LITERATURE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2983, 17 May 1911, Page 85

LITERATURE.

BOOK NOTICE. " The Broad Highway." By Jeflery Farnol. London: Sampson Low, Marston, and Co. Melbourne: Geo. Robertson and Co. (5s 6d, 2s 6d.) This is a truly delightful book —not one to throw aside or pass on hastily, but one to be dwelt on, savoured on the mental palate, lingered over, and often returned to ; —a book to keep on one's shelf near at band, or to take with one into the country on a rare holiday, to pick out a gem here and there, and dwell on it and find always some deeper meaning in the simple phrasing. By a mysterious process of his own, Mr Jeffery Farnol (henceforth a name to conjure with) gives us here a dish whose ingredients are as far-reaching as his title. For "The Broad Highway" means, first of all, in its narrow sense, the great straight Roman road, reaching from Dover to London, always within easy reach of the lovely winding by-ways, hedges, and woodlands of that Garden of England, Kent; and in this sense the second tale is truly earnest. It is, in truth, "A Romance of Kent." But in its wider sense " The Broad Highway " means the highway of life, with all its ups and downs, its touching with other .lives, its meetings, minglings, partings—what \Valt. Whitman calls "The Open Road": the path of poets and philosophers all the world over, who consciously see there what the most of us only feel. Mr Farnol is a poet and a philosopher, but he is, above all, a first-rate story-teller. He combines the. charm of the open-air books of Maurice Hewlett and others, with the hard prose of. the realist, and the high romance of the idealist —that is to say, he not only sees things as they are on the surface, but he has. the inner vision and understanding of hidden values. In the prologue, which relates a conversation between himself and the tinker, he gives his plan of the ideal book. _ The passage runs thus: — As I sat of an early summer morning in the shade of a tree, eating fried bacon with the tinker, the thought came to me that I might some day write a book of my own —a book that should treat of the roads and by-roads, of trees and wind in lonely places, of rapid brooks and lazy streams, of the glory of dawn, the glow of evening, and the purple solitude of night; a book of wayside inns and sequestered taverns; a book of country things and ways and people. And the thought pleased me much. "But," objected the tinker, for I had spoken my thought aloud, "trees and such like don't sound very interestin'— leastways, not in a book; for, after all, a tuse is only a tree and an inn an inn. No. you must tell of other tilings as well." " Yes," said I, a little damped. " To be sure, there is a hiarwhayman" " Come, that's better," said the tinker encouragingly. ; "Then,' I went on. ticking off each item on my fingers, " comes Tom Cragg, the pugilist——" " Better and better,", nodded the tinker. "A one-legged soldier of the Peninsula, an adventure at a lonelv tavern, a flight through woods at midnight pursued by desperate villains, and 1 —a most extraordinary tinker. So far, so good, I think, and it all sounds adventurous enough." " I've read a good many novels in my time," said the tinker, shaking his head.

"If you can get a little blood Into your book ; so much, the better. There's nothing like a little blood in a book — not a' great deal, but just enough to give it a ' tang,' so to speak. . » • And they wants love in a book nowadays, and, what's more, they will have it." " They?" said I» " The folk as will read your book —• after it is written." "Ah.! to be sure," said I, somewhat taken aback. "I had forgotten them." " But," said the tinker, rubbing his nose hard, "books lare writlten for people to read, aren't they?" (Then follow some remarks on the writing of good books, on genius, and the author's doubts of his fitness for the task he is about to undertake. The tinker encourages him.) " Lord love ye," said he at last, seeing me thus hipped, " don't be downhearted; don't be dashed before ye begin. We can't all be gen'uses. it aren't to be expected; but some on us is a good deal better than most, and that's eomethin' after all. As for your book, wot you have to do is to give 'em a little blood now and then, with plenty of love, and you can't go far wrong." Now, whether the tinker's theory for the writing of a good' novel be right or wrong I will not pretend to say. But in this book that lies before you, though you shall read if you choose of country things, and ways,' and people, yet, because that part of my life herein recorded was a somewhat hard, rough life, you shall read also of blood ; and because I came in the end to love very greatly, you shall read of love. Wherefore, 'then, I am emboldened to hope that when you shall have turned the last page and closed the book, you shall do so with a sigh.

