LOITERING AT THE LAKES

Otago Daily Times, Issue 14086, 14 December 1907, Page 7

LOITERING AT THE LAKES

Br Constaxx Reader. In his amusing sketch on "Curing a Cold," Mark Twain, in that playrullyexaggcriitcd style inseparable from the character of the famous American humourist, ielis that "when the Wbito House was burned in Virginia I'lost, my home, my hiippinecb, my constitution, ajid jny tvaiiK:" His comments upon tiiis calamity are ro the effect that the loss of home tad happiness ,i-as oi m> great conßeCjlWiico, but io lose a good constitution nan u oeiter trunk wore serious misfortunes. He then, describes vrilli great gusto the several remedies by his friends, to each ami ;tll of which he g.wci;/. trial. These included the advice of α-hosim friend, "who told me that a quart oi silt water taken warm would •iome as near curing n cold aij anything in the Rorld. I hardly thought' I had room for it, bus I tried it anyhow. The result ivas surprisuig. I believed I had t-hroTfQ up my immortal soul." A week or two since I was in perfect sympathy with Mark Twain, for, in common with almost everyone I know. I was afflicted with influenza. It was the worst attack I have ever experienced, because, although not bad enough to justify my going to bed, it got on my nerves, stole away my appetite, robbed me of sleep, worried me with neuralgia, and altogether, reduced living to existence, and that of the wretehedest. My work became a burden; even my books wiffied to solace me, and I was developing n temper of the blackest proportions. Trvrc, every man I met and in wiiom I confided lwd an infallible remedy, but, unlike Mark Twain, I had nor, the necessary courage mid pereevclanue to essay the courses of treatment prescribeq. However, I was fortunate enough to bo able to get, away front work and everything olso for ;i clear and I elected to fcjjend the time at thn Jjafcus, j'or irom happy experience I knew that Queenstown and ite surroundines could iaKl.!./ l:« tcltwed fa* >/icai idle time

x made up my mind not to put pen to paper while wyay—a« « nwiUr of fact, I wrote mm posveara, ajd round it hard work .. almost deeidou uoi. u> take any books with nis, brrt. \il i.lw lasv moment, relented anil packed V.p two or thret For the berxtit of the cariour ■ will mention my seloctdon: it was quite a haphazard one, and made «n no particular principle. Swift's "Journal to Stella" tame first. I have a . liking for the caustic old dean, despite Mr Augustine Birrell's denunciation of him 0* unlit for decent socictv. True, he is course ii'i jturts. but- in his letters to Stella von get. at the heart of the rail man. Home's "New Spirit of the Age" camo next, for although these essays will not compare with Huzlitt's " Spirit of the Age," upon which they were inodellod, yet they are interesting as reflecting the criticism of the time. The two most interesting articles aro those on Charles Dickens and the somewhat savaio attack made by Home upon the morality of the " Ingoldsby Legends." ;t- seeuis to me (hat- the a.lx-:enc<! :n Homo, of a orojw euiiso of humour alone prevents him from a due appreciation of the drollery of these incomparable legends, which have delighted me froni mv joutli up. 'Hie man who look* for morality in n humourist is destined '■» <lis;i«)uoihtmenr-, fin- obviously humour delies all known systems of ethirs.

Another book was the volume of Alfred Austin's poems—published ;u; an cxperiinwii- at a Tionular prk-e bv M.U'inilJ.in':;- ■ ontitle-i - 'J'lie :jmir'<if Humility." I may its veli confess that T did nof, 'fed in th'o wood ft).- poetry.'and m> left this'hook priU'ti.-jtUy widyened. Years. a K y I was a worshipper ut. the shrine of Anthony I'rollop-.r. and read uvcrvtliiiis,' lie »-rot«, iloim u> v. somewhat haiuil tale ratified, if 1 remember rightly, "The G<»li)«mi Linn •if GvnuU X'w" After "His death Trollo)>e w »s distinctly discredit], and his tiovele fell wo disrepule, due largely to Hie pubfcilioH D f, !)■»• autobiography with its iiKlisi;.':-«? l!-jn!cuce!><.-<M!C'.-niiiiK hit methndu of «jf'i i?m:i'iit!y. liomwim". if 1 oiuv i'"!x« hi tin; nv.int'rotei wnrints of liis I'w!e slow on !!.»• m:i.rkei—cotiiM* tins U:i''«)tsl!in, ni>v«\s in ill* Vnrl, v,i| )rarv diid John "\w Tocki-f. TJlmiry" eerins—Lheiv aii; distinct siiyu-s (if « Tru'irtivival. With a view of livlpins; in tin: revival i took with me :l i-opr iij '"IV Three Ckrli.s," tyi»(»] as «rlv"ili« a, iirat-liiau'. ~«.eium of "the foolish tivi' .*rviw. l" ionrif! it. a wmifortalile kin.l of smi-v. leisurely in nction. witli rarefnllv porti-ayrd oluinicUjrs, ifevoicl of St'iisation. imri a kiok ivliich could he laid down and t«iitt: i!|i ;i(. trill. .N'othinj; is niovi- Aαir:;>r.ili;;id» to the real idler than a hook ■tflrie'i koep» him up at wight or which vre- « j nta liiiu frijin in or out }«> frels ii'diiUMl.

