A LITERARY MAN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 11716, 26 July 1901, Page 3

A LITERARY MAN.

The study was not particularly, large, nor ;was it particularly splendid. The fopperies of the dilettante wore not there. The paper-knife was of thin wood,'. and not of silver and carved ivory— work of art winch ono could supposo would only coquette with a well-bound book. But here one could read and bo at peace. Good books 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 reacting lamp, sat Herbert Moore, literary man and recluse. He was smoking an old briar pipe and reading a volume of Leigh Hunt. ( f-™ eyes fell upon the following passage: O, Pygmalion, who can wonder (no artist surely) that thou didst fall in love with the work i of thine own hands?" , ; . "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, my friend," ho said, smiling bitterly, "I agreed with Leigh Hunt and Pygmalion. I was very much in love with you. I was perfectly and absolutely satisfied and happy with my work and with my life. Within these four walls—lined with the wisdom and wit of the world—l. lived with 20,000. immortals as my friends." ' < He got up with an uneasy sigh and began to stride up and down the strip of carpet between his writing-tablo and the bookshelf which held his Jowctt's Plato. It had been his favourite promenade for. years. Moore was a big man, with a massive, clean-/ shaven face. Study had not bowed the breadth of his back, or dimmed the cool, reflective fire of his eyes. ; The hand which held the old blackened . pipe was firm, -muscular, and strong. . " '* , j In the quaint, pathetic fashion of a lonely and intellectual maneven as the sad Prince of Elsinbre— began his monologue once more. "Why, why, why?" he cried, his voice gaining resonance as ho 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 is beating too loudly now, and it has even penetrated into this lonely quiet room." '■': :'■'.'" ', >■ , Ho 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 eyes, the hand which § held the paper clenched firmly upon it until it crumpled. Suddenly he raised his head, bending it slightly towards the window in the careful expectant atttitude wo associato with one who listens. Far, far away a rhythmic pulsing camo through the still night air. It grew louder, and resolved itself into quick, irregular beats. Then, without any preclude, the sound was penetrated by faint, shrill music, like the singing of locusts in high flight. Rapidly the midnight fifes and drums approached, mingled with the tread of many feet and the great shouting of running crowds. Th.c noise became deafening as the regiment passed the house, and his whole weary heart leapt up to answer it. He ran to the window, pulled aside the hanging curtain, and gazed out into the fog. A gas lamp stood in the street just opposite, and in tho street beyond iho little garden he could see the tremulous light glinting upon shining rifles in a blur of fog and men and steel. The study, was silent again. Moore stood by his writing-table with shaking hands and a new resolution in his face. - "Yes,',' he cried, "this is real—real. Why am I herewith Plato when-England is in danger? Now I know that there is other work to be done, and I am firm to do it." With that he .took up his pen and broke it into two pieces, casting thorn into the fire flame. "I have written 'Finis' to my literary life," ho said. Herbert Moore's was not only an artistic temperament, but a strong, steadfast one also. Your " artist" would havo broken his pen in the evening, hot upon battle and the white gloves of war. He would, just as . Moore, have been thrilled by the stern midnight march of the soldiers going to the clocks. But in the morning, when a bright winter's sun-powdered the snow with golddust, 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. poem ,or tale upon. Moore was made of more lioncrt 'stuff than (his. His-pen wp.s- broken" and he would prd\'B" tho sword bayonet a more satisfying weapon to wield.

