LITERATURE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3102, 27 August 1913, Page 78

LITERATURE.

BOOK NOTICES. “Olivia's Latch-key.” By Hubert Bland—- “ Hubert” of the Sunday Chronicle. London: T. Werner Laurie. (Cloth, Js n(it ’) - • , c This is the correspondence of a girl oi “twenty-three and a-hall with a fascinating man still on “the sunny side of bd. Olivia is an orphan with a nice little income of £403 a year. She has been spending some time with an aunt an cousins in a very rural district ot England, and being anxious to share a wider life and to “see London, she writes to her friend, Mr Stephen lorhe, to ask how she can best fulfil her desire, whether it is permissible to take a smau fiat and live alone, or whether she moot enter a boarding-house or family, io this he sends her a most amusing letter with an admirable dissection" of boarding-house life: its advantages and disadvantages, winding up with the statement that In a boarding-house one acquires the most valuable item of life's outfit—a deep, a wide, a high tolerance for the shortcomings, the eccentricities, the positive faults o other people.” On the whole, however, he decides in favour of the flut, bidding Olivia trv it, but warning her that she will suffer from loneliness and ennui. That—“ Life in Loudon is like life elsewhere ; what you choose to makt it freedom and romance to the free and romantic; a prison to prisoners. Just as ‘great and free’ as your own spirit is meat and free.'’ In this light, humourous, idealistic strain the letters flow on, full of entertaining cynicism and veiled sentiment. Touching on a variety o subjects, not omitting love and mailing-. Discoursing on “Olivia’s Latch-key, the odious remarks of Mrs Grundy, ■as personified by Olivia’s own aunt and cousins, and other subjects, important and unimportant. The letters are written in an easy conversational style, and contain many quotable passages, as for instance this ente distinction between the spoken and the unspoken word: Friends may not tell each other all they think of each other. I doubt ii one could be friends even with oneself if in soma of one's introspective moods or mumps one spoke out aloud, 01 wrote down tho opinion one has of oneself. I say “Spoke out aloud”—-there's a good deal in that. Did you ever notice what a difference the spoken or written word makes 9 One can bear to think all sorts of things that spoken aloud or facing one on paper would be intolerable. The main difference between tho villain of life or of drama and of melodrama is that the latter soliloquises and “asides,” and that makes him such an awful villain —an inveterate, determined

assassin. That is why there are so many things in this world that are done but never mentioned. W e can do them with impunity, with pleasure even, but talk about them we cannot. When asked his opinion of certain fellowguests at Olivia’s flat, he replies enigmatically ;

What 1 feel about them is, that in a happily variegated world like ours, they all have their places in which they would be quite nice, not to cay charming You can fay nothing as to ‘what’’ a person or thing “is" until you know “where” he, she, or it is. A very good cat makes but an indifferent door-mat. This is true of everything in art, literature, and life. The secret life is appropriateness. These people might be, I do not doubt, delightful people at suburban dinner parties and afternoon teas. But in the flat of a young woman come to London in search of freedom they were not delightful because they were not appropriate. I was not delightful either, and the consciousness of that fact set me gabbling instead of talking. In the course of about 15 minutes I said at least 15 things that I did not believe to be true, and agreed with quite as many statements with which as a matter of fact I disagreed violently. It is a humiliating confession, but these kind of people are too strong for me. Intellectually and morally they drag me down before I know' whore I am, and they seem to roll ever me and flatten me out. They are human alkalis. They are what the medical profession call “lowering.” Of an interruption in conversation lie ears :

It’s a flabbergasting thing to bn asked what one means in a conversation. It makes ono feel what a swallow must feel when, in the midst of a delicious glide through the air, it comes up against a telegraph wire. To be asked to explain is the death blow to a conversation, a nonologue or a flirtation. ‘‘ Ono Wonderful Night.” Jly Louis Tracy. London : Ward, Lock, and Co. Dunedin: 11. J. Stark and Co. (Cloth; coloured picture cover; 3s 6d.) If it were possible to cram into 12 hours the amazing events here narrated, the result would ho indeed a ” wonderful night.” After 20 years spent in foreign countries and the amassing of a great fortune, John Cii'dis returns to England to enjoy the money he has made while still young enough to do so. He is full of enthusiasm for “ His own, his native land.” He is ripe for adventure; and the adventures come. At the very door of his hotel, in a quiet street off the Strand,” he sees murder committed, and the murderer’s escape in a motor. In the confusion which follows his overcoat is exchanged for that of the murdered man, and in the pocket he finds a special marriage license between “Jean de Courtois, a citizen of the French Republic, now residing in London, and Hermiono Beauregard Grandison, of No. 10 Victoria Mansions, Park street, West Kensington, London.” Ho naturally thinks that the murdered man is Jean de Gourtois, and, iii a spirit of pure knight-errantry, rushes

