LITERARY NOTES.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1267, 11 June 1896, Page 12

LITERARY NOTES.

“I would rather be a poor man in ft garret with plenty of books Linn a king who did not love reading.”—Loud Macau la y.

Address nil communications for this column to “ The Editor, Nkw Zr ai.anij Mail ” I'ulilieliers and booksellers are invited to send books and publications of general interest for notice in tli s column, thereby enabling country readers to be in touch with the latest works in the Colony. Publishers sending hooks for review are requested to mention their price.

LETTERS ON BOOKS.

Wellington, June s. My Dear Robinson,— Living, as you do, “away back,” as you put it, at such a distance from libraries, bookshops, and reading rooms, l can quite understand that you should often experience some small dilliculty in knowing what books to buy, to read, or to avoid, and I am only too glad, for old friendship’s sake and by reason of our common love of good literature, to .act upon your suggestion and give you an occasional gossip on the new books which find their way to tho colonies. Personal tastes as to books differs, of course, very much. What one reader votes “capital” or “charming” (the hitter is generally the fominine adjective) another finds “dreary” and “dull,” and you must therefore not expect iny own inclinations and likings ever to jump on all fours with your own. 1 shall honestly try, however, to give you a good comprehensive idea of the books I write about, “ nothing extenuating or setting down in malice,” but on the other hand avoiding, f trust, anything Approaching hysterical eulogy. If I can add, from that accumulated store of personal knowledge that a journalist generally possesses, any little sido details as to an author’s life, his tastes, his methods of work, Ac., I hope such gossip will not displease you. Of course landedliardly tell you that a seoming dogmatism, in reality an outcome of strong personal opinions which I find it impossible to repress, may sometimes have to be encountered by you. But as “my intentions are well meant,” as the stout sergeant of police sings in tho “Pirates of Penzance,” your criticisms of my criticisms will, I trust, ho tolerant. So much for preface. Like most prefaces it is, I fear, inordinately long.

The first book on my list to-day is a volume of the scarlet-covered Empire Library, in which, at the modest price of ss, Mr Heinemann —one of the most enterprising of publishers—is issuing works of a deeper interest than the fiction of which tho many colonial libraries are mainly composed. A specialty is being made of historical works, tho English price of which renders them quite prohibitive to most colonial readers. Thus Mr Frederic Masson’s “Napoleon and tho Fair Sex” (i.) is sold at Home for 15s; here you can get it from your bookseller in this bandy Empire Library tor os. Mr Masson’s book is t ) some extent what bis countrymen call a zhronique souulalcusi', but the story of tho numerous amours, transient and olher.vLo, with which the great Nap. relieved the tedium of his military and Slate cares possesses a great historical value. It gives us an inside view of tho man, and although, of course, tho sterner morality of to-day—-whether it be a more sincere or a hypocritical morality, I am not prepared to say —stands aghast at Buonaparte’s “love passages” with fair but frail courtiers, actresses, with even hio

wife Josephine’s “companions and “ readers,” nevertheless it mu.t bo remembered that the light which boat., upon throne was of a hundred thousand candle power in Nap.'s time. M. Masson hides nothing, extenuates nothing, but lie is careful to show that in his relations with women the “ little Corsican was not so black as ho has oftentimes been painted, His picture of Josephine do B.'auharrmK the Creole lady who was the wile of Buonaparte’s younger days, _is a fine piece of work, ller frivolity, and her reckless extravagance, her doubtful fidelity to her spouse, are all mercilessly exposed, blit one ieels tho utmost sympathy for Her and contempt for Napoleon when one reads the story of the divorce, and the casting aside for reasons

(i ) “ Napoleon and the Fair Sex,” by Frederic Masson. The Empire Library. (London Win, Heinemann.)

of ambition and selfishness of her who had been so dear to the man in earlier days. M. Masson tells very prettily and pathetically the romantic story of Mine. Walewska, the Polish lady who sacrificed her virtue in the hope of doing her country some service with the all-powerful Napoleon; but I must warn you that here and there are some references in this work, which first came out in a Parisian journal, which are hardly fit for youthful perusal. It is a book for men and women, not for boarding schools misses. You understand.

