BROWSINGS IN BOOKLAND

Otago Daily Times, Issue 14359, 31 October 1908, Page 13

BROWSINGS IN BOOKLAND

By Constant Reader, Owing to the "exigencies of space"— I believe that is the correct journalistic phrase—my " Browsings" last week suffered much compression and consequent mutilation. Not that I am inclined to complaint, but rather accept the lesson as a wholesome corrective to my habit of difiuseness. Also I recognise that whatever else suffers, advertisements have the right to first- place, for is not adequate advertising tlio life blood of any paper? In default of advertisements the bestconducted paper in'the world would inevitably cease to exist. Wherefore I rejoice at another evidence of strength and stability on tlio part of the. Daily Times Proprietary, and a new illnsfration of the continued confidence of the public in tlio merits and circulation of their paper, My simple relation to the matter is that instead of breaking new ground this week I have just to piece together the paragraphs which the sub-editor in his wisdom—which who shall question?—dccidcd to eliminate from my last Saturday's "copy."

This edition of ".Brewings" therefore resolves itself into a continuation of the " Memories of Masson," the first of which "Memories," it will be remembered, touched upon Thomas Carly'e and Chcyne Row. In reference to which I quoted from a. book by an American, Mr Shelley, a part of his chapter on "In Carlyle's Country," which entitles mc to chronicle my sorrow that while Carlyle's "French Revolution "—the first of his books to which I was introduced —lias always enthralled me, I have never been able properly to enjoy the delights of "Sartor fiesartus"; indeed, the " clotted noneense" criticism invariably haunts mo whenever I turn the pages of the oook. Professor Masson remarking on the fact that " in his youth books were far less acccssible than tliey are now," says: —"Though in addition to Carlyle's ' Chartism' [1839) and his ' Heroes and Hero Worship.' (1810), there were already out in the world his 1 Translation of AVilhclm Maister' (1824), his ' Life of Schiller' (1825), his ' (Specimens of German Romance' (1827), his 'French Revolution' (1837), his ' Sartor Reeartus' (in book form sinco 1038), and his 'Collected) Miscellanies' (1838), my acquaintance with these or with most of them had to ho postponed. Some of tho 'Miscellanies' I must have read in the courss of 1841, and perhaps tho 'French Revolution,' but ' Sartor Rcsarhis' lay over for about three yeans more." But Mr Shelley's book has given me an idea, which, when the eagerly-anticipated opportunity of a trip Home comes my way, I must certainly carry into effect. It 'is nothing lass than a recipe for the right enjoyment of "'Sartor Rcsartus" : —

When in " Sartor Resartus" Carlyle describes the feelings which took possession of his spirit as ho entered Annan for the first time to attend school there, it seemed to him an added 'source of sorrow that the "kind beech rows of Entcpfuhl (that is Ecclefechan), • were liiddeh in tho distance." He had passed those beech rows, on that memorable Whitsuntide walk; and blinded indeed would the eyes be of a man or youth who could walk through such avenues with indifference. These scenes were npt lost on Carlyle. Annandale has had itu influence on his most characteristic book; for no man can appreciate the essential poetry of "Sartor Resartus" until he has visited tho Ecclefechan district. There is an inexplicable charm about that- country side", which Carlyle has caught and perpetuated in his pages, a charm which is totally independent of the strain of thought running through the volume,

