ECHOES OF THE WEEK.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1190, 21 December 1894, Page 21

ECHOES OF THE WEEK.

Satire’s my weapon, but I’m too discreet To run amuck and tilt at all I meet. Pope,

BY SCRUTATOR.

The news of poor Robert Louis Stevenson’s death will be received with sincere regret, not only, in the colonies, where he had many readers and admirers, but in literary circles at Home, where his lovable nature had won for him some very devoted friends amongst the leading writers of the day. It was only the other day that I read the dedication of Mr Crockett's charming “ Stickit Minister,” to the far away exile in Samoa, and quite recently Mr Edmund Gosse and Mr William Watson, two of the most graceful of modern poets, have published verses of which Mr Stevenson and his works were the subject. An Edinburgh man by birth, Mr Stevenson was an enthusiastic Scot. Burns never loveu the land of “ brown heath and shaggy wood more than did the poor invalid who had to desert his native country -for a life long exile amid the “ summer isles of Eden,” which for a time at least brought him relief from the ravages of that most accursed of all-diseases, consumption. It is his Scotch stories I like best, and I find most of his New Zealand admirers hold the opinion that “Kidnapped” is his chef d’oeuvre. “ Plagiarised from Scott’s ‘ Rob Roy • say some, and certainly that gallant but extremely ropgh and ready ’Highland gentleman, the ingenious Alan Breck Stewart, had a great deal in common with the redoubtable Rob Roy Macgregor, who occasioned such anguish of mind and pain of body to the never to be forgotten and ever delightful Bail lie Nicol Jarvie. But there is much in “ Kidnapped” that is fresh and novel and which never -owed its inspiration to the “ Wizard of the North,” and I for one can find never-ceasing pleasure in both books. “ Catriona,” which - appeared in the New Zealand Mail under the title (as first given by the author) of “David Balfour,” was a sequel to “ Kidnapped,” and is remarkable for being the. first of Mr Stevenson’s works in . which he gives his admirers an heroine —up to this he had chosen to ignore the “ eternal feminine.” Catriona is a charming lass, much too good, I cannot help thinking, for Mr David Balfour of Shaws, who, to tell the truth, has a good deal of the prig about him, but in “Catriona,” as in “ Kidnapped,” Allan Breck is the real hero, and one of the best * living characters, I take it, that modern English fiction has known, ■v ;

THE “Master - of Ballantrae,” one of Stevenson’s earlier books,- is a weird, tragic" story, powerfully told, but almost too tragic; but in “ Treasure Island,” the first of the author’s longer stories, we have, to my mind, one of the best romances ever, written. As a story, it is well nigh perfect. Its simplicity of style, its freedom from padding, its directness and vividity, are astonishing, and although intended primarily - for the delectation of juvenile readers,’! know a good many children of older growth w ho revel in the doings of that wicked but-’Vastly; amusing old pirate, the sea-cook with tfie wooden leg, Mr John Silver. Mr Stevenson was a. charming essayist, with all Lamb’s genial wit and pleasant quaintness (of fancy, without the tendency to preach which sometimes crops Up in the “Gehtle Elia.” His “Memories and Portraits ’’ and “ Yirginibus Pueresque ” tt? specially the latter contain some of the most beautiful English ever, written ; indeed, as a stylist Stevenson had -iio equal. Did you ever read those two slim little volumes Of travels of his which first appeared some years ago—“ An Inland Voyage,” ahd “ Travels with a Donkey.” They are most delightful, and when in deliberately lighter vein, as in the “ New Arabian Nights,” no modern writer can be more deliciously whimsical of fancy and humorous- in treatment. The later wcrk undoubtedly showed a falling off. “The Wreckers ”• is the best of the South Sea Island stories, buc the plot was ill worked out, and there was some unmistakeable padding in the-earlier chapters.'

STILL, everything that Stevenson has written is worth reading, and bears the cachet of a marvellous wealth of imagination, a knowledge of men and manners, and abore all, of an incomparable “style.” I bad almost forgotten that weirdly powerful little story “ Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,’’ a slight thing, but as a genuine “ blood cnrdler ” not to be excelled. The versatility of the man was marvellous. He wrote Scotch stories, American stories,, stories which showed a deep insight into London life, stories again (“ The Black Arrow ”) ; which gave very fair, pictures of life in the middle ages, stories of South Sea Island life, whilst in his verses and short sketches there

is a variety of subjects which are almost bewildering. Much, of course, that he wfote, was ephehnfmeral, hut the best of his work will live and, I trust, live long enough tocharm at least the next generation as they have charmed the present. Scotsmen should specially revere his memory, for he was intensely patriotic and never wrote of his country or his countrymen without a conscious pride in its grand old history and of the many excellent qualities in the Scotch character'.