Nothing pleases mo better in these days of “sex problem” novels, novels with a purpose, novels which are “Blue Books” in disguise—Hansards and Government papers, as it were, in sheep’s clothing—to come across a real live (a most useful American adjective, that) romance. Transport mo from those days of pessimism and fads, of societies and papers for the spread of all sorts of cranky ideas, from these days when so much in life appears to bo dull and dreary, back to the bravo old times when there was clanging of swoids and bravo deeds done of gallant men in sylvan glades or 'neath castle walls — let him bo good enough to do this for me, and an author earns my gratitude. Tho story which takes us out of ourselves and out of this neutral-tinted life of to-day is tho story for mo, and as 1 know you are of my way of thinking, and that you have enjoyed Mr Stanley Wcyman’s “Gentleman of France,” his “ Under the Bed Bobo” and “ Tho lied Cockade,” let me tell you that in my humble opinion both Mr Weyman and Mr Anthony Hope have now a most formidable rival in the person of a Mr A. E. W. Mason, whoso “Courtship of Maurice Buckler” (it.) is quite the best romance published for some time past. It is so full of incident, so free from any pages wherein one may bo tempted to “ exercise the judicious art of skipping,” so brisk in narration, so full of well drawn, interesting characters — real men and women, not pasteboard puppets, novelists’ lay figures—that it kept me entranced for some hours, and caused politics, journalism and all latter-day matters tolly into a temporary Unknown. To detail the plot would take teo long, but I may say that the scenes are east partly in England, shortly after Monmouth’s rebellion, and partly in the Tyrol, a romantic country, a fit background for such a romantic story. The hero is a young Englishman who sets out to avenge a foul wrong done to a friend, llis revenge is soon accomplished, and in the course of its narration tho author gives us tho weirdest, most powerful “ thing” in duels (forgive the nineteenth century vulgarism) that I have happened across in fiction this many a day. The sword of the avenger having done its work, wo enter on a romantic love episode, which runs a very varied course ere a happy and most eleverly-worlced-out deno ucmr.nl is reached. In fertility of invention Mr Mason runs both Mr Weyman and the author of “ The Prisoner of Zenda” very close, I cau confidently assure you, and if this be tho author’s first book, his is a name which all who love a spirited story, brilliantly told, will look forward to meeting many a time and oft on a title page. When next you visit your local bookseller, bo sure and get this excellent story. You will not regret having taken my advice.

Mr S. R. Crockett, of course, you know. He began by writing some clever stories, “Tho Stickit Minister and Other Sketches,” which at once won the admiration of all Scotsmen, and not a few Southrons, Then 1 he, too, following the vogue, fell, to ,writing romances. You may have read his “Haiders” and his “Men of the Moss Hags”—the latter a fine story of the stern old Covenantors, and reeking with that Galloway dialect which the late Robert Louis Stevenson loved so well. Mr Crockett has now given up tho “Kirk” ho was “meenister” at Pencuik, when he first took to paper-spoiling—and now works hard at the good old trado of story-telling. I fear me ho writes too much and produces too rapidly. It is a fault, and a quite natural one, too, in new authors who find the publishers chasing them with cheques, and who wish to make hay whilst the treacherously temporary sunshine of public approval is round them like a halo. However, although thoro are most evident traces of hurried work in Mr Crockett’s latest book, “Cleg Kelly” (rn,), tliere is line craftmansbip in it. The story is somewhat of a new departure for Mr Crockett, for Cl- g Kelly is no sturdy Scots hcio of the Covenanter or other bygone days, but is only “an arab of the city,” tho city being Edinburgh, where Mr Crockett went in, as so many young Scots bravely do, for “plain living and high j thinking,” what time lie was studying [ for a degree. The author under notice j had some hard times when he lived in I “ Auld Reekie,” where he subsisted for some two years on a parental allowance of I eight shillings a week and was lain when the “canid blasts Mew,” as they do in Edinburgh aoiu Wellington, only ten times more fiercely, to mu after coal carts and pb ni.di his little .Jove with "droppings.” Jt was a good schooling for a noveli.il, tor it taught him to sympatln o ailh poverty, and of poverty and iis attendant miseries Mr Crockett gives us plenty and to spare in this new story of his. Cleg the A tab is a fine creation, a true study in heredity. Brighter, cleverer, and more convincing ! are Mr Crockett's deduct ions from the great theory < f hereuity limn a; e those of Ibsen and the Norwegian novelist Bjornsen. Crockett does not sue only the ugly, the repcllanl, in life, no “picker amongst the muck heaps” is he; nevertheless, he plainly shows how much