Supposing, however, that my trip Home should not come about—and occasionally 1 have my doubts on the matter—l shall henceforth study Sartorwith new interest, anil endeavour to imagine that I am enjoying the scencry and breathing the air of Jw'.e.'cchan. .And iho mention of Ilome recalls one of the earliest recollections of mj- boyhood, when 1 was on a Sunday morning taken by an austere maiden lady who was visiting our home—l do not even remember her name to a meeting of the Plymouth Brethren. I went in much fear and trembling and came away inexpressibly bored; for the greater part of the time we sat in silence, and at intervals—as moved bv the bpiriti so to do—various individuals gave out a hymn, read a portion of the Scripturos, or engaged in prayer. All this earns back to mo vividly whilo reading with intense delight, Edmund Goose's autobiographical record "Father and .Son"; the father, of course, being Philip Heavy Gosse, the famous naturalist and a leading light in the Plymouth Brethren. To this book I hope to return one of these days, si:;ce it furnishes profound proof of the truth of Carlylc's forceful exclamation that, the Plymouth Brethren believe " Like winldn'." Just one quotation from "Father and Son" is all I dare venture upon just now, but it will serve to illustrate the point. Describing the sLvniige household into which his ad'.eni an an infant was "riot welcomed, but was borne with resignation," Edmund Oo:".e nays

It is a cnii.uu eo inridenoo that life had brought both my parents along similar paths to an almost identical position in rospcct. to religious belief. She had started from tlw Anglican standpoint, he from the Wcslcyan, and each almost, without counsel from others, and after varied theological experiments had come to take up precisely tho same attitude towards all divisions of the Protestant Church that namely, of detached and unbiassed contemplation. So far as the Kefs agreed with my father and my mother, tho seels wero waking in tho light, wherever they differed from them they had dipped' more or lefts definitely into a penumbra of their own nuking, a darkness into which neither of my parents would follow them. Hence, by a process of selection, my father and my mother aliko had gradually, without, violence, found themselves eiiut (juiiside all Protestant communion.?, and at last they met only with a few extreme Calvinists like thenifclvco, on'terms of what may almost be called negation,—with no priest, no ritual, no festivals, 110 ornament, of any kind, nothing but the Lord's Supper and tho exposition of Holy Scripture drawing these aw-terc epirits into any fort of cohesion. Tliey called their,?elvcfi "the Brethren'' simply; a term enlarged by tho world o'.tlrxb into " I'lynioufh Brethren." It was accident ar.d tinslktrity which brought my parents together at tlieeo meetings of tho Brethren. Kadi was lono.lv, each was poor, each was accustomed to a oircnuouf, intellecti;n! selfsupport. Ik was nearly 38, ehe was past 12, when they married. . . My father was a zoologist, and a writer of !:<x)l;s on natural hic'.ory, }fv lootiier also was a writ-:--. . . . Hut how inlinitely removed in their aims, their habile, their ambitions from "literary" I»eo]i!e o! the prcr?;it* day words are scarcely ai'.eonat? to <lcscribc. Neither knew nor cared about. .i;iv wanisfestation of current liternt'.ir?'. For each there had l:rrn no poet later than livrotl, and nedlicr hsd read a romance since, in childhood, they had dipped inlo the Waverlev X.~v;is ,-r, 'thev appeared in succwsicii.. For oacli the various fuv:r.s of imagine.'.ive literature were merely means of iniprovrr.v.\:it and profit, which fcept ths tliulenl "out of the world," gave him full en ■' rnnent, and enabled him to mainlah' liWclf, ! But pleasure «r, fcrv/J r. hc-ro but

in tlio AAord of God, anil to the endless discussion of the Scriptures each hurried when the day'a work was over,