'I'iiis vc-reiiduig of "The Three Clerks" occupied nit- for H:« De<sfc part of n week, iunt, comliuied wt'i ihe ulumpe of scene ■jjid vJi - , pretty well dispelled the last reBwas of live uiflucujii microbe, JTenco I

propose phusing Trollupe .upon an especial shell", and when any unpleasant symptoms manifest themselves I shall dose myself with Trollope until the euro is complete. Here I natter myself I have made a discovery unknown to .Mark Twain, ;uid one which would lave saved him from much unpleasant and ineffectual treatment. There is no copyright about tho Trolloue euro for influenza—it is free to all who care- to buy oue of his books and try it for himself or herself. Since coming home I read a paragraph in the Chicago Dial, which goes to show that the Trollope revival is even more pronounced in America j than in, England. The Dial—an acknowledged authority on literary affaire in the United States—remarks:—' Trollope the prolific—or, as his readers are sometimes tempted to call him, Trollope the prolix—is made the subject of an interesting article by t.lie editor of the Berner Obcrlaud.' who visited and interviewed the famous novelist's son, Ifenry, at the-latter's summer homo under the shadow of the Juvgfrau. "My father had a warm heart for America," dediued Mr Trollope. "Of what hs wrote it l<! strange that I hear in this obscure little place, through which pass many of your fellowcountrymen, more keen understanding, and delightful love for my father's books than 1 ever heard from Englishmen. You Americans are wonderfully well informed concerning our authors and their works." As to the novelist's literary methods, "he once said that he would always give the bin public what they preferred—if the public insisted on having Lady Glencoros and Jolmny Kameses, he would continue to manufacture them! He constantly wrote— wrote—wrote! He always had something ready for a publisher when ho called, and something to suit. . . . My father could sit down at any time and write for hours without hardly lifting his pen from tlie paper. His prolificness was amazing. Hβ was a wellread man. He read something every morning o! his life before beginning his own composition." His conception of literary inspiration is well known. "As for literary labour, he had no patience, with those fellows who wait for inclination' In his mind me surest aid to the writing of a book is a pieco of cobbler's wax on the chair—sitting at it and to get at the desk day by day!" Truly Trollope is even more interesting tlian any of his still-famous character, not excepting the wonderful shebishop, Mrs Proudie; and lib way of producing fiction by the pound every morning before breakfast, and before his serious professional labours of the day, was indeed astonishing. The wonder is that his stories have as much swing and verve as .they Live. Not one novelist in a thousand could) keep so excellent a vintage of romance forever on tap j it would grow, musty, or taste of tie cask.

i Had only one Trollope volume with rue, so at the end of the first week of idling, feeling ;i little more' up to par, I tried a course of modern novels. Going up m tho train 1 read Gilbert Parker's "The Weavers," and enjoyed it immensely, despite the somewhat unfavourable criticisms of the book which have appeared in English and American journals. And even allowing tlv.it the characters are puppets rather than men and women, the fact remains that in the world to-day puppets predominate, and real men and women are scarce. Anyway, thanks to "The Weavers," what ordinarily is a wearisome railway journal passed all too quickly, and the book left behind it no headache, and what us, perhaps, more noteworthy, not even a nasty taste in the mouth. My other novel reiidbg included a pleasant little elory by Mrs Mary Mann, "The Sheep and the Goats," a cleverly conceived picture of English provincial life ; and that most provoking book "Thn New Religion," by Maarten Maartens. This diatribe against the doctors, with its astounding indictment of the entire med'ical profession, has been ably refuted by a London specialist in thy October number of the Bookman. I had hardly commenced the book before I threw it down in disgust, ;uid repeated the throwing down process three or four times before I got through with the story. I was glad at anyvatc that I ventured "upon it towards the end of my holiday rather than at the beginning. In the October Book Monthly 1 chanced across a story which the Americans are telling about the Anglo-Dutch novelist whose "New Religion" I found so disconcerting. Maarten Maarten's real name is Jooefc Martus Vaa der Poorten Sdrwartz. Well, daring a summer visit to America he was put up as an honorary member of the Author's Club of New York. When bis full name was read out to the committee there was a pause, a breathing space. Then the humorist whom we know as "Bill Nye" suggested that the first half of the name should be acte<l on immediately, and that tha last hiilf should be left over until the weather got cooler. And this is exactly bow 1 felt while reading the " N v ew ucligion'."

