BOOKS.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 9039, 14 February 1891, Page 5 (Supplement)

BOOKS.

"Kirfltoen." By Mrs Oliniant.—Macmillau's Colonial Library: Dunedin: J. Braithwaite,

One of tho most surprising thing 3in tho literature of our century is tho extraordinary fecundity of somo of our writors. A novel, i even a bad one, represents au amount of s industry which, considered in itself, entitles tho i author to respect; though of course the writers 1 of bad novels must bo summarily dealt; wifch iv i the interests of a publio sufficiently long suffering I in the matter of novelp. If any novel, ovon tho ; worst, is respectable considered as a monument i of industry, what shall bo said of writers liko i Miss Braddon and Mra Oliphant, whoso books come thick as hail, and aro by no means poor either in plan or execution ? It would teem ag if these two writers must sit nt tho desk night and day, or else do as the elder Dumas is said 1 to havo done—sketch the outline of tho story, and loave journeymen writers to put flesh on the skeleton. Thero is Mrs Oliphant, for instance, a lady over 70 years of age, who has been publishing books for afc leasfc 40 of those years, and thafc not at long intervals. _ Every year wo havo one or moro novels from this lady's pen; not to speak of work in other fieldsliterary criticism, biography, the history of literature, and the history of Italian cities. Tbat some of Mrs Oliphant's writing is poor stuff is not to be wondered at, considering the amouut she has written ; the wonder is that she should have any freshness left; most wondorful of all thafc wo should find her at her freshest aud best in the very last work sho has written. One cannot, of course, read many novels in this work-a-day world—but from tho few wo havo lately been able to overtake, wo had begun to tbiuk that tho| genuine oldfasbionod lovo story I had entirely ceased to bo written, tha story thafc did not wish to " prove" any thing but just to mako you law-h or cry with somebody for sympathy. But" Kirsfceen," «c are happy to say, is a novel of the good old sort, wifch nothing in it aboufc Malthus, or Henry George, or Schopenhauer and their " ologies" . and "isma" —just a charming olla podrida of human loves and hates, virtues and foibles, all as natural as Nature herself. The comedy and tragedy of the book (and there is a good deal of both) turn, as they generally do in nature, upon very 6imple things. A girl, red-haired, freckled, and muscular, ia sitting at a window marking, with one of her red hairs, a few handkerchiefs. They are for her brother, who is on tho eve of setting out for India, and whose initials are R.D. Presently there enters another youth, not hor brother, a young soldier, who is also setting out for India, and whose initials are also R.D. Then begins a tender passage—a short and simple passage, bufc very tender. The second R.D. remarks that the ' initials in the red hair are just precisely the same as his own. He takes a handkerchief from the pile, presses his lips to the letters, and puts it into his pocket. Then : he bends down and whispers, " Will ye wait for ; me till I come back?" and Kirsteen answers, " That I will." Now, here is all the conciseness of the best style of Scotch wooing. There had been no philandering and sweetbeartiog. Before this !" not "a "word had* beeu said;' there was . no love making ; they were too shy to j enter upon any revelation of feeling, nor was there any opportunity for .explana- . tions, since thoy were always surrounded^ by companion*, always in the midst; of a wandering, easy-minded party.'which had 'no respect for any one's privacy." So the whole ostensible , courtship consisted of bis nine monosyllables, and her answering three; not much evidence for a breach nf promise case if the young soldier j proved untrue, bufc quite enough basis for a very touching story. Kirsteen did wait, till she gofc back the handkerchief marked wifch the red . hair, and wifch something else. What Kirsteen was and said and did during the waiting makes the story. But delightful as Kirsteen is, sho . is only one. though the chief, amongst : a dozen characters, all good in their way. The whole of the Douglases, of whom Kirsteen is one, present that similarity in dissimilarity wifch which one is so often struck in a family 6rOUPThe head of the family, the dreadful laird him- ' self, will bo pronounced by many a mooter ' beyond the pale of possibility; bufc we are convinced thafc Mrs OliphaDt has drawn tbis character from the life. Ifc is thoroughly con- ' sistenfc; and bas in ifc thai; unmistakable ' something to be seen in certain painted por- ' traits, which makes yon believe them true likenesses, even though you may not know whose portraits they are. Indeed, Drumcarro, J in its landscape, atmosphere, and inhabitants, is insticcls with Ufa This is the charm of the ■ book, thafc everything live. There are no ■ wooden figures, draped in kilts and petti- ' coals. The calm, wily, utterly selfish, ' and self-s»tisfi<;d Mary is, be sure, a ] common enough figure in fiction; bufc that is probably because sho is a common figure ' in real life. In this novel she is made exceed- ' ingly entertaining, though she is often, of ] course, exasperating, as such a woman musfc of necessity be—therein lies part of her perfection. ' Jeanie, the beauty of tho family, is less interest- ' ing than her two sisters, though still of sufficient I interest to cause considerable perturbation in | the hr. Ast of tho reader, who will be ready to ehaka th 9 minx for the anxiety she causes him before ho bas done with her. Tho second ' chapter, which describes the grand family supper afc Drumcarro, is a masterly picture, challenging comparison with tbe best work of ' the same kind in " The Mill on tho Floss." "Metzerotfc, Shoemaker."—London: Cassell nud-Qor-Brmedin : Wise, Caffio, and Co. This is ono of the many novels that wero sure fco spring from the publication of Bellamy's "Looking Backward": a group which to subsequent Etudents of English literature—jn the days, perhaps, when what; is practicable in Beilamyism will have been accomplished—will ' present curious and interesting features in tbe social and literary history of fie lasfc quarter ] of the present century. The novel-reader who finds his interest rather in men as they are than j in men as they might be, will be impatient with , works like " Metzerotfc, Shoemaker." 'Wo confess to some impatience ourselves in having ta peruse pages on end of wearisome dialogue, chiefly dealing, in no very novel fashion, with well-worn points in theology and po'ilical economy. The author has uo doubt a oommendable object in view throughout the bonk—to preach a tocial millonium, acd to show that the commnnism t»ughfc in the gospel of Christ is the only possible panacea for the iooial troubles which at present afflict the world. Oo tbe title page we ficd the following catechism: — " What is your creed ?" " Jesus Christ." What do you believe about Him ?" "What wo can. We count any belief in Him—thn smallest—better than any belief about Him—the greatest—or about anything clso." Metzirotfc, the sboomaker, is a man who has a good many belief", generally of a negative kind, ahout Christ and, what the author means to be, very little belief in Christ. Yet if we are allowed to choose our Christian, give us the rough and proud shoemaker (who would certainly have administered a sound dose of fche cat to the money changers) ratter than the mystic parson Clare, whom bis creator haß contrived to make on unmitigated bore. The ono delightful figure in tho book 13 Metzsrotfc tho younger—Louis. NofcwithsfcandioK th» large nmountof preachiness and argumentation io the novel, there is a deal of humanity in ifc, aU more or less trne to Nature; bufc. as we have said, the one delightful character is Louis. His childhood is au excellent piece of child portraiture, and his youth is a fitting sequel to it. Metzerotfc senior is also a powerfully drawn character, ami the women folk of the novel are " no that bad."