NEW BOOKS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 15175, 14 December 1912, Page 4 (Supplement)

NEW BOOKS.

Portraits and Sketches—by Edmund Gos3e (Hincioar.n, London) —is a collection of jome of the inevitable studios which have made their author the foremost critic of hi* period. Mr. Gosse teils us that " these short studies of authors whom I have known more cr less intimately, and have observed with curiosity and admiration, base whatever value the)' may possess on their independence. They are imperfect, perhaps erroneous, but they are iiot second-hand. * Whether they are the result of a few Hashing glimpses, cr of the patient scrutiny of many years, in either case they are ray own. I hope < that some of them, at least, may I>e found t'j possess the . interest which attaches to even a rude pencil-sketch of a famous per-; eon, drawn faithfully from the life- I he. persons dealt with are of widely differing i , importance, and it :s probable that pesterity will intensify the distinction bo-, tween them. Some names are here included which history may neglect altogether; here are others which we believe will become more and more luminous witn the passage of year?. But the men discussed in the following pages had the common characteristic of devotion to literature; all were writers, and each had, in his own time and way, a serious and even a passionate conception of the responsibilities cf the art of writing. _ They were all, in their various capacities, engaged in .keeping bright, and in passing on unquenched, the torch of literary tradition. Of all the human beings whom I have known, «1 think that Algernon Swinburne was the most extraordinary. It is therefore needless to excuse tho length of the essay with which this volume opens. Hitherto little that is trustworthy has been published about this amazing man, around whose career a good deal of legend has at one time or another crystallised. Ha was so much o£ a hermit of lato years that curiosity has been glad to satisfy itself with tales which were picturesque although they were unfounded. I hope to start the work, which others will continue and make perfect, of preserving the true features of Swinburne as a poet and-as a person. Sly recollections of his person : and character are limited and imperfect, and no one is more conscious of their imperfection than I am; but so far as I can ensure fidelity to the truth, they are true; and I cannot help hoping that' they will be of service to those, pernaps still unborn, who will elaborate the final portrait. Whatever vicissitudes of taste our literature may undergo, one thing appears to nie absolutely certain, that Swinburne will end bv taking his place as one of the few unchallenged Immortals, about whose personal and intellectual habits no faithful record is unwelcome." Besides Swinburne, Mr. Gosse tells us of " Fast us " Bailey, •' Orion" Home, Tennyson, "Whittier, Andre* Lang, and of other men great in the; world of letters.

'■ " The Lovers"—by Eden Phillpotts Ward, v Lock, and , Co., Melbourne}— a tale of •: American prisoners held at- Dartmoor durr.' .> ing the 1812-15 war and of their loves with the Devonshire girls, and their., enmities ' i with Devonshire men, thjir escapes, their u-J; sicknesses, their sorrows, and their joys, ?■. Eden Phillpotts is at his romantic best ;ln this story, and fills his pages with patriots, ' misers, villains, heroes, highwaymen, and other interesting gentry. Here is a country market scene in old Dartmoor Prison —"The moor-folk were permitted within V- the prison precincts at certain times lor ■ the purpose of holding a market; arid this •; ; sudden outlet for their produce was gladly >'t\ welcomed among the small fanners who mzlo shift to live in their scattered homesteads round about. When market-day >; came, rows of boards and trestles stretched V across the great prison yards and the people brought eggs and poultry, vegetables, butter aria fruitail wares that <, commanded a. ready sale among those who i'; could afford to purchase them. Sometimes the food was given in exchange for trin- j - ' lets made., of wood, or of the bones saved I \ •- by the prisoners from their rations of meat. •]" The sailors were very popular and many a tender girl and old mother mourned the ' lot of ; these ill-clad, sorrowful hosts and f'M-v gave wiLaoat payment to . the ' sick and ■"' • suffering/ Here and there, too, a ; heart fl,;, .was exchanged for a heart and anting the lit > extraordinary and ingenious escapes and j,.\ incidents that each day brought to light, {, ; the maidens of the moor played their secret .'-part and helped to make history. - Fifty ;' , men - and women stood behind the stalls and- a thousand Americans loitered up and ,; down in front of them. Sentries were ■ posted at intervals and others superintended tho scene from vantage points upon ' the walls. Turnkeys stood about the iron •. gates; in each main yard was a cachot ' dungeon within a dungeon—a , squat, gloomy tomb of granite and iron— the vicious and turbulent, the quarrelsome, v'-; the plotters and the breakers of prison rules were incarcerated and starved, to . i tame them. In grotesque Mack and yellow jackets, threadbare and ill-fitting, shod with felt and wood, their heads covered with scarlet worsted caps, the prisoners moved about together or alone. _ Some laughed, jested, and kept up a running fire of jokes among themselves, or with the 1 market people; some—anxious arid careJ; —emerged from the prisons, made their purchases and vanished again; some skulked, surly and morose, amid their fellows. Those whose duty it was to cook or wait on the sick, bought of the poultry and eggs, bacon and vegetables, and departed with them. Small-pox and other diseases were rife in the prisons and a thousand minor tragedies passed hidden from sight in sick bays and secret corners. Each night saw silent shapes carry others, still more silent, to a burial-ground in the black heart of the wilderness; for Death helped many to escape."