I mentioned last Saturday a recent reprint- oi Iho essays of Mark Pattison, which had engaged my attention, and particular]}' his o=f=ay 'on "Calvin at Geneva." This most interesting essay I propose to get aside, along with a, number of other volumes, in preparation for tlio Calvin Quater-Centenary Celebration, due in May of next year, lint 1 am conscious of having again sadly strayed from my subject,, and most humbly do I confers that these "Browsings" consist largely of topics far removed from the promised " Memories of Masson." And this in face of the fact that I had actually read Masson's " Cliatterton," and dipped into Farrar's " Literary Forgeries" with the intention of commenting thereupon. But alas, I have room for nothing more; and can only recommend my readers to sueure for themselves a copy of Massons "Memories of London in the Forties,," and divert themselves with the delights of " Down Street Piccadilly," and enjoy the descriptions of " A London Club," an institution which included in its membership literary and other lights like Douglas Jen-old, Charles Knight, Hepworth Dixon, Shirley Brooks, Sir George feell, Sir Henry Hawkins, Marl; Lemon, Dr Doran, the two Mayhews, Thackeray, Charles Dickens, jun., Charles Lever, and the inimitable George Borrow. Professor Masson also makes mention of one Captain Chesterton, then Governor of Coldbath Fields Prison, and L find myself wondering whether this is any relation of the only G. K. Chesterton. For the elucidation of this mystery I must await the arrival of a much-talked about book just published by Alston River, and issued anonmously under the title, "G. K. Chesterton, a Criticism," from a notice of which in the Daily Mail, I li\l?e the following That hugs figure wrapped in a shady cloak, with an amorphous hat shadowing a head of flowing curls, must now be as familiar to every frequenter of Fleet street as the figure of Dr John-

eon was 150 years ago. lie conies striding along, chuckling to himself over tome joke of his own or of somebody else's, brandishing his sword-stick, or even in the crush of the pavement pouring over a page of print, apparently oblivious of everyone around hun, ajid. yet rejoicing to tie bottom of his unconscious being to find hiirie-clf in the press of humanity at its busiest. He is ono of the outstanding figures of the twentieth century London, mentally as well as physically; his personality is making its way into ever-widening circles; he lias an immense hearing in the United States, where there are even Chesterton clubs ami societies, and where President- Roosevelt is said to l'Kid him to the exclusion of every other contemporary English writer. is'ow Mere is a largo number of people who want to know what all the lues is about when Mr Chesterton's name is mentioned. What has he waliy done! they will ask. He has contributed nn enormous amount of matter to papers they don't read, published a. book of poems they have never heard of, written some lrild stories they don t understand, and one or two books of biographical criticism which u lc y don't like! Nothing that will live, they say. He is a mere journalist, rather cieaverer than most, who stands on his head for the entertainment of Radicals, and is the last livaai in London who ought to bo taken as representative of modern literature. And, of course, tlioy are right, in a sense, Mr Chesterton is not representative of modern literature; he is representative of nothing but himself: and he is not, strictly, a man of letters at all. He writes voluminously, becauso ho has such a lot to say that print is tho only medium by which he can .gain a wide enough hearing; and, of coun-e, ho has great gifts of literary expression. lint literary expression is one of the last thing.? be tares about for its own sake. His bruin is a mass of ideas and controversy and convictions, and out it all comes in a copious stream that would drain dry in a year many a more orthodox man of letters. The secret ot his never-ceasing output—and this ir> the only point not brought out in the admirable critical study under notice—: s that his brain is for ever busy with ideas. He has no parsoMl ainbitionr—probably not even the ambition for posthumous fame. Ho does not in the least want to be rich. -He has r.o joy in possessions: noteven a line library would give him p.easurc, although he is -a voracious reader. As long as he can take a cab whenever he wants to, cat and drink with his friends in a tavern, travel about in tJiird-dai-G carriages, -and buy a sispr.nny bonk, to uarrv in his pocket, lis iiii-3 everything that'money can proeuro him. More would bring him responsibility; and while he will lake responsibility for all the nations of the earth on his shoulders, he will take none for C. Iv. Chesterton. But it is this iresdom from the carts and wants of orCiinary mankind that keeps his brain clear for that continual overturning of ideas which in the case of these caught in liio toils of the world are only admitted to a share.

ho is an eighteenth,century Bohemian born outdue time, and his evergrowing fame is largely the result of his outstanding personality, which is not quuo like that of anybody else to be found among authors and journalists of present day, Ho has no pergonal enemies, although he never spares the Vigour of his blows in controversy*, ihere are many who are profoundly out of sympathy with his point of view and irritated by everything he writes. But there is not an ounce of malice in his composition, and his bitterest political and religious enemies have only to meet him in the abounding flesh to forgive him everything.