LITRETURE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3099, 6 August 1913, Page 78

LITRETURE.

BOOK 'NOTICES

“Henry Kempton." By B ve lyn BrenC wood. London: John mine, -the noa ley Head.” (3s 6d. 2s 6d.) This is a soldier’s book. Kot mercl\ a book about soldiers : a book written j the outside with more or less tecdetails and a good deal of sentinientahH , but an intensely realistic inner l> <jtme ot regimental life and doings, from the x culoug horse-play of the young o the schemes and counter-schemes, plots, ambitions, and follies of their seniors. If Mr Brentwood is not a sokhe himself, he knows quite too ™ uch the “inner side” to be a'togethei In the present volume he tust tellt> who Henry Kempton is and then narrates the circumstances which led him the British army. Kempton is a chmbu His family is that of the typical Butnh tradesman beginning m a small . and ending in an “emporium. yAI I tne members of the family are snobs in gra > except the old father, who has no anstocratic ambitions, and never l nc I-' 11 V , be other than he is, frank y behoving that no position in tb. .• world la be e c that of the “self-made man. and ]«d 8 every man and every scheme by the simple standard of success or failure. - 1 * I ton lends his grounds for a charitable f , and at this fete Henry, the youngest son. meets Lady Violet Raveirscroft, daughter and sister of dukes. She hies his ambition to enter the army, an recognises it at once as the only method open to a social climber, and m . S I JI ‘ T his father’s loudly-expressed objections succeeds in doing so. 1 hen follows the history of the intimate regimental Me to which we have before referred. Every character here portrayed stands out UK. I an art photograph; the weak martinet cO. who harasses his juniors without •controlling them; the Major, more weak than wicked, who secretly heads the opposition party and very nearly ousts his comI rnander; and above all the \nde. donn i neering dominant Carados, in whose skilj ful hands the other characters are but pawns, whose brutal manners, cynical af - vice, and amazing personality win the whole-hearted devotion of the cold-blooded Henry Kempton. Guided hv Carados, Henrv determines to win a V .C. iHe story of how this is done, the cjuite mi* necessary heroism displayed, combined with the dogged determination of the social schemer, is one of the most illuminating parts of the story. Henry goes home invalided, but possessed of the coveted distinction, and the way is now open. It is not long before the engagement is announced of Lady Violet Ravenscroft and Major Kempton, of the 24th Hussars. Up to this time Kempton’s progress in life has been entirely governed by the head. He has never known the sex-passion which Carados warned him would surelv come and defeat all his most cherished plans. He respects and esteems Lady Violet, and considers her “the best woman in the world ’ ; but he is not in love” with her. Then comes the Boer war. In South Africa he meets his Delilah, and, like another Samson, falls a victim to her wiles. She draws his most secret counsels from him arid betrays him to his death. He is sold for a thousand pounds and a promise of marriage. But Henry does not die. The truly artistic endin'" is spared, doubtless in obedience to the prejudices of the British public. He simply goes down to the gates of the grave', is purged of his sinful passion for Ruth Clayton, and restored to the anus of the faithful and true-hearted Violet.

“Henry Kempton” is a splendid piece of realism —fiction with a stern ring of fact, — and we sliall be surprised if it does not obtain immediate and wide recognition.

Fanny’s First Novel.” Hv I'. Frankfort Moore. London; Hutchinson and Co. (7s 6d. 2s 6d.) The "Fanny” of the title page is Fanny Burnov, and the “ first novel ” is, of course, “ Evelina.” Those who have read Mr Frankfort Moore's “Jessamy Bride’’ will know how well he does this sort of thing; how in his historical novels of an almost new type he takes us back a few

generations, and then, instead of creating for us an entirely fictitious set of people, introduces us to real men and women in the natural habit and environment in which they lived.- Thus we have in these pages Dr Burney, the clever musician and teacher, and his fashionable clientele; his practical, domesticated matter-of-fact second wife, and his brilliant family of daughters, all noted for their musical talents and sparkling conversation, except the youngest, Fanny, the

