LITERATURE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 15350, 13 January 1912, Page 14

LITERATURE.

THE PSYCHIC PEASANT.* INTERPRETED BY TOLSTOY. By Constant Rkadku. Stiil in psychic holiday mood, I turned to tho lalost volume in Nelson's scries of new two shilling novels, " Tiic Forged Coupon and Other Stories and Dramas," by Leo Tolstoy, and found therein wonderful confirmation of tbo conclusions arrived at through a study of Algernon Jllack■wood's "The Centaur." Nelsons are lo bo thanked for such timely publication nf many of Tolstoy's iKwthunioua works, ninco this present volume, is to lie followed by two others, containing many of iho' ehort (stories composed by tho groat Russian gonitis fTom tho year lfJflO onwards. 1 have always held the opinion that.Tolstoy will go down to the agiw as ono of the great short story writers of h\; day?and generation, and I also hold, wills ttiagar Allan I'oe, himself one of tin; Masters of tho craft, that in tho short story is lo be found tho highest exemplification of artistic literature. The degradation of the short story, as semi in llw modern magazine, is to mo a perpetual source of vexation—and liow so many front-rank wn't-crß who ought to know boUer can for llie sake of filthy lucre lend tboir nainw and reputations' lo llio trash which tantalises and torments the intelligent reader of tho popular monthly magazine passes my comprehension. Even 0. Henry fails to satisfy me; rwTiile from Ambrose Bicrco—l -was lent two books of his stories the other day— I turn sorrowfully away. Ono of the moro recent of the volumes in tho samo scries as 1 am now considering 1 contains a selection of tho short, stories of that prolific writer Mr If. (!. Wells, who introduces tho collection with the remark.: "'lire' task of selection and revision brings home to mo with something of tho effect of diacovcry that I was once an industrious writer of short stories and that I am no longer anything of tho kind." .'As showing iho potentialities and' possibilities of tho short story, Mr Wells makes the following interesting summary.—

The nineties was a good and stimulating period for a short story writer. Mr Kipling had made, his astonishing advent with a scries of little blue-grey books whoso covers opened liko window shutters to reveal the dusty sunglare; and blaring colours of tho East. Mr ;JJarri« tad demonstrated what could! be done in a litlk: spaco through his Window in Thrums. The National Observer was at the climax of its career

of heroic insistence! upon lyrical brevity and a vivid finish, ami Mr Frank Harris was not only printing good short stork'fi by other jieople, but writing still better ones himself in tin dignified pages nf the Fortnightly. Review. I/ongman's Magazine, too, represented a clientele of appreciative s)iorl...slory .readers Ihal is now scattered; ' Then came the generous opportunities of 'the Yellow Book, and the