Here in few words is the gist of the whole book, and an example of its direct simplicity cf style. All the author's premises' of adventure by highway and byway are well carried out. The village folk, the innkeeper, the ancient, the mighty blacksmith, the clever pick-pocket, the Bow street runner, the "buck" of quality, "Gabbing Dick," the pedlar, the pretty maid of the inn, and many others are faithfully reproduced in their own habit and environment ; and to all these is added a love-story of such purity and passion that the seasoned novel-reader and the hard-hearted reviewer did indeed' "close the book with a sigh," and the fervent wish that no one would write a novel or indeed any other book, until he felt that ho had something to say, some chajrm of nature or art to which he would fain draw attention, some message to deliver for- the freeing of his own soul, or the enlightening of another. Those who love the country, its dewy dawns and scented eves, the good brown, earth and all her processes, will find much to delight them in Mr Farnol's interpretation of the same, for he is a true Nature-lover, in storm as well as in shine, and does not shrink from personal contact with the tearing -wind, the hissing rain, the mad fury of the tempest, or again fail to understand those strange experiences born of human loneliness and fear of the unknown, which make "hedges not hedges, trees not trees," but "things that touch you as you Sass, and reach out after you in the ark, behind." Strange, weird, mysterious things such as "the one on Cranbrook road, which looks like an oak tree in the day time," and yet nearly drives the Pe'dler to sukvde" by its wierd, _ mysterious, unspoken suggestion at night." " It is just the loneliness, the lonely quietness," such as drives to madness solitary shepherds and boundary riders, on the borders of civilisations all the world over. And the country folk, with their primitive passions, their honest standards of right and wrong, their wholesome lives of alternating labour and rest, with clear outlook on the great issues' of life and death, and a faith which can accept without question problems which no philosopher can solve—these fill the pages and are never allowed to weary the reader by their limitations since the kaleidoscopic scene is ever changing, and one gives place to another with admirable skill. But, like all great poets and true geniuses, Peter is a perfect lover, and the story of Oharmian is so passionate, so idyllic, so free from complications, so absolutely human, and yet so pure, that it might well take its place among the great love stories of the world which live, and shall surely live, so long as two hearts can be found to beat as one. • Mr Farnol's book is a great book, and we do not envy the man or woman who can read it and close it with indifference. We understand that it has been.well received In England, and we can heartily endorse the judgment of those who are giving to it and its author a high place in the literary world. Though sometimes one is tempted to believe that all has been said on every subject that can be profitably said, and that "the making of books" has become a mere weariness, just because they are so obviously "made," and not allowed to "grow," yet such, a tale as "The Broad Highway' makes one acknowledge that the old things are eternally new to him who knows how to -read aright even a small bit of the great riddle of life presented to those who "journey on the Broad Highway," and enter into "the mystery of the Beyond." LITERARY NOTES. The Methuene will publish a new novel by M.W Marie Corelli early in August. Scjiig reprints of notable works are included in Mr Murray's one shilling editions. Among them, are Mir A. Basil Lubbock's "Round the Horn Before the Mast" and Sir William Napier's "English Battles and Sieges in the Peninsula." A daughter of Dr Norman Macleod, Dr Norman of the Barony, is the author, of an interesting vohime of "Letters From India," which Blackwood announce. Sho is Lady Wilson, the . wife of an eminent Anglo-.lndi.in civilian and she has long resided in T iidia. —Th- King and Queen have accepted copies of the Oxford. University Press tor-

centenary facsimile of * ne 1611 Blbl ° •J** of Mr A, W. Pollard's "Records of the English Bible" and their Majesties have expressed their pleasure and interest in these memorial publications. A £IOOO prize novel competition is announced by Messrs Hodder and Stoughton. The author of the novel which in the opinion of the adjudicators is the best submitted to them will receive £6OO. A prize of £4OO will be awarded to the second best hovel in the competition. The adjudicators are Miss Beatrice Harraden, Sir W. Robertson Nicoll, and Mr Clement Shorter. —The Bookseller understands that Mr Kipling is collaborating in a Child's History of England', which is to be ready m the autumn. Many new poems, it is saad, will appear in the volume. It seems a htflle odd to find such a writer as Mr Kipling following in the footsteps of Dickens in this particular, although one must not torget that &mollet* and Goldsmith also feU to the temptation of writing the history _o their own country (we use the word in lis larger