NEW BOOKS AND NEW EDITIONS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1759, 22 November 1905, Page 18

NEW BOOKS AND NEW EDITIONS.

“A Waifs Progress.” By Rhoda Broughton, London. Macmillan’s Colonial Library. Some persons who were young when iMiss Broughton’s “Cometh up as., a Flower” and “Red as a Rose is She were among the most popular novels of the day have long since won wrinkles, grey hairs, and. a chastened spirit. But unless they have in growing older lost their taste for what is intensely human and interesting in incident and characterisation, they cannot help finding in “A Waifs Progress” something very readable wherewith to continue their acquaintance with the works of a. lady who never wrote dully or without something to say. The “Waif” of the story is not, as might be presumed l , a street urchin • of the type which Dtr Barnardo made the care of his life. The “waif” is not, indeed, an urchin at all, hut, instead, an orphaned; young woman of seventeen, who has been brought up among peculiar surroundings and fast people. Tainted in manners and education by contact with much that is evil, she is, nevertheless, personally handsome and of winning manners. Oh the death of her mother she finds a home with a Puritanical couple, who live a life of aloofness from all that is unbecoming in modern society. Here her real- troubles begin, for she has tact only to plot and. pretend and none apparently to adapt herself to the ethics of her new friends and the manners of “proper” society. She is tractable, selfish, affectionate, untruthful, cunning, and. superficial. The 'Waif’ and her life might indeed have afforded matter for a problem novel of great power. Miss Broughton, has. however, not chosen the task of solving social problems. She is content with narrative and characterisation. There is practically no love interest in the tale, nevertheless the “Waif” drifts into a safe matrimonial harbour, better than she really deserves, and! answering eminently to her selfish expectations and; desires. "The Colonel’s Bream.” By Charles W. Ohesnutt, London. Constable’s Indian and Colonial Library. This book, by a well-known American author, is to some extent a novel with a purpose. It is dedicated “To the great number who are seeking in whatever manner or degree to bring the forces of enlightenment to bear upon the vexed problems which harass the South.” The problems referred to are those engendered by the presence in the Southern States of America of negroes, the descendants of slaves, and of white men who cannot forget that they arte the children of classes who onoe owned those slaves, and lived upon the pro- i duce of their servile labours. The social, industrial, and educational backwardness of the SPuth, its narrow outlook, its unquenchable hatred of the “Nigger,” its jealousy of interference by the North, its bitten, prejudices, and its malignant injustice in inflicting excessive punishment on the negro on any pretext, give ample scope for just denunciation. The author ha® chosen not to denounce. He merely describes, analyses, deplores, and, with a fine optimism, hails the dawn of a bettor day for both black and white. There is, of course, a story, which is told in the distinctly sympathetic and admirable manner that is one of the best characteristics of modem American fiction. The leading characters of the story are fine people finely limned. The Colonel of the title page, who, after half a lifetime of strenuous business battling in New York, dreams of leading the people of his native town in the South to live a new life, to work for the common good, and so to gain an understanding of one another, is a man of the highest type. Be has sold his business, and, having previously lost his young wife, takes his child with him and returns to Clarendon, which, he bad left as a young soldier in the service of the Confederate Government. He finds the old family house in the occupation of a negro family, a girl member of which plays the piano as lie passes, and warbles “I dreamt that I dwe-elt in ma arble halls With vassals and serfs at iny si-i-ide.” He is unrecognised by anybody, and sadly turns his steps towards the graveyard, Where the bodies of his ancestors of many generations lie buried. Here he finds an old and ragged negro engaged in weeding the old family “lot.”