in.) "Tijo Courtship oi' Maurice Buckler," !>y.\. \j.\V. Mason. Maeinillan'.-i Colonial Library. (Wellington: S. and W. Mackav.l ' (in.) "Clog Kelly,'' by S. Li. Crockett. Macniillaii'a Colonial Library. (Auckland: Cbaniptaloup and Cooper.)

this city arab owes to his parentage and bis environment. Tho father, a plausible Irishman, who becomes a drunkard, a criminal and a family tyrant, whose brutality compels his own son to revolt against his treatment of Cleg’s mother, is quite a Zolaesquo study; but in this narrative there is no undue insistence upon the brutal. The reticence in treatment of this character should win Mr Crockett high praise from tho reviewers. Cleg’s mother, a loudly Scots dairy maid, beguiled into what proves a terrible fate by the blandishments of Kelly pcrc s “ blarney,’’ is a lovable character, and one sympathises with her poor lad, whose resentment against his father for Ins mother’s horrible ill-treatment is so hitter and so lasting.

Cleg himself (Cleg means “ gadfly”) is a delightful youngster, with not a little of the imagination and delightful scanipishness of Mark Twain’s well-known Tom Sawyer, but here and there the English reader must wish that Mr Crockett had not so faithfully reproduced the dialect of the slums. To the Southron all Scots dialect is at any time puzzling, and when upon broad Scots is grafted an esoteric local vernacular, the result to tho reader iu a hurry is not a little disconcerting. Jiowevor, I'll warrant you that, dialect or no dialect, once you get well into Cleg Kelly s adventures you’ll read on, as 1 did, to the very end. Tho story has faults. It is overcrowded with characters, its incidents are loosely strung together, and there are many crudities to bo found in its pages, but Mr Crockett lias a breezy, persuasive style, and he carries one along to the denouement at such a rate of speed that one lias little chance to pause. 1 am not quite sure how Mr Crockett’s old congregation who “sat under him ” at Pencuik will appreciate his illustrations of the humours of a Sunday School, but they gave me some hearty mirth. The heroine of the story, one Vara Kavannah, who has a mother, “ The Awfu’ Woman,” who is as ugly a human derelict as poor Cleg’s father, is "a very well-drawn character, and there are others of which the author may well be proud. Tho main blot in the book, luckily enough only reached when the end of the book is close at hand, is an excursion into what is palpable melodrama. Here Mr Crockett gets horribly stagey. But he can be forgiven this for the many delights of the story as a whole. You will not, 1 fear, like “Cleg Kelly” as well as “The Raiders,” and certainly not so much as

“ The Men of tho Moss Hags,” blit it is a successful inroad into what is for tho author a now field. You must read tho story, but having read it you will, 1 think, agree with mo that Mr Crockett is, so far, at his best in historical romance.

