A CHAT ON BOOKS.

Otago Witness, Issue 2200, 30 April 1896, Page 43

A CHAT ON BOOKS.

"The Wonderful Visit," by H. G. Wells, who so recently gave us that brilliantlyclever fancy "The Time Machine," has been somewhat of a - disappointment to me. A clever and up-to-date young dootor of my acquaintance was so taken by "The Wonderful Visit" that I anticipated a treat, and could scarcely await my reading hour I However, you shall judge for yourself by this brief resume 1 of the plot.

The Vicar of Siddermorton, an elderly, -orthodox, and leisurely gentleman, with a pretty taste in ornithology, is exe'tad and surprised ft' tbe rumours of a strange bird wbioh bis parishioners have seen in the neighbouring copses and flying over the moor. The accounts are wildly conflicting and perplexing, for whereas Bandy Bright " tried in vain — such was bis state of mmd — to remember the beginning of the Lord's Prayer while the strange bird flapped over him, something larger than himself, with a vast spread of wings, as be thought, Black," the second narrator, who had risen early to see the sunrise, told how the rare visitant "seemed larger than a man. . . . The light of the rising sun smote over the edge,of the downs and touched its wings, and they flashed with the brightness of flames and the colour of precious stones ',' ; while the third saw little of the colour of the wing«, witnessing only that its leg#, whioh were long, seemed pink and bare like naked flesh, and its body mottled white."

The vicar, excited by these extraordinary statements, and bent on securing the strange bird before the two rival collectors of the county get wind of it, sallies forth through the mid-day heat, without even waiting to digest his lunch or have his usual noonday rest, and shoots — an angel !

"Dear me," said the vicar, "I had no idea 1 Exoubo me, I am afraid I have shot you."

To prevent misoonception Mr Wells hastens to explain that " the angel of this story is the angel of Art, not the angel that one must be irreverent to touch — neither the angel of religious feeling, nor the angel of popular belief." Bnt even with my scruples thus allayed I am not irresistibly tempted to laugh, though I must confess that the angel, m the various phases of well-bred English lUtt—each as a little musical afternoon— makes an admirable series of dainty comedies, which culminate in the glorious youtb, habited now in a suit of the vicar's instead of his own "purple wrought saffron tunic," insisting on relieving the tablemaid of her heavy tray and handing it round for her. The shams, the untruth, the cruelty and falseness of the earthly life weigh upon the simple and exquisite nature of the winged visitant; he feels himself losing in spirituality, and being permeated with grossness. Delia, the pretty housemaid, so gentle, so kind, and so tender, alone seems to him sweet and natural.

The continual infringements of coventional law and propriety which the angel is guilty of soon involve himielf, and the rector in sooial difficulties and disgrace. The position is becoming untenable when

The vicarage is on fire I The angel, appearing late on the scene, learns that Delia, has rushed into the flames to saye — what ? His violin ; that violin from which he had drawn the strange, sweet mel«dies that had made her weep, she knew not why.

" He gave a strange cry, and before anyone could stop him was rushing towards tbe burning building. Then the angel was hidden by something massive (no one knew ,, what) that fell, incandescent, across the' doorway. . . . Bat little Hetty Penzanoe had a pretty fancy of two figures with wings that flashed up and vanished among the flames."

Was I right, and is this type of comedy just a little far- fetched and high-flown T Is j it brilliance that is beyond tbe average enjoyment, and requires to be fooussed by a special mental lens, or iff it only that my sense of humour is dull I " The British Barbarians," by Grant Allen, is a new book, and as such may interest those among my readers who are like the Athenians in seeking some new thing. A new book of the new school— the school which is bent on pulling down that which it Irka to climb up to, on laying low ' the fence that marks the line between my unkempt, hungry plot of ground and my neighbour's rich orchards and brilliant flower beds, on cutting with the two-edged sword of reason the oldtime bonds of honour and high continence. This is the new school, of which Grant Allen has come to be recognised as the ohief apostle, and in tbe interests of which he wrote, first, " The Woman Who Did," and Becond, " The British Barbarism."

