A LITERARY lAN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVII, Issue 11347, 16 April 1900, Page 3

A LITERARY lAN.

ifeg was not particularly large, nor 'was it" particularly splendid. The fopperies :of the dilettante were not there. The paper- " knife was of thin wooded not of silver and ■ carved ivory—a work of art which one could suppose; would only coquette with a wellbound book. But here one could read and be at peace. Good hooks fill a simple room with a most fragrant and commendable silence. In an armchair, in the centre of a circle of brilliant light thrown by a shaded reading lamp, sat Herbert Moore, literary man and recluse. He was smoking an old briar : pipe and reading a volume of Leigh Hunt. ! His eyes fell upon the following passage: 1" 0 Pygmalion, who can wonder (no artist ; surely) that thou didst fall in love with the work of thine own hands." :y-"I understood _ that sort of feeling six months ago," he said to himself; "but, somehow or other, it's quite gone now." He picked up a book which bore his own name upon the back. " When you were published, jny friend,'" he said, smiling bitterly, "I agreed with Leigh Hunt and Pygmalion. I «as very much in love with you. I was per-1 feotly and absolutely satisfied and happy with ] joy work'and with ray life. Within these 1 four walls—lined with the wisdom and wit of the world—l lived with twenty thousand immortals as my friend." i " • 'He got up with an uneasy sigh and began to stride up and down the strip of carpet between his writing 'table and the bookshelf which held his Jowett's Plato. It had been M« favourite promenade for years. Moore was ii big man, with a massive, clean-shaven face. Study had not - bov.'od the breadth of his back, or dimmed the cool, reflective fire of his eyes. V The hand which held the old blackened pipe was firm, muscular, and strong. . . ■ • ' In the quaint, pathetic fashion of a lonely and intellectual man—even as the sad Prince of Elsinore—he began his monologue once more. "Why, why,'why?" he cried, his voice gaining.resonance as he spoke, "should this horrible restlessness and distaste for my life have come upon me. It is the fault of those cursed newspapers, I suppose. Whatever could have induced me to,read a daily paper?*. The national heart iff beating too fpudly.now, and it has even penetrated into this lonelv nuiet room." 'He'picked up the Pall Mall Gazette that lay' folded on the table. For a moment as he glanced'down its columns his mobile artistic mouth was curved in , a sneer. Then gradually, as he read, his expression changed; a strange light came in his eves, the hand which held the paper clenched firmly upon it until it crumpled. ' .'Suddenly he raised Ins head, bending it slightly towards tho window in the careful expectant attitude we associate with one who Mens. Far, far away a rhythmic pulsing Cline through the still night air. It grew loader, and resolved itself into quick, irregular beats. Then, without any prelude, the ' poind was , penetrated by faint, shrill musie like the singing of locusts in high night. flnpMly the midnight fifes and drums approsched, mingled with the tread of many feet and the great shouting of running noise became deafening as the regime oassed the house, and his whole weary heart leapt up to answer it. He ran to the window, pulled aside the hanging curtain, and gated out into the fog. A tan Ftoal in the street just opposite, and in the street beyond the little garden he could see the! tremulous light glinting upon sinning rifle! in a blur of fog and men and steel. * Tie study was silent again., Moore stood by his writing-table with shaking hands and it new resolution in bis face. . w . "yes," he cried. "this is real-real Why „ m I here with Plato when En-land is in ' danger ? Now I know that there is other S to be done, and I am firm to. do-it. With that, he took UP his pen and broke ,t into two pieces, casting them into the n have written 'Finis' to my literary life," he said. •