“shy. retiring mouse."’ who sat in corners ami listened, was overcome with blushes when spoken to, and received no education except what she could “ pick up” from her more fortunate sisters, her time being chiefly devoted to plain needlework and other domestic tasks. j)r Burney was wise enough to make his house attractive to the fashionable circle from which he drew Ids pupils. His brilliant daughters helped him • so did the many, musical celebrities to whom he was kind. We are thus introduced to Mrs Thrale, the noted patroness of Dr Johnson, and to the great lexicographer himself; to Rauz/.ini. the famous Roman singer, and many other interesting persons, including David (iarriek. the actor; Romney, the painter, etc, Fanny sat among this brilliant company, mnmohance. but mentally taking notes. Kvery week she wrote a long news-letter to her old friend Mr Crisp, at Crossingham. and by bis wise corrections and hints she evolved the pure and limpid style , which has made her work classic, tlie keen and close observation, the sparkling humour, being, of course, original, Fannv was obliged to write in secret, her stepmother having a virtuous horror of all novels, which she considered “works of the devil.” and sternly forbid to her household. And so Fanny worked in secret, in odds ami ends of time, and

ever the wonder remains. How did the shy and retiring girl who never went to school or into society get her knowledge of the things which appear in her hook —“ the pictures red with life; the real life-blood of men and women—love, emotion, pathos, all that makes real life”? And then there is the characterisation, which reminds us of Hogarth. But we know how Hogarth got his characters, “ drawing them first from actual observation, and fitting them into his pictures afterwards.” But Fanny Burney did none of this : she avoided the glaring cruelty of painting the portraits of the people she met every day, and holding them up to the pillory of public praise or blame. She was acclaimed “ a genius” in her own day, and posterity echoes that verdict. Mr Frankfort Moore’s portrait is attractive and realistic. Fanny and her circle live in his pages. Here we see Garrick’s amazing art so freely exercised in private life that he could rouse at will any emotion to smiles and tears, Ur Johnson's ponderous speeches, Boswell’s toadyism, Lieutenant Burney’s nautical jokes, together with Fanny's two lovers—the Roman singer Rauzzini and the English tradesmen, Thomas BaiTowe. All appear and play their parts on tins crowded stage; all help tiie illusion of reality ; all assist in producing a delightfull story, in which fact and fiction are welded together into a most delectable whole.

“ Aboriginalities ” from The Bulletin. Selected by Charles H. Bertie. Sydney ; New South Wales Book-stall Co. (Paper, 39 illustrations; Is net.) In this reprint of some of the humorous stories from the “ Aboriginalities” pages of the Bulletin I\lr Bertie has made an admirable choice. Of course other people would have chosen differently, but the collection is eminently characteristic of the country and of the period. ‘‘Minna.” By Kayl Gjellerup,-translated by C. L. Neilsen. London : W. Heincmann. *«(3s 6d, 2s 6d.) This is a charming idyllic love-story, full of grace and delicate humour. The tale is set amid the beautiful, romantic surroundings of the Saxon Switzerland. Amid these pleasing scenes two lovers meet and wander and breathe a pure and gentle passion that seems far removed from the pathetic tragedy with which the story closes. Minna is a sweet, gentle girl of little character, on whom the trials of life fall too heavily. She is made for sunshine and tenderness. She is a homewoman, one whom supreme happiness is to be found by her own hearth in the love of husband and children. By an error of judgment she chooses the wrong path where two divide, and makes shipwreck of her life. Her story is singularly tender, delicate, and subtle, and is told with much understanding and sympathy. “Babyhood.” Edited by J. Bernard Dawson, M.D. Loud., F.R.S. Eng. London: Ewart, Seymour and Co. (Cloth; 2s 6d.) The care of the first-born is generally a source of anxiety to the mother. She ;s anxious to do the right thing, but has no experience to guide her. Very often she lives at some distance from her family, and has no kind and wise neighbour at hand. With such a book as “Babyhood” by her side she is, however, armed for every simple contingency, and can find an answer to her queries, an explanation of the symptoms that alarm her, and a remedy for them if they are other than normal. “The Curse.” By Fergus Hume. London : T. Werner Laurie. 3s 6d, 2s 6d.) A mysterious, carefully-hidden “ black cell” and its attendant mediaeval “Curse” form the theme of Mr Fergus Hume’s latest sensational story. To those are added the bane and antidote of a South American poison which has the power, when used in small doses, of producing physical paralysis while setting the mind free to move clairvoyantly as in hypnotism, save that in tho case of this poison the patient remains inert until the antidote is applied. A large dose of the poison kills. With these materials, plus a hunchbacked, suppressed heir and a young lady murderess, Mr Hume contrives a most thrilling story, calculated to curdle the blood and drive sleep from the eyelids of any rash enough to read it in the watching hours of the night. “ Jewels in Brass.” By Jittio Horlick. London: Duckworth and Co. (cloth ; 3s 6d.) “Jewels in Brass” —precious gems in poor or shabby setting—is the title of an extraordinarily interesting psychological novel into which the author contrives to weave much Eastern philosophy in so subtle a way as to engage the attention of the reader ” without arousing his antagonism. The faith in a - continual succession of lives is delicately hinted at rather than baldly staled, with all the reaping and sowing, cause and effect, implied in the initial statement. Very early in the story we are introduced to Soko. a strange being who has tlie gift of looking into people's eyes and reading “the very far past—for he talked of a thousand years as most men talk of yesterday,—the immediate past, and the future.” Soko looks into the eyes of Antonio, the heroine —then only a child of four—and sees many things. Seme of these he tells to her reputed father, and tbev form the keynote of tho ensuing storv. giving to it that slight touch of occultism which is so attractive to many readers. With rare skill Mirs Horb’ek paints for us a most attractive heroin", pure and beautiful in mind and body, steadfast, loyal, tender, faithful, of strong mentality, perfect physique, a most engaging innocence, a strong sense of honour, and the binding force of a contract. In the long past ages Antonio and Rahv have met more than once, and then the “jewel” of the woman’s soul was indeed set'in “brass,” and his recognition of its value came too late. In the more