Entering into conversation with the worker, he recognises that the latter is one of his father’s manumitted slaves. “You must' have been very fond of them to take such good; care of their graves,” said! the colonel, much moved', but giving no sign. “Well, sub, I b’longed l ter de fambly, an’ I ain’ got no chick ner chile er my own, livin’, an’ deso hyuh dead folks ’pears mao’ closer ter me dan anybody e’se. Be oullud folks don’ was’e much time wid a ole man w’at ain’ gob nothin’, an’ dese hyuh new w’ite folks wa’t is come up sence de wah, ain’ got uo use fer niggers, now dat dey don’ h’lcmg ter nobody no mo’; so* w’en I ain’ got nothin’ e’se ter do, I comes roun’ hyuh, whar I knows ev’ybody and ev’ybody knows me, an’ trims de rose bushes an’ pulls up de weeds and keeps de grass down jes’ lak I s’pose Mars Henry’d V had it done ef he’d ’a’ lived hyuh in de ole home, stidder ’way off yandah in de Norf, whar he so busy makin’ money dat he done fengob all ”bout his own folks.” “W'hat is your name?” asked- the colonel, who had: been looking closely at the old man. “Peter, suh—Peter French. Most er de niggers change’ dey names after de wah, but I kept de ole fambly name I wuz raise’ by. It wuz good ’mifir fer mo, suh! dey ain’ none better.” “Oh, papa,” said little Phil, unable to restrain himself “he must he some kin to us ; he has the same name, and belongs to the same family, and you know yon called! him ‘TJncle.’ ” The old! Negro had dropped his hat, and was staring at the Colonel and the little boy, alternately, with dawning amazement, while a look of recognition crept slowly into his rugged old face. 'Look a hyuh, sur,” he said tremulously, “is it? —it can’t be! but dere’s de eyes, an’ de nose, an’ de shape er de head —why, it must bo my young Mars Henrv!” ‘Yes,” said the colonel, extending his hand to the old: man, who grasped it with both his own and shook it up .and down with unconventional hut very affectionate vigour, “and you are my boy Peter; who took care of me when I was no bigger than Phil here!” After some months in the old town, during which he learns much of the shocking Southern system.. of peonage, by which many negroes are practically re-enslaved, the Colonel repurchases his old home, refits and furnishes it, builds a cotton mill, and generally does much to start a new era in the place. O'ld Peter is enlisted as attendant upon his son, and at first things run smoot hly. The Colonel’s interest in the negroes, however, arouses hostility, and many difficulties are then thrown in his way. He has the misfortune to lose his son, in attempting to rescue whom' old Peter is also killed. In accordance with the child’s wishes, old Peter is buried in the family “lot.” On the morrow of the funeral, shortly after dawn, there was a loud rapping at the colonel’s door: “Come downstairs and loot on de piazza, Colonel,” said the agitated voice of the servant who had knocked. “Come quick, suh.” ’ There was a vague terror in the man’s voice that stirred the colon© 1 strangely. Be threw on ai dressing gown and hastened downstairs, and to the front door of the hall, which stood open. A aandsone mahogany burial casket, stained by earth and disfigured by rough handling, rested upon the floor of the piazza, where it had been deposited during the night. Conspicuously nailed to the coffin lid was a sheet of white pajoer, upon which -were some lines rudely scrawled 1 in a handwriting that matched 1 the spelling: Kurnell Franoh: Take notis. Berry yore ole nigger somewhar else. Ho can’t stay in Oak Sbmitury. The majority of the white people of this town., who dident tend yore nigger funarl, woant have him there. Niggers by there selves, white peepul by there solves, and them that lives in our town must bide by our rules. By order of Omni tty. Colonel French then lost heart. He took the bodies of bis son and his servant to the North and buried them alongside the resting-place of his young wife., and left his native town for ever. “And so the Colonel faltered;, and having put his hand to the plow, turned back. But was not his, after all, the only way? For no more now than when the ‘Man of Sorrows’ looked out over the Mount of Olives, can men gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles . . . But Clarendon has had its chance, nor seems yet to have had another. Other towns, some not far from it, lying nearer the main lines of travel, have been swept into' the current of modern life, but not yet Clarendon. There the grass grows thicker in the streets. The pigs and the loafers —-leaner jugs and lazier loafers' —still sleep* in the shade, when the pound keeper and the constable are not active. The limpid water of the creek still murmurs down the slope and ripples oven the stone foundation of what- was to have been the new dam, while the birds have nested for some years in the vines that soon overgrew- the unfinished walls of the colonel’s oottob mill. White men go their way, and black men theirs, and these ways grow' wider apart, and no on© knows the outcome. But there are those who hope, and those who pray, that this