• Herbert Moore's was not only an artistic temperament, but a strong steadfast one also Your " artist" would have broken his pen in the evening, hot upon battle and the wh to gloves of war. He would, just as Moore, Le'been thrilled by the stern , midnight march of the soldiers going, to the docks But in the morning, when a bn * ht , *! nt 6 ,m powdered the snow with gold dust, and the air was like iced champagne, he would have smiled lazily at his own emotion of the night before, and made of it a peg to hang a poc mor tale upon. Moore was ma le of more honest stuff than this. His pen wa« broken, and he would prove the sword baronet a more satisfying weapon to wield • Little, more than eight weeks, after the Bceni in the cosy lamp-lit study—a short two months— was leading ft stubborn horse down a gangway from the truck.which had brought it from Capetown to the front. The voyage and the long rough journey from the base to Modder River had given his face a younger look. The dark moustache, that already was beginning to hide the firm, clear-cut lips, ' gave his face an additional and soldierly distinction. ■ , He got his horse detrained at last, and formed in line with his comrades. lhe place looked like nothing else so much as a big railway goods depot, with a touch of added colour. long tin sheds sheltered piles of boxes and bales from the brilliant, pitiless sunshine. Little draught engines putted from place to place, dragging loads of trucks piled with -provisions from one store-house to another . , Down a broad, sandy track, which led out of the depot to the distant camp on the t C ldt„ a great unwieldly traction-engine lurched along, drawing waggons full of rations for the' troops. The whole place was alive with movement, , . From the far-distant camp every now and again came a dull boom. The Yeomen looked at cach other with brightened eyes as they heard the first deep sounds of war. The 1 literary man saw if; all with keen picasure and anticipation. _ The study seemed a tiny grey speck in his consciousness. He felt with an undcscribable gladness of heart that he was a live thing moving in life, and as his horse champed at the bit and fidgeted uneasily- at the hissing of the engines, he Could have shouted with joy. Five nays afterwards came his first memorable experience of war. One evening, at mndown, his troop, together with two others, jrmci' .nit of the camp and rode towards t!ji. .nmti ..;tst. making a long detour away f-n.,. Oio r>'ji n end lVi° river. The veldt y,.. ,in,! rn «t. Vmr and again * <i.,.,, i, it,..„i 'hi' •■■> I'oer and Brmrt /,■'< • ■••• '"-ru u;i"nv *" r 'i (roodIjjohl pr.|.i| , !::.i."". '.'lt <!< :»•««■ r-M 1 - .»>VHV from ♦ 1... i*;ifri •• i• *'.In' 'I n't. (•(■<<!■• . nr;.. »!,. .'m,™ 1., ' -v— p'jinti"f'v civ* vi"* ofrcfiiii.il'".— " *"ii' i; • • ..f-airelv prnhnhlp \< » 1.,... 1 ' .'1- •■> -,'ld,>r 8 kopio far on' "ii " '■ i' ! ' " ' iril ' 40 Boers we ininr'erMri: «■ • "■■■"• n'a"? I base for ni'livo sin' ' 'In:'" all t!ip rmiri'i'v r'tund

The Britj»li troupcra wpr" to «?oor'!.|\> 'he truth of this in'nriijtiiiii'i. r'lirh Imf n brought in by a Cape Ivy twi. f three <lav before, and, if it proved to he (rue. to make & decisive attack upon the form. Moors grasped his khaki-painted Weblor, an.l felt his carbino bumping against h's back. He was not the best of horsemen, and he preferred it slung to resting loosely upon his hin, as many of his comrades carried it. He wondered idly, but without much actual interest, what was going to happen to him. He felt no fear of any kind, but merely a detached wonder. As ihey rode on in the moonlight the monotonous ring of metal made him almost drowsy. At last, rising out of the ghastly sea of mist, which floated round them up to 'heir waists, they saw the black kopje before them. The threatened farm lay at the far side, some two miles away. It was settled that tho force should hp divided into two partsone to ride round the hill, and the other, discounted, to climb it and command the farm from the cliff above. Orders wore given to that effect, and 'lie mounted men were just moving off to the right when a strango and terrifying thing happened. Two yards in front of them, breast high, suddenly gleamed out a long row of lights, exactly like the festoons of electric lamps used to illuminate the streets of a great town at festival time.

\ There was a sudden shout ahead of them, and then spurts of fire came from tho darlc fides of the kopje, and a perfect hail of lead sang round them. They had fallen into a carefully-planned ambush, betraying their whereabouts to the enemy by treading on wires which, by an ingenious arrangement, immediately illuminated a row of small incandescent globes. t The confusion was incessant and the noise indescribable. Moore compared it afterwards to the sound of ten gigantic typewriters all being worked at once. Suddenly ho felt a light blow in his shoulder, but no pain. He hardly noticed it, but in ten seconds ho fell from his horse unconscious. ■

'■ After two or three days of delirium he MVokn to find himself in a large tent, in bed. How« of other.cots stretched as far »* lie could sep. His shoulder throbbed painfully. ; By the side of tho bed sat a yoting lady in nurse's costume. Upon her arm she wore a white linen band, ; upon which win a large crimson cross. She was recdirif. i> hoolt. An he "tjrred she put it down and rose to help him. "Don't moTe," she said, in » sweet, 'aw *oic». "You hare been very ill, and must

keep as quiet: ac possible.' You were tit in the shoulder, you know, at Werner's, Kop." "What happened?" he asked, eagerly, "What was the end of it?"

" Oh, it was all right," said the young lady, with » bright smile, "Your men stormed the kopje and took the Boers prisoners. It was most gallantly done," Moore heaved a sigh of relief. " Now," said the nurse, " you must drink this, and then I will read you to sleep. I have a beautiful book here, which you will like, . I'm sure. It has been my one companion during all this dnadful time." "What is that?" he asked, with a halfsmile, knowing what young ladies aro addicted to in the way of fiction. " Essays by Herbert Moore," she replied, and her voice sounded to him like a silver bell.

For days he heard his own polished periods and verbal filagree fall from rosy I'ns. Then one day she expressed a wish to know the author. He was sitting up in bed, and he took the book from her and wrote his nam9 in the fly-leaf with tho pencil from her chatolaine.. We should be better acquainted," ho said. _ "I was wrong ever to get out cf temper with literature."