National Observer died only to give birthi to the. Now Iteview. "No short story of the slightest distinction went for long unrecognised. 'Hie sixpenny magazine* had still to deaden down tho conception of what a short story might-l»o to tho imaginative limitation of the. common reader—and a maximum length of six „thousand words. Short stories .broke out everywhere. Kipling was writing short stories; Harry, Stevenson, Frank Hams; Max ■ Keorhphni wrote at least' ono perfect one, "The Happy Hypocrite"; Henry James pursued his wonderful and inimitable) honl; and among other names that occur to me like a mixed liandful of jewels drawn from a bag aro George Street,. Morley .Roberta, George l!i«;ing. Klla d'Arey, Murray llilchrist, !•:. Nesbit, Stephen Crane, Joseph Conrad, Grant Allen, (ieorge l-'gcrton, Henrv Harland, Pelt ltidge, \V. \V. Jacolis (who: ak>no spurns inexhaustible!.' I dare say 1 could recall as many more names, with' a little effort. 1 may b« flitccitnilmii; to tho infirmities of middle. | ago, htil 1 do not think the present decade, can produce any parallel to this list, or,' what, is more remarkable, that | the later achievements in this field of any of-the survivors front that time, with tfto sole, exception of Joseph ConTad, can compare with tho work they did before- 1900. It seems to mo this output of short stories came not only as a phase in literary development, but also as a phase in the. development of tho ih&ividunl writers concerned. Mr Wolls defines the short story as "a fiction that may be read in something nndor an hour, and so that it is moving and delightful; it do?s not matter whether it is as' ' trivial' as a .lapanosc print of insects sven eloselv between grass stems, or as spacious as {-he prospect of the plain of Italy from Monte Moltarone, It does 'not milter whether it is. human or inhuman, or whether it leaves you thinking deeply or radiantly, but siqieriicia-lly plnscxl. Some, things aro more easily dono as short stories than others, and more abundantly done, but ono of tho many pleasures of short slory writing is to achieve, the impossible. At any rale, that is tho present ivrilvr'.s conception of tho short story as Uic jolly art of making something very bright and moving; it may Ih> horrible or pathetic or fiinuv or beautiful or profoundly illuminating, havingonlythiscssoutial :'that it should take from fifteen to fifty minutes to r?ad aloud. All the rest is just whatever invention ami imagination and the mood can give—a vision buttered slides on a busy day orof unprecedented worlds." Adopting this doctrine, 1 venture to remark that Tolstoy is a man who has lwu, and will continuo to be, much misunderstood by Itason of tho many sidcdliess of his Rjtiius. We fonn our judgment* of men mainly from first impmvions. 'Hie first phase that strikes us remain* conscionly or unconsciously our final arbiter. Ko'r my own part 1* am convinced that only v in his short stories do vou meet the real man. .Mr 0. Ilagborg Wright introduces tho Nelson mlhvtion of Tolstoy with a discriminating ".-say on the man* and the writer, in tho course of which he says :— "Tolstoy found true idealism in the toil. . ing peasant who believed in God rather '. than in his intellectual sn|»erior, who bo liov?d in himself in the first plains and gave.an unquestioning assent to tho existence of a deity in the second. Kor the. peasant was 'still religious at heart, with a naive unquestioning faith—mor? 1 characteristic of |1k« fourteenth or fifteenth century than of todnv-mulstill

fervently aspired to God, although Mink in srtix'retition and held down "by the despotism of the Gr-ck Clmrch." " Ami .' agaui; "Tolstoy was well fitted by nature and 'circumstances to l>o the ]Tasini's spokesman, lie ha<| been brongbt into intimate contact with him in tho"varying ..- conditions of Peace, and War, and k'nvw '" him it his worst and best." In his essays .cm "Modern Mysticism "--■« Wk which rtwived the approval of Mae-tor-Francis Grierson deals with Tolstoy and gives a quite original inter- > prctation of tiV> great Hussian's trvnd

and temperament, for instance, h:> says: "Instead of a manifestation of genius we havo in Count Tolstoy a depressing- sense of will power, unbalanced by ciilt-nr; and intuition. It is literary nihilism put into practice by a converted Kvdently Mr Grierson had not studied Tolstoy as a short story writer or lie could scarcely have penned the following ;— 'Hi; sttuly of Tolstoy means the. study of Russian ch.tr.icter with its superstitions, its ivntradiction, its strangonuxlleyof fanaticism and pessimi«m, This character is strongly tineinred with Oriental mysticism, coupled with a new form of Wcatorn tliougbt. The Kusstan imital.w mueh. creates little. In this *ni\ theories tike root with singular f.vility. One has only to look at the of Goimt Tolstoy U> kv a man of iron will, posiWse<i by a fixed idea. It is

•"Thr For.T'l r«upnn, ar.it other Stori* .ind Dr»m»j." n.r C«mt !« To!«..r. UmdooTiiomje )M*m »m! ?otit (2j r .otj.