otf to break the news to the expectant bride, or rather to one of her relatives. He finds the lady residing alone with her maid at the given address, is compelled to interview her himself, and is so moved by the story that she tells him that he at once engages himself as her champion, and acts in that capacity during all tho amazing events which follow. First and foremost, however, he marries her—using the license issued in the name of Jean de Courtois, —on the understanding that the marriage is for her protection against her enemies, and is never to be consummated. Mr Lotus Tracy is well-known as a sensational writer of tho first class. Ho has never dono anything more breathlessly thrilling than " One Wonderful Night,” which lias already achieved considerable success.

The Fruit of Indiscretion.” By Sir William Maguey, Bart. London : Stanley Paul and Co. (5s sd ) 2s 6d.)

Tiiis is the story of murder and mystery, in which is told how on the eve of a country-house wedding the best man is killed on the hunting field. His friend. Captain Rousham, consents to take his place, but mysteriously disappears, and is found dead, his body stretched across the railway track, as if to suggest suicide. It is found in the tunnel apparently crushed and mangled beyond the possibility of any adequate examination. Nevertheless there are those who doubt the theory, as being in every way contrary to the nature and circumstances of Rousham. The case is put into the hands of Roll, a famous detective, by whose help the mystery is cleared up, and the story brought to a startling and very unexpected denouement-.

“Ralph Raymond.” By Ernest Mansfield, London ; Stanley Paul and Co, (Illustrated ; 2s 6d, 3s 6d.)

The hei’o of this story is a prospector, who by the force of his own innate courage and truthfulness succeeds in impressing a cynical millionaire with the truth of his statements and so obtaining financial support. Raymond, falsely accused of murder, escapes "to New Zealand. Here, after many adventures in the mining camps, he is finally re-arrested and taken back to England. From this on the story is rapidly worked up to a most dramatic climax, where, in open court, the Judge is accused by the prisoner/ of the very crime for which he is about to sentence another and compelled to confess his guilt. The author is himself a prospector well known in London and in many parts of the mining world, and his story contains many first-hand revelations of mining life and adventure.

“ Mixed Grill.” By W Pctt Ridge. London : Hodder and Stoughton. (3s 6d, 2a 6d.) “ If you can’t make up your mind what to order,’’ said the city waiter, “how about trying the ‘ Mixed Grill’/’ You may not like all of it, but what you don’t like you can easily leave.” Acting on this suggestion inscribed on his title page, Mr Pett Ridge here serves up to his readers another collection of those funny stories for which he is renowned. There can be no doubt that every reader will like some of these tales, though perhaps no reader will like them all, but in the latter case nothing is easier than to “ leave” the undos; red.

“The Strolling Saint." By Rafael Saba tini. London ; Stanley Paul and Co (3s 6d, 2s 6d.)

It is a mistake to regard a name as of no importance. Sometimes, as in the story before us, it largely determines the fate" of one or more persons and the destiny of others. The hero’s mother was named Monica, and the saint who bore that name became, by a kind of compulsion, her exemplar and model, and ‘“the Life of St. Monica,’ the most soiled and fingered portion of an old manuscript collection of the life histories of a score or two of saints that was one of her dearest possessions.” The model thus held forth before girlhood and womanhood was naturally followed in wifehood and motherhood ; and so the son of this pious lady was named Augustine, and he was dedicated to the cloister even before his birth. But there was nothing of the pietist about this Augustine except his name. He had no vocation for the cloister, and, being the heir to great possessions, his “call" was in a very different direction. In a clever and brilliant story of the Italian Renaissance Mr Sabatini "gives us in autobiographical form the story of this young man with all his inner, psychological meaning. With merciless self-analysis Augustine reveals his distaste for the life to which he is foredoomed and his early efforts to break away from the path into which he is being forced. Very plainly we read of the dangers to which the mother’s mistaken system of education exposes her son, and our sympathies are warmly engaged for the boy on his entrance into the real world of male intrigue and female frailty. As a powerful historical novel and a vivid picture of Italy at the most interesting period of its mediaeval history “The Strolling Saint” deserves a high place; and its swift action and sustained interest show a distinct advance on Mr Sabatini’s already noticeable historical work. The author's touch is vivid and forceful, and he shows himself master of a very complete and musical vocabulary, which in these days of “slipshod English’’ is a thing to be duly acknowledged and admired. LITERARY NOTES. “The Story of California,’’ by Henry K. Norton, which the M'Clurg Company will publish shortly, is a comprehensive history of the State from the ■ summer of 1512, when Juan Rodiquez Cabrillo first sot toot on the shore of what is now San Diego Bay, and carries the tale down to the rebuilding and later growth of San Francisco. The hook is the first complete history of the State to be written on its scale. ture that Mr Ambrose Pratt gives in his