immediate past their lives have touched but not blended, but in this story we see them drawing towards the final union. Many obstacles are in the way, but they have patience, and have no desire to force their evolution. Glimpses fromthe past comes to them, as well as promises r or the future; they know that they have all the time there is, and they are too wise to snatch happiness at the price of another’s pain. The throe principal characters in the book are happily individualised and attractive. A difficult situation is handled with great delicacy, and the enigmatic promise of the title is fully carried out. .LITERARY NOTES. Mr George Palmer Putnam, who boars the name of the founder of G. P. Putnam’s Sons, and who is a son of one of the present directors, has written an informing account of tho Central American States, under the tit'o of “The Southland of North America.” The work is based on “a trip” made along the coast, and through the interior during the year 1912. Mr Putnam points out that this “Southland” is an almost untouched treasure land, a region of fascinating possibilities, which is bound to command attention, No bookman ever bought a completelibrary, and no one who bought a largo number of books displayed them in perhaps a missive bookcase of mahogany croak could ever be a bookman. For it is not tiro quality of books, but the gradual buying and reading them that give yu the use of books. And then in our den wo have a palace of thought and entertainment of tlie master spirits of all times treasured up and available whensoever we will find it our pleasure to go into one’s do.i and so live the best of all leisure moments when wo shall know truly the best use of books. —-The Library of St. John’s College, Cambridge, where over 300 volumes have been' found mutilated, contains few books of special interest, apart from an edition de luxe of the “Great Bible” of 1540; but architecturally it takes precedence of all college libraries, either at Oxford or Cambridge. The magnificent building, was the benefaction of John Williams, Bishop of Lincoln, and Keeper of the Great Seal, and was completed in the early part of the seventeenth century. The original hot kcases of dark oak still stand, and in the panelled end of each shelf is a tiny cupboard with a folding door, containing a catalogue, in crabbed seventeenth-century handwriting, of tiro books on that particular shelf—a curious anticipation of what is usually regarded as one of the most modern methods of ready reference in use in public libraries. Nearly three times as many books arc yearly produced in Germany as in Engwere 9000 writers of books in America: A comparison between the number of authors and their proportion to the population is no less surprising. In 1910 there were 9000 writers of books in America; there were 8000 in Great Britain; while m Germany there are over 31,000 of such litterateurs. Thus America boasts of one writer in every 10.000 of her population; Great Britain of one in every 5500; while in Germany there ic one author to every 2097 of the population, including men, women, and children of all ages. If the number of adult males in Germany is estimated at 14 millions, the number which voted at the last general election, the proportion works out at one writer of a book to every 450 men. The late Joaquin Miller, the poet of the Sierras, as he was called, before his death requested that his ashes should bo cast on the funeral pyre of stone which ho had built with his own hands. On a recent Sunday his wish was carried out at his former homo, “The Heights,” on a mountain' side near San hrancisco. ihcio were some 500 people present. Colonel John R. Irish, the poet’s friend for manv voars, touched a blazing torch made of a pine knot to the dry branches on the pvre and spread the ashes on the flames. “Good-bve ” the words of which wore written by ‘Miller, was the song they sung. This is the last stanza: How stately tall your ship, how vast, With Night nailed to your leaning mast, With mighty stars of hammered gold, And noon-wrought cordage manifold. Good-h;-e, Joaquin, good-bye. The ceremony on the mountain top was intensely impressive. Mrs Miller and the port’s daughter, Juanita, were present. The most remarkable tiling m Mr bt. John Adcock’s delightful book, “Modern Grub Street” (Herbert and Daniel; 5s od net), is a narrative concerning one of those reckless heroes who are so much better than they seem. This Philip Howard *as the man who in the Stella disaster on the (Jasquets gave up h:s place to a lady much as one might in the Underground. Instead of dilating upon this act, the author gives an amusing record of the man s shifts and experiences as a Bohemian Journalist. Ho was an editor and proprietor of a comic weekly, who fled from his creditors, fought thorn, re-established himself on a technical journal, and was always in the midst of. iit'gation for libel and seldom able to pay his’debls in full. Yet he, and not the careful and conscientious ones, was the first to take the risk. Mr Adcock admits that probably the hero meant to get e'ear another wav; but the point is that ho took nis chance for a stranger as ho had taken it in his not too scrupulous career. Some interesting things are recalled in n little volume. “Lord Wolselcy,” by K. Major, just published by Messrs Nisbet and Go (Is not). When “our only General” was in the United States in connection with what is known as the “Trent” affair he had a u interview with the well-known general. Stonewall Jackson. As Jackson had been in England, some of their conversation turned on the Old f ountry. Of all the things you saw during your visit, which do vou remember with the greatest pleasure?” asked the Englishman. ‘The seven lancet windows in York Minster, was the unexpected reply. “In the midst of war and in the presence of death, says the writer of the book. Jacksons thoughts wont back to “those great cathedrals which (if poaco and tho lifo everlasting. One of Lord Wolsoley’s most attractive traits was his loya’tv to his friends. Ho was so particular to employ the men of whose capabilities he was sure in preference to those unknown to him that the officers whom ho choso acquired,, it will bo remainbe red. the nick-name of “the Wolselcy „ aT)<r >• Wolsolcv was not annoyed by the torn”" “You call mv friends ‘the Wolselcy gang ’ but I call them rny ‘bag of tools.’ ” ho would say: “a good workman does not go borrowing tools every tune he has a difficult job on hand; no. he has his own