Special Eeviews, and Gleanings from Yarious Sources,

not a head wo can compare with that of ail Emerson or a Goethe. The fnca is characterised by an expression of distrust, suspicion, and dogtred will—the antithesis of those signs which ars characteristic of harmonious minds. There has not been during the past century a more striking example of provincial ascendancy springing from dogmatic will. And yet this celebrated Russian is sincere. But his sincerity is bom of a certain inherent, lineoiificioiifi hauteur which is tire cans: of so much oracular posiliveness. Like Carlylc, he is posiiive from lack of experience. His reasons, too, are not the reasons of tho poet, whose inspirations are both deep ( and lofty, subtle and lucid, but tho*' of a writer looking at lifo on a surface without roflactivo lights. Ho takes long solemn views of men and things, outlooks that corresjioiid with the long bleak nnd lonely wastes of the llussian Steppes. But the solemnity is that of the old time preacher, at otico strong and narrow, never broad and universally appropriate I have quoted Grierson, not because I agree with his analysis— but .because. I desire to place it in contrast with Hagburg Wright's infinitely more correct interpretation, which shows Tolstoy as an exemplification of tluj development of the phychic sense. Take the opening paragraphs of this introduction :—"ln an age of materialism liko our own, the phenoiinMon of spiritual power is as significant and inspiring as it is rare. No longer as.sucatcd with UlO 'divine right' of kings.it has survived the downfall of feudal and theocratic systems as a mystic personal emanation in place of a coercive weapon of State craft. Fr:ed from its ancient shackles of dogma and despotism, it eludes analysis. We knotv not how to gauge its effect on others, nor even upon ourselves. Like the wind, it permeates the atmosphere we and baffles while it stimulates the mind wi<li its intangible but compiling force. This psychic power with which the d?ad weight'of materialism.is impotent to suppress, is revealed in the lives and writings of men of *.ho most divcrso creeds and nationalities. Apart from those who, liko Buddha and 'Malionnl, have been raised to the height of (Iciili-gods by worshipping millions, there are names that leap inevitably to the mind—such names as Savonarola, iLiilbfir, Calvin. Rousseau, which ntnud for types and exemplars of spiritual aspiration. To this high priesthood of the quick among the <]«ad who can doubt that timo will admit \/>n Tolstoy—a genius whose greatness has been obscured from us rather*than enhanced by his duality; a realist who strove to demolish the mysticism of Christianity and bjcacno him. self a mystic in the contemplation of Nature; a man of anient tem|>erament and robust physique, keenly susceptible to human passions and desires, who battled with himself fmm early manhood until the spirit gathering strength with years inexorably subdued "the flesh." In another part of his introduction the samo writer continues :—

As frequently happens in the live* of reformers, Tolstoy found himself more' often in allinity with strangers than with his own kin. The estrangement of his ideals from those of his wife necessarily allccled tlicir conjugal rela- ' tioiw, and the decline of mutual sympathy inevitably induced physical plic-nation. The. stress of mental. .-'anguish ■arising from' these, conditions; found vent in ]wges of his diaries umich of which 1 have been permitted to read) —pages containing. matter too intimate and sabred to use. The diaries shed a ~ Hood of light on Tolstoy's ideas, motives, and maimer of * life, and have modified pome of my opinions explaining many -obscure 'points, while the}- have also enhanced my admiration for the man. They not oiilv touch on many delicate subjects-on his relations with his wife and family,—but- they ■also give the true reasons for leaving his home at last and explain why ho did not do so Ixifore. The time it seems to me is not ri|ie for disclosures of this nature, which i so closely con-1 corn the living. •■Despite a strong rein of restraint, I his mental distress permeates the touching letter of farewell which he wrote soma sixteen years before his death. He shrank, however, from acting upon it, licing unable to satisfy himself that' it was a right step. 'flu's letter has already appeared in Iliniknv's short "Life of Tolstoy," but it is .quoted hero because of the light which it throws on the character and disposition of the writer, the workings of his mind being of greater moment to us than those impulsive actions by which he was too often judged. "1 have sulfered long, dear Sophie, from the discord-between my life and my beliefs. 1 cannot constrain yon to alter your life or your accustomed ways. Neither have I'had the strength to leave you ere this, for 1 thought my alisence might deprive the little ones, still so young, of whatever inliuencc I may have over them, and, above all, that 1 should grieve you. lint 1 can no longer live as 1 have lived these last sixteen' years, sometimes battling with you and irritating yon, sometimes myself giving! way to the influences and seductions to which I am aciis\omod and which surround me. I have now resolved to do what 1 have long desired— to go away. . . . Kveu as the Hindoos at the age of sixty betake themselves to the jungle; even as every aged and religious-minded man desires to consecrate the bust years o{ his life to Hod and not to idle talk, to making jokes, to lawn tennis; so 1. having reached the age of seventy, loin; with all my soul for calm and solitude, and, if not perfect harmony, at least a cessation from this horrible discord between my whole life and my conscience. "If 1 had gone away openly there would have been entreaties, discussions —I should have wavered and pcrha]« failed to act on my decision; whereas it must he jo. 1 pr.iy of you to fur. give me if my action grieves you. And do you. Sophie, in particular, let me go neither seeking nie out nor bearing me ill-will nor blaming me. . . . The fact that I have left you does not mean that 1 have cause of complaint against you. ... I know you were not able, you were incapable of thinking and swing as 1 do. and therefore you could not change yonv life and ihade sacrifices to that which you did not accept. Hesides, 1 do not blame you ; on the contrary. 1 remember the love and gratitude the thirty-live long years of our life in common, and equally the first half of the time when, with the courage and devotion of your maternal nature, you bravely lx>re what you regarded as your mission. Yon have given largely of maternal love and made some very heavy sacrifices . . . but during the latter part of our life together, during the last fifteen years, our ways have parted. 1 cannot think myself the guilty one—l know that if I have changed it is not owing to yon or to the world, but because 1 could not do otherwise; nor can I judge you for not having followed me, and 1 thank you for what yon have given me and will ever remember it with affection. " Adieu, my dear Sophie. I love you." Here I tin.) remarkable ovido-no? of Tolstoy's development of the iwychic sense, a development demanding aloofinv* and solitud.'. it: seeking which he ivissed the purely physical barrier, through the gates of lvon- and Horn into the Garden, whetv now he know* yv.rfeet Union with the lvvrUi and Nature. As to what he bclievxl, his convictions are set forth in a Utter to a friend written in 1009 : "For me the doctrine of Jesus is simply one of those beautiful religious doctrines which I we hav? received from Kcyptian, Jewish, Hindoo, Chinese,, and Greek antiquity. I The two great principles of Jesus—love of