"The Hero of Herat"by Maad Diver (Constable, London; Robertson, Mel- ■ . bourne) a frontier biography in romantic form, the hero being file famous Major Eldrod Pot/tinier, declared by Sir Henry Lawrence to have been the great* est Indian hero since the days of Clive. "jPottinger wan the greatest of all intelligence agent®, penetrating alone into Afghanistan and making possible the entry of the British to that city. Tho story is full of good situations and graphic writing, as when telling how skating was introduced to Kabul :— the waning of summer, cricket and horse-racing had been exchanged for football, hockey, and quoit*. High stakes were wagered over fighting cocks and rams, and feats of • wrestling, wherein the Afghans—to their frank surprise—found themselves overthrown again and again by their new v friends. None the less it took time to oon.vin6o them that men who hailed from the plains of Hindostan could be other than effeminate folk, unused to the rigours of snow and ice, which they reckoned, next to warfare, the most potent makers of ins Great, then, was their wonder when they beheld these versatile Feringhis rejoicing in the severe frost of December and praying for enow before Christmas to remind them of home. And there was yet greater wonder in store. On a crisp, cloudless day of December fhey took a party of Englishmen to the lake that lies fire miles beyond Kabul.' Here, by now, the ice was strong enough for running, sliding and other winter sports, wherein they excelled. The Fennghis, they, were convinced, could not beat thena on this, their own ground. And at. first it seemed that tbey were right. The English officers many of whom had not set foot on ice for ten. or twelve years—could not run upon the slippery surface like their light-footed friends ; and their attempts at sliding were so ungainly that the Afghans snouted •; aloud in good-humoured derision. 'Aha! Spake wo not the troth?' cried one. 'You Kf . are no true men of the North, if you can- ;. not run upon ioe.' The subalterns joined 0:':. ,'in the laugh against themselves; but pro- •: t 1 tested that, given time for practice, they |£:; .would run upon ice with the swiftest Afi ' ghan -of L them all. _ Then they took counsel Vv - together how their national supremacy! 'C V; '. row'ht be aaserted and their boact made ' goofi,' In * city so full of skilled artiIv : Boß*B, -it roralf most be possible to find one who oould make skates from a rough I model. . It was possible; and the needful model was achieved by Sinclajir, of the 113 th, a notable man of fcia hands. Old < inn! mMttei and • hardened, ,• nerved for fikdw, mi tiui. «»ugh-

tire affair of wood and iron and straps. So the artificers worked, and the subalterns rejoiced—strictly in private. At length, upon the appointed day, they announced a forthcoming tamasha on the lake_ that should prove them tree men of the North, and cause the Afghans to open their eyes and their mouth? wider than ever before. Nor were they disappointed of their hope. It was a proud moment when thev set out, skates hanging over thair shoulders, as in the days of boyhood : prouder still when they strapped theip on. under the eves of a. curious crowd. _ Then, with one accord, they rose up; staggered, swayed— and after the first ungainly lunges, dashed forward in gallant style; hacked, wheeled, cut threes and eights with shouts of exultation, heartily echoed by the gazers on, the shore. Amid a chorus of *Wah— wa'is,' 'Instiallahs' " and much .solemn wagging: of beards, the Afghans declared themselves nonplussed by this incredible magic of running upon ice'.with knives.'*