condition will pass, t 1 A some day our whole land will he truly free, and the strong will cheerfully help to bear the burdens of the weak, and Justice, the seed, and Peace, the flower, of liberty, will prevail throughout all our borders. “Little Pitcher.” By Elsie Linacre. Illustrated by J. Muir Auld. The States Publishing Co., Sydney. This booklet is a series of sketches of Melbourne boy life, with a story of older people running through it. “Little Pitcher” is the hoy, and for people who like stories oif this sort he will probably prove an ©nteitaining enough, if wholly impossible, juvenile. His conversation is throughout of a piece with that contained in the following extracts : * “The Little Pitcher took a step hack, and put his head on one side and in his critical, bird-like fashion remarked, ‘Simon said as ’ow yer looked lilt© a vis-soount,’ he replied. ‘But you’re more like one even than I thort.’ ” Again: “ ‘Well the truf is Simon, she arst me fer yer fotergraft, but as I know yer ’aven’t ’ad one took since that one as was took by mistake at the soshul, the one wiv the bottle, I mean, an’ as that wosn’t suitable ter give a lady I wos jist trying ter giv’ ’er a hidea like, but uv koarse the rich colourin’ on the nose and cheeks Si will be ’ Be broke off hastily for Simon seemed to be wanting to say something.” It is possibly hypercritical to say so, but it would be a relief to find Simon replying in English, or even in Australian. No such luck, though, for Simon’s remark was: “Is there anythink as yeu’vo g-otter see to speshul in this world, Pitch, case yer wos called away sudden like?” One wonders, without satisfaction, whv it is thought funny to write “social” as “soshul,” “course” as “koarse,” and “was” as “wos.” It is possible that there may be persons in London who say “truf” for “truth,” and “wiv” for “with.” Mr Pett Ridge, and others who ought to know, attribute such expressions to costers and other Cockneys. But why, oh why, allege against the Australian boy and man the use of such silly jargon as the examples quoted. Australia, like New Zealand, is developing dialectical peculiarities, but these are a matter more of tone than of actual pronunciation. They are peculiarities not easily expressible by letters. and are certainly not of the nature exemplified in this book. Misspelling is a device often resorted to to cover deficiency in real humour. Fun which will not bear translation into plain English is bogus. There is much of this kind in “Little Pitcher.” It may be worth remarking, too., that no Australian boy would say “vis-soount.” Be doesn’t know the species to start with, and if he did would call him a “vikyount.” The colonial boy will afford “whipsi” of fun to the writer who discovers a mode of expression for him, and who has, as well, a heart to feel with him., and a mind to understand him. But the mode of expression will never he either bastard cockneyism or mere phonetic spelling. Incidentally it may he added that what of cockneyism pervades colonial speech has been caught from those great educational institutions the theatre and the variety show. Goster songs and transpontine dramas have done more to corrupt colonial speech than all the Universities and schools have done to purify it.

“Commercial Efficiency: A manual of Modern Methods.” By T. H. Elgie. Effingham Wilson, London. 1® l£d post free. This little book is a handy manual foor every counting house desk and every busy man. It is a. compendium of commercial and technical tables, rules, methods, and useful information. Its contents are so varied yet concise that no branch of business is neglected. From buying a business to keeping books by single and double entry, from* a ready universal calendar to preparing income tax returns, everything is lucidly explained and exemplified. All sorts of short cuts to calculation are given. Full British, and foreign tables, practical mensuration, tables of squares and oubes, a ready reckoner and directions for stock-taking aro a few of the contents of a capital little manual. “The Hundred D'ays.” By Max Pemberton. Cassell's Colonial library. From Mr Robert Holliday and 00., Booksellers, Lamb ton Quay, Wellington. As the name indicates, this is- a romance of ocn© of the moot interesting periods in modern history. Mr Pemberton’s well known graphic power and faculty of vivid description have been employed in the production of a book with a well-constructed plot, and full of unflagging personal interest. The actual story of the “Hundred Days!’ is madie subservient to a tale of love and chivalrio devotion, of plot, and fight, and incident of breathless interest. The woman of the story, the child of adventure and intrigue, who follows one man, and leads', another through the hopes and fears and etorm and stress which ended at 'Waterloo is a strongly d!rawn character 1 , and the same may be said of her devoted companion and defender. the Englishman. St. Armand.

To those who love romantic tales “Tim Hundred Bays” can be strongly reoom»* mended.