God (in a word absolute perfection) and love of one's neighbour filial is to say, lovj of nil men without distinction)—have boon preached by all the' sages of thei world—Krishna, Buddha, l„-ioetsc, Confucius, Socrates Plato, Epictclus, Rous- | eaii, Parimtl, Kant, Khhtsoii, Clninmng, and many others, religious and moral truth is evjrywhore and always the same. I liavc no predilection whatever lor Christianity. If ] have been particularly interested in the doctrine- of Jesus, it is firstly because 1 was born in that religion and have lived among Christians; secondly, because I have fonnrj a great spiritual joy in freeing the doctrine in its purity from the abounding falsifications wrought by the churches." Ilagberg Wright sums up On influence of Tolstoy finely in the following paragraph : — Tolstoy's life work was indeed a splendid striving lo free truth from falsehood, to simplify the complexities of civilisation and demonstrate Ihetr futility. Ilealists as gifted haw come nnd gone, and left but little trace. h is conceivable that the great trilogy of "Anna Karenina." "War and Peace." and " Resurrection" may 0113 day be forgotten, but Tolstoy's teaching stands on firmer foundations and has stirred the heart* of thousands who arc indifferent to the finest displays of psychic) analysis. He has taught men toventiin beyond the limits set- by reason, to risei above the actual ami to find the moaning nf life in love. It was his mission to probe our moral ulcers to the roots, and to raise our moribund ideals fronil the dust, breathing his own vitality into thorn, till they rose before our eyes as living aspirations*. The spiritual joy of which he wrote was not rhetorical hyperbole: it was manifest in the man himself, and was the fonnt nf the lofty, idealism which made him not only thd "Conscience of Knraia," birt of the civilised world. A NUMBER OK NEW NOVELS Mt John Lain: has just published "Sekbet: a Novel," by Irene Miller. "Sckhct" deals with that 'topic of unwearying interest to readers of romance—the adventures and struggles of an exquisitely lovely woman upon whom the hand of Fate is laid heavily. Mr John Murray considers that Mr 1). Paul Netiman is an author who, one of these days, will rouw the world, which hitherto has not done justice to thequalit" of his work. A new novel by him will he, published by Mr Murray, which will give the world an opportunity for better wisdom. "Poddies" is the story of a tailor with two sons, bright boys, who, in div?rs ways, profitably fulfil their father's wishes. The Macmillan Company has published a new novel by Robert ilerrirk entitled " The llcalcr." Th; hcr;> of the book is a primitive, almost uncivilised being, who voluntarily Isolates hmseir from liin society of men, and carries off to his forest home a wife who is very much a woman of the world. 'Hie reaction of tlmso two characters upon each other and their gradual estrangement are leading motives of the story, The true significance of the hero's mysterious powers of healing, which are neither the ways of the mental healer nor the practices of the physician, bears directly, it is said, upon great evils in society today. Mr iterrick will be remembered as author of that strikingly unconventional American novel " Together." To summarise the strango interest of "The Centaur," by Mr Algernon Blackwood, is difficult, but it may be said that the book embodies an urgent protest against the hurry and unrest of our feverish modem Hfc today, and at the same time a passionate plea for a simpler e.