: ELLINGTON playgoers sbould.be If deeply grateful to Messrs Brough and Boucicault for the treat which has been afforded them during the past ten days. There are spots on the sun, however, and taken, all round I fancy I can detect a slight falling off in the all-round ' quality of the performances as compared with those given by the company on their previous visit. One misses Mr Boucicault very much, and one at least of the new members of the company, Mr Dorrington, is most palpably not up to the usual B. and B. hall mark of artistic excellence. This young gentleman should be taught •how to speak his lines distinctly before being permitted to assume important characters. Jfe mumbles his words in a

thin voice in such a way as to be frequently quite unintelligible, and his Hastings in “ She Stoops to Conquer” was the weakest I have ever seen. Indeed, the whole peiv forformance of Goldsmith’s delightful old comedy was very poor. Mr Brough’s Tony Lumpkin was a great disappointment. It lacked unction and the impression of that “ loutishness ” which is so salient characteristic of Tony, was but very indifferently conveyed. Mr Tithcradge, too, was only a fair Mr Hardcastle, and I am sorry to have to state what is not only my opinion, but that of many others to whom I have spokeD, that Mrs Brough’s Kate Hardcastle was far and away the weakest thing she has done here. The whole truth of the matter is that the company cannot be expected to be perfect in anything and everything they do, and that there are bounds to the versatility of the very cleverest disciples of Thespis. The long waits betweon the acts at some of the performances caused a good deal of irritation, and although the mounting is very elaborate and the changes from one carefully detailed interior to another cannot be done in a minute or two, a little more despatch would certainly have pleased the audiences. Taken as a whole, however, the season was a great artistic success, and undoubtedly “ The Second Mrs Tanqueray ” was remarkably well played. I cannot help thinking, however, that Mrs Brough’s voice is showing Bigns of wear and tear, and that her style is becoming too hard. A complete rest for a few months will, no doubt, work wonders —it is certainly needtd.

WHILST on the subject of the theatre, lpt me voice the annoyance and indignation felt by a large number of regular occupants of the dress circle at the stupid and irritating custom which a small section of the habitues have of coming in to their seats some eight or ten minutes after the performance has commenced. One evening I was there, a lady and her two daughters, accompanied by two gentleman friends, came trooping into the circle exactly thirteen minutes after the curtain had gone up on the first act. Three members of the same party repeated this piece of gross bad taste on a succeeding evening. On both occasions these persons began to chatter in a perfectly audible voice, directly-they had taken their seats, and continued to “yap” away for about- eight to ten minutes, utterly ruining theenjoyment which their neighbours expected to find in the play. I have been taking note of the offenders during the B and B season. Their number varies each night from eight up to fifteen—the late comers. I mean—and with only two exceptions each and all belong to what are very stupidly called the “ upper class.” They may have wealth and position, but they certainly possess a very elementary idea as to what should constitute good

T AST week I acknowledged the receipt XJ of that excellent little school magazine, The Wellingtonian, to-day I have on my table a copy of its equally excellent contemporary, the Wanganui Collegian. Owing, I suppose, to the “House” having adjourned during the summer months, I find no mention in the Collegidnot that inost amusing institution the School Parliament"; details of whose debates I have’on previous occasions given to my readers. The present numjjer of the Collegian is mainly a sports record, fyut as usual here are some tit-bits to b 4 found in the Odds and Ends Column. 1 The following, for instance, are curiosities from the theological examinations. I “ And JejJthath sent a message to Howbeit, King pf the Ammonites.” “ He gave him a coat of many collers.” “ He fled from a pillow of salt.” “He tbre a lion in half and found -a swarm Of bees inside him.” I notice in the School News that “ there is every prospect of being able to secure an excellent organ for the chapel at a very moderate price/’ and that “ the headmaster will be glad to receive subscriptions.” This is surely a case where the old boys should come to the asssistance of the school. ,

C CHRISTMAS is with us once again, and f despite all the talk of hard times, of depression and so on, I notice most people seem fairly cheery, and talk of holidaymaking and festivities generally, just as, if they had not a care in the worlds The best way, perhaps, after all. He’s a dull dog who cannot rejoice and make merry once a year, and even if times are bad, " grizzling ” over them will not improve matters. Personally I know I ought to" write a long screed about Christmas, and work in all the good old chestnuts about “ peace on earth” and “ Tiny Tim,” and of the “misery in which thousands live in the Old Country,” and of the “universal plenty and happiness” which we happier mortals are supposed to enjoy here—and all that sort of thing ; but to tell the truth, there’s nothing new to say about- Christmas, and if there is I can’t find it. A long article in the special Christmas number of the Mail has exhausted my Christmas “ tap,” and so, without further preamble or excuse, I-shall express the time-honoured and, in my .case, certainly most sincere wish that*every one of you may enjoy A'Yery Jovial Christmas AND A New Year Pull of Prosperity and all Happiness.