enclosure may be imagined. , The interminable cloisters seem to contract in the distance into mere tubes before*the eye of the spectator. There is a large chapel, a magnificent library, a uriique collection of reliquaries of enormous value, and a very striking series of mural paintings in the larger rooms. The entire building has cost more than a million, and there are probably not. a million persons in. England who know of its existence.

Reading Macaulay’s “ History of England” last week in the attractive new Albany edition (of which .volumes 5 ,and 6 are just to hand), I was struck, as no doubt hundreds have been before, with the .endless openings which the Stuart period offers to the historical romancist. Why, the strings of tales Macaulay tells of the Monmouth rebellion and the Bloody Assizes alone, though already fairly exploited, still afford a score of pegs whereon to hang good novels. But 1 you do require, in order to be successful, to be able to environ the reader with the atmosphere of the age. Miss Braddon, in her new' novel, “In High Places,” fails totally in this. Her characters both at the French and English courts aro mere puppets, unreal and unconvincing. Just the opposite, in fact, of Conan Doyle’s brilliant portraits m “ The Refugees.” The’story, too, is dull. Altogether, Miss Braddon, like Gissing, has strayed into an unfamiliar and most unsatisfactory rut; Mr Hugh S. Scott, whom the world knows as “Henry Seton Merriman,” is still quite ■ a young man, and spends much time seeking .“.•local colour ” in travel. His new story, , “ Roden’s Comer,” which has been running I through - Harper’s,”—was published yester-

day, and will be.onp<of the newipovels par excellence of the season.;’ It dehls with a’ •wonderful and mysterious compound called'' “ Malgamite,” which somte of the characters 1 exploit for philanthropic and others for financial ends. - • I finished the book'yet/ so reserve further remarks. You can,, however, make no mistake in brdering .it Miss Bayly (“ Edna Lyall ”), in her-forth-coruiug novel, “Hope,/the Hermit,” to be published next month, reverts agaim to her favourite" period, the seventeenth period. Iti is a love story, and treats of the days of the/ English Revolution, the accession of Wfi-, liam and Mary, and the-Jacobite plots - with, which the Queen had to contend’while-King; William was away at the wax. The scene is chiefly laid in the neighbourhood of Keswick or in London. Among the.real characters introduced are Archbishop Tillotson, George Fox, the Quaker, "and Lady Temple, so well known from the charming love-letters of Dorothy. Osborne. , - : , ■ The autumn promises to be rich hi fiction. First and foremost, Macmillans announoa a volume of'HGpling stories' in October. ■ These will be chiefly, of. course, coJlatedß. from the magazines covering the ground be-' v tween 1893 and this year of grace. Mr Gil*, bert Parker’s Romance of 1798, “ The. Battle; of the Glory,” is also due .in Octebir, and 1 Sir Walter Besant’s “ The Changeling,” Cbistie Murray’s “ Despair’s Last Journey,” and Guy Boothby’s “ Across The World, For a Wife,” are also down for publication shortly. Thanks to J. M. Barrie’s eulogirm, the sixpenny edition of Mrs Oliphant’s “Kirsr teen ” is going : off wonderfully, vldaanillans, as well as Blackwoods, have,.in. band' a volume of three short tales by'then ■ecently! deceased lady. Two of these refer to Scot.; tish town life early in the century. The third “Dr Barrere” deals with a murder mystery.

In the second and carefully revised, edi-i tion of “Evelyn Times” (of which 10,000 copies have been sold) the coarse passages, minutely describing the commencement of the heroine’s honeymoon, have been elided.-. As a consequence, ‘ first editions have promptly risen in price. Of “Caleb West, Master Diver,” which I spoke highly about last week, 24-,ooo> copies have already been sold in the States.; Mr Rudyard Kipling is not the person for even the devoutest admirer to approach with-.' out.an introduction, and many are the sound, slaps in the face which pious Americans journeying to worship at Ms,shrine at Rcttingdean have received from.their idol. The mere mention of, the word “interviewer” sends the novelist flying off on his bicycle through a secret door; indeed, on several-oc-casions he has been practically and literally pursued by the Press_awhtel. A gentleman' who .met. Kipling- underfavourable circum- : stances -'lately' says: —“ Mr Kipling anOnt I seldom; but when he does it is a very broad, genial ismile; A' short, straight pipe is always screwed into one side of his lace. Ha has a short, rather heavy figure, and carries' himself erectly.' He is neither muscular nor active. His skin has a yellowish, bilious tinge,- as is the case with, so many AngloIndians. .His short, bristly moustiche. is practically jet black. His eyes seem: greyish when seen through his heavy glasses. They, are resolute, quiet, capable, inscrutable eyes. His manners are frank, but not expansive. : Ho looks straight at you when speaking. * He will talk freely and well, if certain that . he is not being interviewed. In cress, he inclines to rather "loud checks. / He is a, good feeder, and never complains' at hia hotels. Ten years from-mow he will probably be very stout. Even now, although he is only a little way into the thirties, he is . developing a ‘corporation.’ He will not discuss his own writings, but on the characteristics and needs of the private soldier of any nation he will talk by. the heur, provided, of course, that the talk is not to be printed.” ' The late Mrs Lyhn-Linton s greatest friend in London was Mrs Hector, better known to the world as Mrs Alexandra - , thfe author of the delightful “Wooing O’t’V and a score of other mote or less successful novels. T. P. O’Connor relates that it vn the greatest delight of hostesses who knew them both to ask them ,tq tmeet each oher, and engage them in a discussion on sbttto topic of tire day, notably on the Jiringiagup of giris; This was a subject bh» which Mrs Alexander and Mrs Lym-Linten. bald , very opposite views, and on which the former, having brought up her own three daughters most successfully, felt she:had a right to her opinion, which Mrs Lynnr Lmton never would allow. They were both brilliant conversationalists, arid' whilst Mrs Lynn-Linten had very shrewd reasoning powers, Mrs Alexander’s Irish birthright of ready wit and sparkling repartee always~came to her aid in time of need, so that their discussions provoked ample amusement for the' onlookers. Mrs Alexander an extremely sweet-tempered woman, bub she is well able hold her own with aQ comers,' • There is an amusing story of bar encounter with f a lady whom we will caijl Mrs F., who was rather noted for her inji- . polite speeches: The talk turned cm one;of Mrs Alexander’s daughters.* “ @b I lay said Mrs F.,- : “how completely dear” has lost all her good‘looks‘‘‘Db .’.y&i .t think so?” said Mrs Alexander. “I, fancy you have also lost something.” “Why, what 'is that?” queried Mrs- .F., in surprise. “Your manners, my dear,” replied Mrs Alexander sweetly. ■» (. |