sense for Smollett was of bcotcii birth and "Goldie" of Irish). Mr A. B. Todd, of Cumnock, who has the distinction, of being the oldest living link with Robert Burns— his father, born in 176?, had business dealings with the poet —and has the record of having presided: at centenary dinners of Burns's birth and death, has just passed the final sheets' of a new work entitled "Pilgrimages to'Covenanting places, and Studies," Liko Robert Paterson, Mr Todd is a latter-day ' Old Morality," and for close upon 80 years has been in the habit of making pilgrimages to the graves of, and scenes associated with, the Covenanters in the moors of Southwest Scotland. Mr Tcddi is in his ninetieth year. —"The Kaiser has 'discovered the poet for whom, his Majesty believes Germans have sighed," says the Observer's Berlin correspondent. "The bard on whom this hall-mark of Imperial distinction has been conferred is Karl Schonherr, of the Austrian Tyrol, and author of one of the premier dramatio successes of the year, falaube and Heimat' ('Faith and Home). The Kaiser and Kaiserin heard the piece for the first time at Kiel oh Tuesday nigihi. Herr Schonherr was present by Royal command, and was summoned to their Majesties' box to be the recipient of their congratulations. - . The University Presses of Oxford and Cambridge announce two new of the Revised Version, in which for the first time the text is divided into verses, as in the 1611 Bible. There is no doubt that the absence of verses has hindered the general acceptance of the Revised Version, Hitherto the Revised' Version has only been obtainable divided into paragraphs. One of the new editions, containing central column references, will be published on May 17, on which date, in 1881, 1,000,000 copies of the Revised New Testament were sold in a day; and the other edition, text only, will bo ready a few weeks later. The University Presses! Ihave also ready for publication a cheap edition of "The Interlinear Bible," which combines the Authorised and the Revised Versions so arranged that the reader following continuously the upper line has the text of the Revised Version, or, following the lower line, the Authorised Version, and yet sees at a glance the - difference. Jacob Tonson, of the New Age, has recently, he tells us, offered a prize of a signed copy of one of his books for the best translation, in nab mare than two words, of the French adjective "rosse." He says that the results have been lamentable, and that he has been obliged to give the prize to the man who translated "rosse|' as "cutting." Jacob Tonson explains his dissatisfaction ithus:—"A 'rosserie' must not merely be cutting, biting, malicious, but it must lie more so than at first sight it seems to bo. It must be 'nasty' under an appearance of blandness. The chief English master of true 'rosse' was Whistler, and a classic example of rosserie is his f amous response to Oscar Wilde, who, after one of Whistler's witticisms, remarked, 'That's rather goodi, Jimmy. I'm sorry I didn't say that myself.' Whistler consoled him. 'Never mind, Oscar. You will say it.' Even in Paris "this is currently quoted as quite perfect in its line." Discussing the question "Does Fiction Need Chapter Headings and Contents?" the Publishers' Circular remarks: "As to chapters and chapter headings, and even illustrations, we tlhink a good novel wants none bars of them. The author's word-pictuire of a character will appear different to each of a million readers, then why try to stereotype it from th© idea of one? Where author and artist are one it is not even then always a good thing; the present writer has never overcome some Lack of appreciation of Thackeray, due to his own inane doll-like pictures of his characters. The objection to chapter headings in a work of fiction is mainly that they are quite unnecessary, often misleading, and generally trivial, even when done by the author. Suppose the case of an English writer of dignity and distinction —e.g., Mrs Humphry Word, finding in an American interpolated chapter heading that the hero is up against a tough proposition, then, 'you and I and all of us' would feel the dint of pity for her. We could fill a number of the Publishers' Circular with specimens of the ba.nal chapter headings. It is rarely wise to publish the portrait of an author; what a shock it is to have loved Henrick and then suddenly to oome across his portrait: with women- writers it is often worse." We fear the shock comes pretty often in some of the illustirated journals of the day. and even in the catalogues issued by some of the publishers. . Her Maiesty Queen Alexandra and H.11.H. Prince Christian, have accepted copies of Lady Lawson's "Highways and Homes of Japan." and have expressed their interest in the book. Lady Lawson describes a dinner at the Maple Club, the rendezvous for aristocratic Tokio. In front of each guest was set a tray holding a tiny open brazier with- live coals and a section of bamboo as an ash-tray. Then tea and sweetmeats were brought in on, lacquer travs,. and next was set before each guest a table not 4in in height, on which stood a covered bowl containing the first course, a tiny cup of soy. It is a sauce made from * fermented mixture of barley meal, powdered beans, and yeast, and is a standing dish at all meals. Even after a residence of 12 months Lady Lawson found the art of eating with chopsticks unsatisfrictorv, but she declined a proffered spoon. The dinner began with fish soup, and then a live fish was brought in for inspection be for© being cut up and! eaten alive (the mark of honour to a distinguished guest), and the inevitable lacquer bowls filled with rice. ■■Other dainty courses followed, including