The pkasantest epot in my holiday remembrances was reading Mr William de Morgan's delightful novel "Alice for Short," Much as I enjoyed Joseph Vance, this second book :s certainly finer and stronger in every way, to say nothing of ite being considerably longer. 1 can recall no impression so pleasing since years ago I was first introduced to Dickens. As a faithful depicter of London life and character, Mr de Morgan comes very close w the immortal Charles Dickens himself, and higher praise I cannot bestow. But Dickens made his mark with "Pickwick Papers" before he was twenty-five years old, while, if rumour is to be believed, Mr de Morgan had readied the respectable age of sixty-five years before be made his first essay in fiction. This encourages mo in the hope that ono day I may yet write a iioveJ. Lest, the fact be disputed— nnent de Morgan, not myself—l will quote from the October number of the Literary World as follows: —

Professor Osier it was,, we Delieve, who initiated the idea, conveyed! in the plirase "too old at forty. , ' We wonder what he would say to Mr De. Morgan, the- author of " Joseph Vance" and " Alice-for-Short," who commenced to write fiction, if we are not mistaken, some four years after he had passed his sixtieth birthday. This brats Mrs (FrancesTrollope, the mother of Anthony, who was over fifty-five when sho started to wile fiction in order to support her family after she became a widow. '

In order to justify my -heading it is necessary to say something about the Lakes and my loitering in the district; indeed, I hud intended to make it my topic, but, as usual, have been led away to gossip about books. At least, however, I may remark that 1 climbed Ben Lomond; in fact, I iiia-kti a point, of doing this every time I visit Queenstown, for I find it entirely satisfies my aspirations in the mountaineering line. I originally had the idea of stalling the climb at midnight in order to witness tlie sunrise from the peak. But somehow or other the enterprise ended in our prosaically reaching the saddle in time for bresikfast at seven

o'clock. Of this and other of my loiterings I may havo something to say next Saturday. Meantime I regret missing that sunrise. And this regret has been intensified by a passage I'have just come across in A.'C. Benson's latest book "The Altar Fire," which has quite taken my fancy. When i read "By Still Witters" I could not avoid the impression—much as 1 appreciate all Benson's work—that he was overdoing his theme, and that his evident limitations were a bar to the exercitt of a prolilic and pleasing pen. But "The Altar Fire" lias quite altered mr ideas in this roanect, and I fancy that A. (! Benson will enlarge his horizon and astonish the world in some of his future productions. I niay not here stay to mention the scope and intention of (he book—as a matter of fact I am still in tile middle of it, and would like- to u-ai-h the last page before venturing an? further comment. Lint this one extract which occurs, almost at the beginning, is so apropos of niv holiday environment that 1 will conclude by quoting it: — One day I was out with a guide on a peak at sunrise. Behind the bleak and shacowy ridges there stole a fliisli of awakening dawn; then came a line of the purest xejlow light, touoJiipg the

crags and snow fields with sharp bluo shadows; the leinoixoloured radiance passed into fiery gold, the gold flushed into crimson, and "thai tho sun leapt into sight, and ehed the light, of day upon the troubled sseas of mountains. It was more than watr—the lulls made, as it were, the rim of a great shadowy goblot,: and the light -was poured into it from the uprising sun, as bubbling and sparkling wine is poured into a beaker. I found myself thrilled from head to foot with an intense and mysterious rapture. What did , it aJI mean, this -.wf-.i and resplendent full to the brim of a solitary holiness , ; What was the secret of the thing? Perhaps every one of those stars that we had seen fade out of the night wa6 ringed round by planets such as ours, peopled by forces undreamt of; iloubtless on millions of globes, the daylight of some central sun was coming into_ glory over the cold ridges, and waking into life sentient, beiugs, in lands outeide our ken, each with civilisations and histories, and hopes and fears of their own. A stupendous and overwhelming thought!