" Phrynette Harried " —By Marthe Tralv- j Gurtin (Grant Richards, London; Robert- : son. .Melbourne) —is a sequel to *' Phrv- j netto in London/' which took half the reading world by storm,. and left the other half doubtful. It gives us marriage to an Englishman goes tiger-shooting in Indiaas it appears to a. lively and very .observant. young Frenchwoman: and i:i the coirsc of the -worucd-out comedy—which like ail - true comedies is almost a tragedy— arc a thousand glimpses of the humour and the pathos of life. . Here is tho anguish of a beautiful woman growing old: —" ' Ah. . yes— and, speaking of collars did speak of collars, my dear, didn't yon? Well, I. think I had better not wear those Peter Pan ; shapes any more. Oh, Phrynette, isn't it . dreadful V She ■ had a truly agonised look. 4 What is dreadful ? What's the shape of a collar, low cr high, an long as it does not stop half-way ?' 'Don't yen see it's not Oh, Phrynette it's a vital matter with inc., I : can't wear low collars any mow—erec with evening dress** :I ' have to wear a dog collar of- pearls. Oh. Phrynette, you may shrug, • but- it is dreadful—every day to renounce something! . I can't -.wear ishort sleeves without long gloves, my arms look old— are white and plump and soft; but there is a terrible empty- groove from wrist to elbow." She lifted the sleeve of her peignoir.. 'Look,' she aaid ; pathetically. .. ;• It is a beautiful arm,' I said warmly. , . *It is' the well-preserved arm of an old woman.' Her hands went up and covered her face, she gave 'a- moan that gripped my throat. ' Not that,' she sobbed, 'not that! Oh, the fate of women Oh, the .cruelty of God, who takes their beauty'away, and leaves them to live! Phrynette, I grow less lovely every day, and I have to watch my loveliness, die. That is the horror of it. I see it die, I tell you!' . ' Don't. Some women have to watch their children die. Videar, be proud, be brave; I know it most be hard, darling, but you exaggerateyou are a beautiful woman still, you will be beautiful for many years to come. Don't sob like that, Videar, it is too terrible, and someone will hear you—don't.' My sister-in-law dropped her hands and looked at me with two despairing eyes staring in a grotesque mask of wet kohl, poudre de riz, and carmine; there were deeo lines on each side of her mouth and little wrinkled pouches under her eyes. I never loved her so much. I took one of her feverish hands and kissed it. She started crying again as n# lips touched her. 'Each age has its beauty,' I said, pleading for her to herself. She laughed with the bitterness of what she thought: 'Yes, except middle-girlhood and middlewomanhood. A girl of thirteen and a woman of forty-three are at their worst. A girl of thirteen is at the awkward age, a woman of forty-three at the pathetic age. I am net yet picturesquely ancient. I may be beautiful again, perhaps, when my hair is white. Dear girl,' sho said, ' you do not know what I feel; it is too poignant for you, at your age, to imagine. Listen, and try to understand my—my torture. You speak of years to come, but these last five years have been a daily agony. Do you know what I have done, what I would be ready to do, just to keep my beauty a little longer ? My life is becoming more and more a desperate struggle. r I have made my purpose a fight against age, and I lose, my dear. Oh, my dear, if you: could see me at night, for instance, you would laugh; no, you would cry, you would pity me— wear a mask of caoutchouc which gives me a headache. My face and neck are coated with greasy stuff. I wear special stays to reduce my waist during sleep, but I do not get much sleep, how could It I lie with my head perfectly flat, so as to prevent a double chin, and I have always been used to a high pillow. A woman's middle age is her martyrdom; Phrynette. And did you notice my eyes lately ? They hurt me. I saw an oculist, he told me to discontinue hair-dyes, he says they affect the eyesight, and he says I should wear glasses she wrung her hands—' glasses —can you imagine me with spectacles ? You speak of children. I never would have them—l was afraid for my beauty. Isn't life unjust? Ido not regret the children, no, Ido not. The sacrifice was worth it. Can you realise what beauty, my beauty, is to —I love it better than life. Listen, if I could, by being flayed alive, regain a new youth with a new skin, I swear to you I would endure it— I would— would. Now- do you understand.' She had dropped on her knees by my arm-chair, and in her agony was biting the brocade of the cushion. I felt so full of frightened pity that, if it had been in my power, I would have given her joy with some of the years of my youth. She still moaned, rolling her head on the cushions like some wounded sheep. ' It's finished,' she said dully, at last (I had put my"hand tenderly on the back of her neck, but could think of no words soothing enough. ' It's finished— am done for— am an old woman—finished— finished—' ■"