Little more than eight weeks after (he scene in the cosy lamp-lit study—a short two months—ho was loading a stubborn horse down a. gangway from the truck which had brought it from Capetown to tho front. Tho voyage and tho long rough journey from the base to Modeler River had given his face a younger look. The dark moustache, t that already was beginning to hide the firm, clear-cut lips, gave his face an additional and soldicrlygilistinotion. He got his horse detrained at last, and formed in line with his comrades. The 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 biles from the brilliant, pitiless sunshine. Little draught engines pulled from place to place, dragging loads of trucks piled with provisions from one storehouse to another. Down a broad, sandy track, which led out of tho depot to the distant camp on tho veldt, a great unwioldy traction engine lurched along, drawing waggons full of rations for the troops. The whole place was alivo with movement. l'rom the far-distant camp every now and again came a dull boom. The Yeomen looked at each other with brightened eyes as they heard the first deep sounds of war. Tho -literary man saw it all with' keen pleasure and anticipation. The study seemed a tiny gray speck in his consciousness. . Ho felt with 'an indescribable gladness of heart that he was a live thing moving in life, and as his horse champed at the bit and fidgeted ur-easily at the hissing of the engines, he could have shouted with joy. ,'-■■ • FivVdays afterwards cam© his first memorable experience of war. One evening, at sundown, his.troop, together with two others, moved out of the camp and rode towards the south-east, making a long detour away from the camp and the river. The veldt was very sifent and vast. Now and again a distant crash told them that the Boer and British gunners were paying each other goodnight compliments, but as they rode away from the camp even that noise ceased, and the sweet voices of the evening bugles faded plaintively away. The expedition was one of reconnaissance, bui fighting was extremely probable. At a farmhouse, nestling under a kopje, far out on the veldt, it was said 40 Boers were quartered, and made the place a base for active and daily scouting over all the country round. The British troopers were to ascertain the truth of this information, which had been brought in by a Cape boy two or threo days before, and, if it proved to bo true, to make a decisive attack upon the farm. Moore grasped his khaki-painted Webley, and felt his carbine bumping against his back. He was not the best of horsemen, and he preferred it slung to resting loosely upon his hip as many of his comrades carried it. He wondered idly, but without much actual interest, what was going to happen to him. Ho felt no fear of any kind, but merely a detached wonder. As they 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 their waists, they saw the black kopje before thorn. The threatened farm lay at the far side, some two miles away. If, was settled that the force should bo divided into two parts—one to ride round tho hill, and the other, dismounted, to climb it and command the farm from the .Jiff above. Orders wore given to that effect, and the mounted men were just moving off to the right when a strange 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 tho street S of a great town at festival time. • There wa» a sudden shout ahead of them, and then spurts of fire came from the dark sides of the kopje and a perfect hail of lead sang round them. They had fallen into a carefully-planned ambush, betraying their whereabouts to tho enemy by treading on wires, which, by an ingenious arrangement, immediately illuminated a row of small incandescent globes. The confusion was incessant, and the noise indescribable Moore compared it afterwards to the sound of 10 gigantic typewriters all being worked at once. Suddenly lie felt a light blow in his shoulder, but no pain. He hardly noticed it, but.in ton seconds ho fell from his horse unconscious. After two or three days of , delirium he awoke to find himself in a large tent, in bed. Rows of other cots stretched as far as lie could see. His shoulder throbbed painfully. By the side of the bed sat a young lady in muse's costume. Upon her arm she wore a white linen bind upon which was a large crimson cross. She was reading .a book.

'.' As lie stirred she put it dowu. and rose to ; help him. """.".' " *' '''"Don't'move," she said, in a sweet, low voice. "You have been very ill, and must keep as quiet as possible." You were hit in ; the shoulder, you know, at Weiner's Kop." ■■"-,"■,'' , "What happened?" he asked eagerly. "What was the end cf it?" "Oh, it was all right," said the young lady with a 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 havo a beautiful book hero, which you will like, I'm sure. It has been my one companion during all this dreadful time." "What is that?" ho asked with a halfsmile, knowing what young ladies are addicted to in the way of fiction. Essays by Herbert Moore," she replied, and "her voice sounded to him like a silver bell. ' . ■'■ . ■ ; i'ov days he heard his own polished periods and verbal filagree fall from rosy lips. 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 name in the fly-leaf with the pencil on her chatelaine. "We should be better acquainted," he said. "I was wrong ever to get out of temper with Literature."