Mr Andrew Lang is the personification of literary versatility. He has given us (in collaboration with Mr Butcher) the host, the most poetical, translation of “The Odyssey” extant; he has “Englished ” (as is the fashionable phrase nowadays) the delightful lyrics of Theocritus, whom Burns amongst moderns most closely resembles; lie has written the most graceful vers de sociclc —his “ Ballades in Blue China and “Rhymes a la Mode” are no doubt familiar to you—he is an authority on folklore—as witness liis “Custom and Myth.” ILis “Letters to Dead Authors” is one of the best collections of literary gossip r know; he discourses on golf, on salmonfishing, on “spooks,” and half a hundred different subjects in tho London Daily News, the Illustrated London News, and a score Of other publications: never was there such ft many-sided writer. And now, lo and behold! 1 have just finished reading a novel from his pen which, if 1 mistake not, is destined to achieve no small popularity. ■ •’ •

This is “ A Monk of Fifo ” (i-v.) “ a romance of the days of Jeanne D’Arc.” Mr Lang, 1 notice, plays tho good old game/ so cunningly practised by Mr Rider Haggard, a great friend of his, of pretending to have merely edited tho story which, according to him, has been “done into English from tho manuscript in the Scots College of ltabsbon,” It is, 1 believe, quite true that the romance is founded to a largo extent on certain historical documents on which Mr Lang, who is a devoted admirer of tho Maid of Orleans, has long been browsing with much and pleasing result in tho way of stray essays which have recently appeared in the / Hustriitnl London News and ot her papers, but the present story is, I lake il, practically original. Mr Lang' lias long been known as an admirer of romance 1 . H was his warm praise in the Saturday Heirw which first direeled public attention lo Mr Haggard’s “ King Solomon's Mines,” and it is understood he did a similar kindly office for Mr Wcyman's “Gentleman of Franco.” And here to-day ho is entering the lists and striking out for fame as a romancer with tho Haggards, Weymaus, Anthony Hopes and the . best of them. Has he succeeded Y Well, from a literary point ot view ho has outstripped his friends ju.-fc mentioned, but I quo.Ji"ii if hi- dory will be so piq ular with the leading public as Mr YVeyman’s .'•lories ot < fid I'luise.

The r-.toiy is told by a SvM man, ■•»<» Norman la-die, who, believing he bus killed a fellow-.,lndent at .St. Andrew s, by a blow with a golf stick', Hies to 1-iuneo, end there, in a land where at that tune wore many of lii-s countrynmn filming 1 against the English, he me.-ts with many -.frange ad ventures by fE/l sad held. Jeiinue D’Arc, the gallant, unfurtunato J noellc, whom Englishmen, to their foul dish mour, were to allow to ho binned, and whom Voltaire was later on to so malignantly vilify, enters largely into the story.

Mr Lau<? idealists tho Maid of Orleans, f who is tho real lieroino of tho book. A ! Scots lady, Miss Elliott iluuio, is also much

(iv.) "A Monk of Fife," by Andrew Lung-. Longman's Colonial Library. (London: Longmans and Co.) .

in evidence, but the ono character alone upon which Mr Lang’s novel should bring him fame is a rascally fellow, half friar, half soldier -Brother Thomas Noiroufie—as ingenious and, to tell tho truth, as amusing a villain ns ever stepped it through the pages of a romance. Tho scene is constantly changing, and there is some rare lighting, fighting which is worthy even of Mr Lang’s favourite heroes, “The Three Musketeers” of Alexandre Dumas. We are taken from Bordeaux to Chinon, on to Orleans and the famous siege thereof, and later on to “Paris Town,” to Compioigno.and to that last dread scone at Rouen, where tho unfortunate Maid found martyrdom and peace at the horrid “stake.” You must read tho story, about which I could write at much greater length had I time. It may not please tho average novcl-devourer so well as other efforts in historical fiction wo have had of late, but it is literature! Speaking for myself, I shall have my own volume, issued in the handy paper-backed Longman’s Library, decently bound in leather so soon as my ship comes in. And this I would not say of many modern novels. For to-day I must close, trusting I may not have wearied you. 1 have a few other volumes On my table awaiting notice. These, should this present gossip bo to your liking, I will discuss next week. But for the present, good-bye. CAY.