sot, every one of which is known to him ; ho can take out in a minute the right one for the work. I am like that workman.”

The pleasant-faced, fair-haired, slen-derly-built, quiet gentleman, who lives an uneventful life on the outskirts of a sleepy little English village, and writes for the most part to the tune of children romping in a room above him, scarcely carries out our notions of what the author of “Many Cargoes,” “The Skipper’s Wooing,” and “At Sunwich Port” may be like, says Norma Bright Carson. “One can scarcely be blamed for expecting to find W. W. Jacobs living in a coast town or at a seaport, holding daily converse with the quaint, queer types—the actually ‘odd craft’ —who furnish the humour and the pathos and the sentiment to those inimitable stories which, since about the year 1886. have made a new place for the humourist in English literature. Seeing Mr Jacobs at home —so typically an English country gentleman, enthusiastically domestic, one is impelled to ask the question, “Where did his stories come from?” To answer which wo must go back to his boyhood, discover him to nave been born in the heart of London, and learn of the early years when, as the son of a wharfman, he lived at Wapping on the Thames, close by the Tower bridge, and day in and day out came into contact with every kind of seaman shipping from London port or entering therein, and growing year by year familiar with the barges and the bargemen who frequent that shore. There he met his types and got to know them; there the sympathetic, interest in them was born; there the seeds of future talcs were implanted.