\istenc3 lived closer to Nature which shall lessen the importance of mere external possessions, while emphasising the value of interior development. While the conquest over Nature goes on at lightning speed, the conquest over self stands comparatively still. It is the r.',,"-, c;?rnal cry of the mystic, and the book is perhaps more of a human document than a novel; above all, not one lo be read too quickly or at a single sitting. "Tho hollowing of the Star," by Florence L. Barclay, author of "The Rosary, ' although a beautifully-written and interesting novel, is possibly too eminently religious in tone lo please those who read solely for amusement. Yet both Diana and David Riven; are such strong characters, and David so entirely good and conscientious, that it is worth while to follow their fortunes and study their perplexities. Gold, Frankincense, and Mjyrharc the sub-tillcs given to the sections into which the theme is divided, and it is under the third designation that human nature is best revealed. Mrs Barclay seems' lo suggest that the end justifies the meatus, and one is also incliiml to think that she 'approve* of the once so popular habit among Old Country people of putting a knitting-needle belwen the leaves of a Bible, and being definitely guided by the words of the text on which tho point rests. In almost such a primitive manner, David Rivera finds the .passage which clears bis mind and makes a tremendous decision possible. Mr Horace C. Ncwte is a writer who has devoted himself to describing unpleasant and unsavoury phases of the Ixindou under-world j apparently with the idea, that such exposure will ultimately aid tin; work of reform. His latest novrl is entitled "The tilling .Miracle," the .sort of miracle that occurs in legend and romance, two persons interchanging bodies and all such usual appurtenances of accompaniments as voice, clothes, and handwriting. To give th* miracle an air of verisimilitude, Mr Ncvtt>, by a gigantic blunder, to use what he would term a "euphuism" for what is really something much worse, introduces at Ibo moment of exchange a vision of the Crucified, llie suggestion that Ho would effect a miracle that would lead to humorous embarrassment and to immoral and disgusting results being one that is strangely offensive. In this connection it may bo added that the fact of Ritualists meeting to pray for the souls of the dead should not,'whatever one's religious views may be, be selected as a subject for satirical treatment or open derision. But there can be no doubt of the cleverness with whicli the author traces the career of his heroine, of the £85 a year suburban villa, with her intangible personality .in ll».' tangible person of a nnr.e of somewhat loose morals, as he take* her through mean and sordid streets and traces the ignoble lives that girls, who are sweated almost to starvation, are often compelled to live to save their bodies alive. A new novel by Mr William tie Morgan is a "literary event," even in a day when such event* arc magnified and multiplied. " A Likely Story," which issues from the house of lleiiiemann, is " the sixth 01 them," and the sixth is the shortest. This surprises the reader, for when at the outset Mr de Morgan takes five pages (live most delightful pages) to get the gas lit in a Chelsea studio, there is every promise of another long novel We are not prepared to call the shortest the best, but, for all its shortcomings, it must gratefully l>e hailed as good. As in " Aliccfor-shoit." an old-time -t.;ryis deftly woven into one or two mmii-in ones, the ancient romance in this case being a thrilling and blood-curdling one. nearly four hundred years old. and bringiiii.- us for a moiih'iit into touch with | Webster's "White Devil," Yittoria Corom'x>na. The only survival of the romance . is the picture of the heroine of it, and the picture talks to the characters hf today, ami thus brings them into connection with the medieval romance. There are some clever, but somewhat overdrawn accounts of how this miracle was explained by the pretentious pseudo-scien-tists (>f suburbia. This, however, is the dullest part of the book. Good, on the_ otber hand, as is Madeline's little love idyll, the best part of the book is concerned with the A ikons, a really loving, but bickering, couple, who live" on tho wife's little money and what the hus'ornd earns as picture-cleaner, after what he loses as painter lias been deducted. Their i talk and the talk of Sairah. their d.'r'.v maid-of-all-work, are most faithfully -ecorded, and nwd to an accompaniment of audible chuckling*, for their historv is told in the author's best manner, and "nt manner is incomparable. Although the theme of Mr E. F. Be-n-