sweet potatoes, shrimps, water melon, powdered chrysanthemum blooms, [rose-coloured ginger, weak green tea. Some of the dishes were excellent, especially a jelly made of seaweed, and a sort of pudding made from beans. Every course was accompanied by cups of hot sake. About halfway through the feast two charming geishau in maple leaf kimbo entered and played glow sad airs while several professional dancers danced the song of the maple leaf, chanting a poem in its praise as they glided from one perfect pose to another. —The "Christian Commercial Travellers'' of the United! States have banded themselves into a "Gideon" Society, and their special mission is to see that every room in every hotel is provided with a Bible. Last year, according to their press organ* the Gideons distributed 57,000 Bibles. Recently thiy had a meeting in Chicago, ana put out 6000 Bibles among the hotels in the course or one evening. _ A Sunday school association is to meet in San Francisco in June, and on Juno 1 the national secretary of the Gideons is going to ship 25,000 Bibles from New York, where they abound, to that city. They will reach Sat* Francisco in time for the triennial convention of the International Sunday School Association, and the paper says:—"Twenty five thousand members of the adult Bible classes will march through the street* of San Francisco, each with a Gideon Bible in his hand. At the conclusion of the big parade each marcher will deposit hds Bible on the platform of the convention auditorium around a prepared pyramid. There the books will remain as an object! lesson during the convention, after which they will be distributed among various cities along the coast.*' How is that (asks an admiring commentator) for an exemplary spectacle in the city ifchat so narrowly escaped leaving- a prize fight last year, and that was so lately governed by Abe Ruef, who consults only the Old Testament, and has just been put in gaol after all these years! —Mr Hichens's new novel, "The Dwellet on the Threshold" which has been running for the past two months through the Oantury M'agazino, is about to be published. It professes to relate a case of soul tran*ference, and the Academy describes the plot in some detail as follows: —"The one character on whom the story hinges is the Rev. Henry Chichester, who at one time was properly described as a 'gentle and cherubic' clergyman. Chichester becomes senior curate at St. Jude's, under Marcus Harding, the vicar. Chichester is as wax in the hands of Harding, Who is a person of igreat mental and intellectual power, as j well as a potent personality. The vicar, I as a result of his wonderful power as a preacher, draws immense congregations to ( the morning service at St. Jude's. The senior curate, who preaches at the evening l service, delivers his discourse to empty. pews. Shortly a marvellous change is observed. The vicar loses all hold on bis congregation, is obviously unmanned, and • but a shadow intellectually of his former self. Simultaneously the cherubic curate develops a strenuous personality, and is recognised as a preacher, forceful and powerful as Marcus Harding used to be. j Herding, apparently a devout religionist and morally immaculate, is in reality neither. He is continually haunted | by doubts and unbelief. Ho is not content with faith. He wants proof. 'ln the hope of attaining his object, he makes use of his power over the gentle and malleable curate. He induces Chichester to take part with him, in seances held at the curate's room. To overcome the repug- j nance felt by Chichester to this suggestion Harding persuades him > that his object is to transfer some of has power and personality to Chichester. The occult practices continue, with the result that the powerful personality of Harding is—not i partially, but wholly—gradually t.ransferred j to Chichester. Harding feels all his power* slipping away. from him, and instead of having the curate under his absoluto control he himself becomes Chichester's creature —under a "horrible subjection" to him. The result is not only the loss of all his force as a preacher, but. also the loss of the love and respect of his wife. Lady Sophia (Harding's wife) in the days of her husband's strength cordially despised and hated Chichester, but as the strength and personality of her husband was gradually transferred to the curate her contempt and revulsion devolve on her husband, whom she incontinently leaves. Harding, endeavouring to attribute his collapse to nervous dyspepsia, tries to get away from the orbit of Chichester's influence. In vain. Chichester has only to make his will known, and his slave is bound to return —to grovel in his serfdom.