The hero of the sketch— it really Is nothing more — is one Bertram Ingledew. This young man, with no other credentials than a fascinating manner, handsome appearance, and every indication of wealth, presents himself in a search for lodgings in the exclusively fashionable London suburb of Brackenhurst, He appeals for information to one Phillip Christy, a conventional, uninteresting, and highly orthodox young man. Christy finds Bertram Ingledew's entire ignorance of English customs, even to the value of English money, moit interesting, and finds himself so carried away by the stranger's charming manner and refinement that he forgets the lack of credentials. Presently, having obtained lodgings, (in the negotiations for which Ingleden proves himself quite indifferent to money,) the handsome Allen beginß to be received quite informally at the house of Phillip's beautiful Bister, Mrs Monteith.

.It is during this process of being installed in the entirely conventional and ultra-respect-able oirole of Phillip Christy's friends that $rant Allen makes and improves to its fullest

limit tbe opportunity to deride the written and unwritten law of English taste ana English morality. Bertram Ingledew— always a mystery— poses as "an Alien '— astrang&r from an unknown country, bent on collecting information and making oopious cotes on the various forms of "taboo" practised Stmoig civilised and uncivilised peoples. The fascinating Alien becomes an appro* priate mouthpiece for Grant Allen's derision of old customs, old faiths, old bounds of Z%Z n \ P00"100^P 00 " 100^ get light, almost brilliant, touohes of humour, as the author shows up hii pet grievancea of English law and government through the utteranoes of tBS alien, who classifies all rights of personal property,&&of. f as one gigantic " taboo," no wiser than the " taboo" of the Bavage (the " tapir' of the Maori, for instance), but infinitely more complex. The beautiful and dignified Frida Monteith finds the unsophistaoated Alien a most charming personality. She listens with ever increasing interest and admiration t« his argumentative demolition of all the sooial. taboos which bad surrounded her— in com? mon with all well-brought-up girla—irom her childhood. The reasoning of the alien 10, . however, so slipshod, and his theories so manifestly mischievous, that one wonders how any ordinarily sensible young woman, can be blinded to the real folly and dange* of his teaobiog. Frida— who is a sweet and modest matron — has two children, and %' good,, if uninteresting, husband. Yet H?. Grant Allen seems to think it quite natural that, after some few remonstrances addressed to the alien whoo ha unduly pressed her hand, thoughtfully placed his arm round her waist, or innocently desired 60 kiss her, she/ should recognise a higher, purer law thaiT conventional morality, and confess that she loves Bet ram Ingledew, the mysterious Aliens With wonderful celerity sbe alters her Btarv dards of right and wrong accordingly. R >bert Monteith is conventional, ordinary, and her husband — he has no "soul"— Be knows nothing of the higher laws of affinity and ethereal sympathies. Frida apparently finds no difficulty in feeling that her onrj right coune is to leave such a gross material creature, whom she does not love, for the charming, hlgh-touled Bertram Ingledew, May ehe bringlier children ? "Why/of course', dear. How could you leave them with thai man ? " So the little party flits quietly away to a secluded moorland dwelling, where three days of perfect peace and happiness foi mother, children, and alien pass, when The wrong - headed Robert Monteith, always, conventional, rudely disturbs the. peaceful atmoapbere. Regardless of the scorn and lofty dignity of the lifgh-soaled pair of higher law " affinities," Robert Monteith persists in thinking himself a wronged man, whose wrong only death can wipe out. He is inconsiderate enough to shoot Ingledew* Aye, man and wife both Bee the slender, graceful figure fail to the fatal shot* but where the dead body should have lain, upon • the purple heather remains only' a fine lam> bent flame, which wavers a moment, softly gathering to itself all that was. mortal, and fades away into tbe haze of the summer air> Robert Monteitb, horrified at bis own deed, ' aghast at the tragedy so at variance with his keen, commonplace Scotch character; falters out oome hope of reconciliation and reunited lives to Frida.

She answers him with magnificent icorn, and turning away, walks swiftly in the direo* tion of the fish ponds I So much, dear readers, for the new books I

Emmblinh.