son's new novel is somewhat convention^!, ;ii»l the story iteelf tliin and iiiil, " " provide* us withgoi.ij entertainment. The characters are drw.-n with the ease ami cunning which are Mr lienson's own, and are moat happily mniranlctl. Margery, as charming a girl, full of sweet womanly graces and virtues, as .Mr I'.enson lias drawn, being set off against her conventional cousin, hand, some, siolid, dull, and r*c.-,h', her two lovers, one with his devotion to wild nature and the oilier with his passion f>r the seclusion of the study, nicely balan- ; > each other, and of the two mothers, one is sympathetic, .--elf-sacrificing, ,iih]silent, and the other selfish, hard, and of an unmatched garrulity. I>nt \hv. Iwt, M'* Morrison, though utterly odious, is inlinitoly amusing, and of" all Mr Hemon's portraiti- of the conventional woman. "who is Curzon street iii London ami county in the country." nnneic drawn with such skill, none is so diverting and so lmniaii. ir««r tricks and devices to get her daughter off her hands. an<| to prevent Margery's proving too attractive to her son may lx> nf the nieancst, hut they tickle the render, and as up to Margery's marriage .she is of all the characters most in evidence, we chuckle as we read. I!m with .Margery wedded the storv should have stopped, it is true that, she marrird the wrong num. and it. is true thai he loved his work more than his wif\ hut he loved her too, and really Mmvj.-, very well to her—far better than yr Renson seems to imagine—and her ww-s cannot awaken very strong sympathy ard certainly do not justify so harsh a" title. Hut much a,s there is of Mrs Morrisn, we cannot help wishing there was more,' .Mr lloincniann has just published "Ave,'' the first volume of Mr George Moorc'fi long-expected and eagerly-antici-pated "H:vil and Farewell!" trilogy, which when complete will, with the "'Confessions of a Voting Man" ;»i<l "Memoirs of My Dead Life " make altogether five volumes of confessions from the author. The three volumes already published incline us to doubt whether* there was ever any other writer who confessed so much and so often and revealed so little. Mr Moore confesses everything except himself. His confessions, indeed, are little more than painted masks—sonic with a flippant misdirection of the eye or framing of the lins—whose sole purpose can be to conceal the grave and physicianly .spirit of the, man who imagined '" Ksth-r Waters;" If it were not" for " lislhor Waters," one might Iv disnnscd to believe that there was nothing of Mr Moore bill mask. Hut "Esther Waters" excels in its intimacy; it is the fruit of quiet consideration and pity and half the virtues. When the author of such a book publishes confessions that are for thomc,«!, part a recurring grimace, wo are force;! to speculate whether, after all, he may not he an uncomfortably shy man, who ma,kes faces out of sheer nervousness. And .Mr .Moore himself scenic to suggest this explanation of much of his later art. " Within the oftentimes bombastic and truculent appearance that I present to the world," he writes, " trrmbles a heart shy as a wren in the hedgerow, or a mouse along the wainseoltiug." It j 6 as though a sudden ray of light thrown on t'unch showed us a pathetic instead of a comic figure. " The Money Monn,'' Mr Jeffrey Farnol's ne.wly-piihlishcd story, was written before "The Uroad Highway." and we imagine that the popularity of the latter has helped the publication of this second story. 'Hi? main fault found with "The Uroad Highway" was that, the book was In If-way through before the story started. From that fault Mr Farnol's second novel certainly is free. It begins with a nub, am! in the most refreshing way; moreover, it keeps the reader in a state of happy tantalisation to the end. This time for a hero, instead of a gallant of the days of the Prince Regent, we get a modem American whose Americanism is not even skin-deep. Rut, like, h ; s countryman in Mr Kipling's story, "An Habitation Enforced." he chances on an old farmhouse in the heart of Kent, and there he finds his fate. For it Is tenanted (on the ip.evit.ablc heavy mortgage) by one of those rare and beautiful divinities for the creation of which Mr Farnol seems to hold a special patent. She is hedged round by a retinue of amiable characters, who swear fealty to her in ten whimsical dialect of Dickens-land. A", this passes in the full sutliision of Kentish summer, the bloom of hop-gardens, and the rest of it. The author m . broidcrs the story with so many pretty fancies that he reminds us of Orlando in tho play, who had learned, so the melancholy Jnqucs remarked, the posy-mot-toes out of goldsmiths' rings. One of tlrnsc fancies is the "money-moon," a luminary supposed to light the true believer to a hoard of cash; we need not say that it fulfil,, its function, and the mortgage fades away. The true believer is flic heroine's nephew, a genial mixlure of curly-haired precocity and wildeyed faith, and the part he played in the weaving of a happy i.v.uo would do credit, to Dan Cupid at his bast. For the hook is a love story of the old-fashioned order glowing, nrtlcw, and unabashed But it has the true Arcadian fragrance -and infection, and there is never a misgiving or a moment's hesitation from t lie first page to the lasl. In a word, there aro no clouds or change* in "The Money Moon.

