LONDON LITERARY GOSSIP.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1204, 29 March 1895, Page 9

LONDON LITERARY GOSSIP.

From Our Own Correspondent. London, February 8. When turning over the February magazines at club or library, don't overlook The Woman at Home, which, in addition to the Scotch dominie's account of a visit to Mr Gladstone I quoted last week, has a pathetic and non-Scotch tale or impression by lan Maclaren entitled " Afterwards." It pictures the remorse of a careless but at bottom affectionate husband, who realised too late that he never properly recognised his dead wife's unselfish and unwavering love. L. T. Meade also contributes a short story, and Madame Marie Belloc a capital sketch of the Czarina. Altogether a strong number. The English Illustrated, under the amiable Snorter's supervision, continues well in the van of up-to-date periodicals. Mr Weyman's, Minister of Francej relates the imbroglio arising through a "Lost Cypher." Geo. Gissing tells of a fortunate misadventure that befel a now famous romancist in early youth, and there are numerous other readable items in the issue. Cornhill and Temple Bar, on the other hand, continue to retrograde. The January and February numbers of the latter must have caused dozens to give it up. In Blackwood note a luminous article on the late Czar, a first rate story, " The Scout's Boy," and a matter of fact picture of "A Congested District" in Ireland.

Good Words contains the opening of John Murray the Fourth's reminiscences of "Authors I Have Known." They do not commence brilliantly, but doubtless will improve. Mr Murray tells us the famous series of Guide Books which have made his family's name a household word were, in the first instance, written entirely by his father, and were the result of long years of study and research, of travel and personal experience derived in the main from countless note books filled with architectural, geological, historical and personal details made on the spot during annual holidays. Of the two great pillars of the Quarterly Review in its palmy days, John Wilson Croker and John Wilson Lockhart, Mr Murray tells us a little. The former was so widely and so indefinitely hated, the publisher in his youth ranked him with Dr Fell. Hardly anyone could give an intelligible reason for disliking the man. He figured—you probably know —as Rigby in " Coningsby," whom Disraeli described as a "fawning, plotting, insolent man of dirty work," and Lord Brougham pilloried him in "Albert Lunel" as La Croasse. Thackeray's attack under a thin disguise was, however, bitterest of all, and founded, it turned out, on merest hearsay. Asked about the matter at the Garrick one evening by a relative of Croker's, the novelist said: " I believe Croker to be a bad and heartless man, and in describing hiin as such I did but repeat the uncontradicted talk of those who knew him."

The querist happened to be an intimate friend as well as relative of the traduced individual, and was able to describe Croker's home life and give many instances of his, goodness of heart. Near his house, for example, was a school much patronised by East Indians, and several of the lads had, in consequence, to spend their vacations at school. Old Croker saw them walking disconsolately about the deserted playground, and said to his wife, '•Those boys mustn't be shut up all the holidays. Let us ask them here." " My dear!" said his wife, "-think of the noise and the mischief, and our quiet ways all upset." "I do," replied' Croker, "but it's morq important; fch§ youngsters should.

enjoy a. happy holiday." When Thackeray heard this, tears came into his eyes, and he asked, " Can the tale be true ?" " 'Tis not only true but typical," was the reply. "la Mrs Croker and will you take rae to her ? I should like to offer my apologies, as some reparation for the injustice I've unwittingly done her husband," cried the penitent novelist. Mr Murray offers no comment on this instructive yarn, yet what a glimpse it gives both of Thackeray's kind heart and of his simple vanity. Any soreness Mrs Croker had felt through his monstrously unjust portrait of her deceased husband would, he evidently thought, be put quite right by a few civil words.

The article also contains anecdotes of George Borrow and Sir Francis Head, but they are hardly good enough to reproduce.

Chatto's new novels for the spring season include Grant Allen's *« Under Sealed Orders " and the " Grey Monk."

Walter Besant's " Beyond the Dreams of Avarice " relates the misadventures which befel various members of the Burley family whilst struggling for the possession of a huge fortune amassed by ruffianly and dishonest ancestors. It is not one of its author's happiest efforts, and will rank rather with "The Ivory Gate" and "St. Katherine's by the Tower" than with "Armorel of Lyonnesse" and the Besant and Rice novels.

Messrs Blackwoods' spring list includes a new edition of George Eliot in half-a-crown volumes. They will be bound (after the modern fashion) in buckram, and printed from the plates of the Cabinet edition. "Adam Becle," in two volumes, opens the issue. The famous Edinburgh firm also announce "A Duke of Britain," by Sir Herbert Maxwell, and a "Life of Sir Edward Hamley," by A. T. Shand.

Eeaders of that despicable book, "The Silver" Domino," know how contemptibly venomous Marie Corelli can be in many respects; but she has never " given herself away" under her own name quite so lamentably as in an edifying article entitled "Barabbas—and After," in this month's Idler. You may remember, I could not agree with the verdict of the principal reviewers upon Miss Corelli's " dream of; the world's tragedy." Setting aside the dubious taste of venturing on such an audacious experiment, it struck me as artistically and, on the whole, reverently—or, perhaps, it would be truer to say not irreverently—carried out. But this was not the general opinion. Nonconformist and Roman Catholic writers disliked the book intensely, and said it most frankly. It was so soundly "slated," indeed, it became a succes de scandale, and shared with "Dodo" the honour of being the niost-asked-for novel of its season. Miss Corelli is now anxious to show up her critics. Because several thousand persons have bought "Barabbas," just as they bought "Nana," " The Mummer's Wife," "Dodo" and "The Silver Domino," the author cries " Vici! down with my detractors!"

Now this ■would be harmless and even entertaining if Miss Corelli confined herself to wreaking revenge on her reviewers. They didn't hurt her. Oh! no. The articles were so monstrously silly she merely laughed at them; they amused her intensely. Alas ! like the gentleman in the " Pair of Spectacles " we've heard that tale before. The author whose work excites critical displeasure nearly always is " amused " outwardly. One sees him screwing his face up into agonised contortions and howling with a desperate attempt at sincerity "Ha ! ha! ha !" The reality of Miss Corelli's " amusement" may be gathered from the pages of venomous spite she spues forth violently on her supposed enemies. And these include, I regret to say, a number of authors who have been more fortunate than herselfAmongst others the Australian lady wh« wrote " A Yellow Aster" comes in for an attack of almost incredible viperish malignancy. Her offence is that Mr Courtney, the Spectator, and other recognised authorilies who (or some of whom) " slated " that immortal work " Barabbas," praised "lota's" books. The fair Marie babbles over with nasty insinuations on the subject. It is indeed altogether a most melancholy exhibition of diseased vanity and spleen. Read the article yourselves and judge.