Mr Kcighley .Snowdon's new novel hears the enticing title. "The Free Marriage" but it is dilliciilt to decide how far it is intended In serve as a parable andfhow far as a study of roal life and actual fact. He presents ns with a problem which is undoubtedly a highly interesting "lie. A manly and in everv way capable and attractive voting follow. Dick ,lcrrold by name, love* and has married a gloriously lioautiful, hcalthv, ami clever girl. Margery, ltoth of them live by Iheir pens; both cf them also aro ideal'istsj and neither of thorn is a sentimentalist. They decide that their marriage shall be a g<'iiiiine comradeship into which no notion of sex superiority of any kind shall be allowed to intrude. Tliey are to Ik-, together, and yet. jn many ways they are to be independent of each other. Their love is to he natural, and yet it is alsn to l>c a thing of notable, feserv.es. And the question is, How will it work? Mr Snowtlcn answers it in a story of •which the least praise is that it does not contain a dull |>age. He has made liis figures live with » quite exceptional completeness, so that we not only see and hear them, hut also follow the working--often the very subtle workings— of their minds: and not those of the two protagonists only, but al>o those of the other figures in the little drama—particularly the great newspaper proprietor, who, without the slightest touch of coarseness or melodrama, is mado somewhat the villain of the piece, and a bubbling, gossiping old-iashioned aunt of Margery, who trots in and out of the story, a cheery reminder of the conventions. Hut comes the question back again -How does it work? Are Dick and Margery able to keep up their perfect comradeship, their attitude of mutual counsel in all matters of mutual concern, unconditioned by '■ suiierinrities" of any kind, to say nothing of the ordinary greedim*s of poor humanity? Well, Mr Snowden's nanalive is (io subtle, to delicate, and so provokini; that we haw decided i:nt to spoil tho pleasure of a single reader by answer, ing tip question here. All we shall sayis that much as we liked Dick and Margery at the opening of the book, we like them no less now that we have finished il; and that we Ixdievo Mr Snowden has written, not only a very interesting story, but also a contribution of genuine value to the siviological discussions of the day. The novel on which Lucas Malet (Mrs Harrison) has boen engaged for years is now published: already |>ronle are reading and discussing it. It n<vd not be said tiiat the booh is (Mwerfully written. Mrs Harrison has a strons and bricbt style, and we como very oft-on on strong phrases like "the asperities of his declension." "toppling of the fortress of Faith into the waters of a laughing, envious, all-swallowing sea," "the poor tinWed lying beneath the rattling, snow-soddon gravel of the moorland." " A'lrian Sivage" i« alive with "criticism of life," and brilliant with passag/fs of true drama and felicitous diction. As against Joanna, in whom we have summed tip "the fiercely digitised sufferings of ill the barren, the ugly, the ungifted, the undesired. and :irK.:ti£ht." there is the

portrait of Galmellc St. tagcr, triumphant, in all womanly endowment*, and yet, with "the wind of modernity" in her face, hesitating whether self-realisa-tion should not be found in other than the lime-trodden walks of woman's destiny. There an. l reminiscences of Mr Shaw's Candida and her wretched little poetlover in the situaiion of Oabriclie and the perverted artist. Reive Dax. while we have some casual but interesting hints of the typo of woman who in France as in England imagines that she has a choice between embracing .Something and embracing Somebody. That is a sphere of which our author for the present merely sketches the outlines and dimensions—an incidental distraction from the weightier matters that she delineates with such expressiveness and insight.

W. CLAKK KUSSRLIi (liv K. Mahston, in the Publisher's Circular.) I was a youth of nineteen when Cinrk Russell wa<s kirn. He was a youth of twenty-three when 1 first met him. He cam* to me with a manuscript under his arm. In an amusing reminiscence of thai first interview written by him and pub lished in 1904. he says about that first book : " 1 had wrtten a novel. 1 would not for thousands proclaim its name; but enough that 1 then thought it a masterpk'co, and based on a new idea in litcralitre—namely, a combination between the stylo and method of Jane Austen and the style and method of Victor lingo. I was little more than 25, to v/hicli age the experienced will forgive much." We published tho work. I would not give the titlo now, in face of the foregoing injunction; indeed. I couldn't if 1 would, for at the moment 1 have quite forgotten it. The best that can be paid of it. is that it was not a failure. At his special request it was never reprinted, 'llio remainder of that ' reminiscence ' is devoted wholly to a most flattering reference to myself. In view of the natural antagonism which is supposed to exist- between author and publisher, I will venture to quote these few words from it : "If ever an author has reason to speak well of his publisher, 1 am that man. From the beginning Mr Marston honoured mo by exhibiting confidence in mv work," Since, that year. 1867, up to this year of his death. 1911. he has been my constant correspondent. His'letters, of which I possess a number, were always bright and cheerful, oftentimes making fun of his own infirmities. Ati has been told in many of the obituary notices, Mr Clark Russell was the son of Mr Henry Russell, the great popular singer and musician, the author of "Cheer, Hoys, Cheer," "The Ship Afire," etc., etc I never heard him sing in public, but I met him once at his sou's house many years ago. He had then long retired from public life, but he favoured mo with an example of his powers by flinging "The Ship Afire." All I can say about it is that the house seemed to shake, and I feared the roof might fall in ! Clark Russell was a charming story teller and brimming over with anecdotes.

At risk of spoiling it, I call to mind one, of his anecdotes : " A missionary had converted a negro and proposed lo hapiiso him. 'Hut.' said he. •there is a difficulty in the way—you have two wives. You must put away one of them.' lie went away crestfallen, but came again a fewdays afterwards, crying 'Me only one wife now, '.Massa.' ' flow is that?' said the missionary. ' What have you done with the other one?' 'Oh, Massa. me good Christian now—mc ato the edder ono!'" Siome years were still to pass, however, before he was to make his name, which he did suddenly, in 1874, with the publication of his first novel, "John Iloldsworth, Chief Mate," followed in 1875 by'the still more succecsfnl "Wreck of the Urosvenor." and then by a long series of nautical novels, some more, some, lc.-s, successful, poured in quick succession from his pen, chief among them he ! ng :— *'The l;ady Maud," 1876; "A Sailor's Sweetheart," 1877: "The Frozen Pirate," 1877; "An Ocean Freelance," 1878; "An Ocean Tragedy." 1881; "My Shipmate Louise," 1882; "The Kmigrant .Ship." 1894: "The Convict Ship." 1895: " The Tale of the Ten." 1896; " The Last F.ntry.'' 1897; "Tlie Shins Adventure." 1899": "Overdue." 1903; ""Wrong Side Out." 1904. He also reprinted a gocd many of his fugitive articles under such titles as " My Watch Relow," " Hound the Galley Fire," and " A Hook for the Hammock," and wrote lives of Nelson, Dampicr. and Cnllingwooil, Fiction, it should bo added, wa-s Clark Russell's introduction to journalism of a more profitable kind than he had previously attempted. An invitation to call at the ollice of the Daily Telegraph was quickly followed by an invitation to join the staff. He hesitated, saying that he had never written a leading article in his life, and doubted whether he could do so. It was represented to him that headed ,'irticles would snillice; and ,hls headed articles, contributed under the pseudonym of " A Seafarer," soon became a feature, of the paper, though we believe that ho ultimately contributed leading articles as well, and have beard him tell that he inaugurated the famous "dead-season ' debate: "What sltall we do with our boys? . . . Though his health was a perianal handicap, he worked harder than many haler men. and he may bo said lo stand, as a novelist of the sea, pretty much m the relation towards the Rritish merchant service, in which Captain Marry.it stood towards the Royal navy. Mr Clark Russell married early in life Alexandria, daughter of Mr 11. ,1. Henry, of tlu Institution of Civil Engineeiii, and brother of the late Sir Thomas llenry. llow Street Magistrate. She survives him. with one son and three daughters.

Mr Russell had for many years been a eevere sufferer from rheumatism, which for the last three years of his life confined him to his b?d. but almost to the'last ho remained the same bright and charming man in snirit, making light of his sufferings, working ever, and mainly in the. endeavour to better the petition of our mercantile marine, by manning it with oitr owii countrymen and not by foreigners.