now book, “ The Real South Africa ” (Hoiden and Hardingharn). As to the position of black and white in the Union Mr Prate says; 'There is hardly a white artisan at work in South Africa who lias not one or two natives in Iris employ. . . . A''carpenter walks to his job with a Kaffir behind him carrying his hug. Bricklayers do nothing out put the bricks in place in a lordly fashion; the net of the work is performed by blacks, livery artisan is essentially an overseer, and the blacks are his industrial valets. The practice is injurious and short-sighted to the last degree. It undermines and diminishes the white man’s industrial efficiency, and it trains the natives to supplant him.” But it is the iron custom of South Africa, remarks Mr Pratt, and nobody cares to break it. —Dr Max Nordau has lately been contending, to some purpose, that Paris is still tuo literary arbiter of Europe. A German journalist had attempted to confer that distinction on Berlin. Nordau’s protest appears in La Revue, and as he is a German it has excited considerable comment. The claim was made that Germany l< discovered” Maeterlinck. Nordau points but that Octave Mubcau. writing in Figaro, hailed Maeterlinck as ‘‘a Belgian Shakespeare ” way back in 1890. Tlie cult was then bsgnn. Xoru U J 1 so asserts that Germany was almost the .ast of the nations to accept Maeterlinck, while Paris “ discovered” d’Annunand Tolstoy, and has refused to *’discover _ Bernard Shaw. There is some credit in that. Berlin, lo bo sure, has done more to make the fame of the Scandinavians.

in bis latest book, “ The (S xty-first Second, Mr Owen Jones is inclined to bo optimistic with respect to opening in the near future of a new phase in national life in the Nnitcd States:—‘‘‘The present era we arc passing through,’ said Gunther, ‘is probably America at its worst. We see only the gorgeous facades of things—the skyscrapers, the industries that have developed into little kingdoms. AVc only try to comprehend statistics, and we are satisfied that wo have bounded into greatness. As a matter of fact, the true test of the industrial greatness of a country is honesty. Dishonesty and graft are economic weakness—waste. But Prince,’ said Beecher, 'if wo are so riddled with corruption whore is it all going to end?’ Iho end will come in the opening of another phase of national life. We will become honest through the purifying process of another generation. Honesty has this one great advantage over corruption—it is goal of corruption. Those who acqu.ro wish to retain, to resist those who in turn wish to retain.’ *'

Arthur K. Waite, in “Prentice Mulfoicl e Story,” gives the following account of searching for gold in the early days of CaliforniaWe were obliged to ‘chock' all our supply of provisions in their respective packages to prevent them from rolling out of our wigwams over the brink and into the Tuolumne. If a potato got loose it can like a tiling possessed over the rocks and down into the muddy, raging current. We pegged ourselves at night while sleeping to prevent a like catastrophe. It was a permanent and laborious existence at an angle of 45. To stand erect for any length of time was very tiresome; more frequently, like Nebuchadnezzar, we lived cn all fours. ‘ (’revising ’ did not prove very profitable. The bare rocks become heated by the sun to a blistering capacity. With pick and sledge, crowbar and bent bits of hoop-iron, wo pried, ixnmded, and scraped, scraped, pounded, and pried all the hot day long or else were doubled up in all sorts of back-aching, back-breaking, body-tiring positions, drawing up at arm's Icngtli from some deeper ‘ pothole ’ or crevice spoonful after spoonful of yellow mould. It did hold considerable gold, and heavy gold, too; bus it took so long to got tlio mould.”

Tin; American Winston Churchill’s latest book is a story of the Middle West of America, of a town which has its respectability and decorum killed by the encroaching march of prosperity, and also the story of a parson who was taught that all women arc not what they scorn, and that the religion ho depends on is not a comforter to everyone to whom lie may preach. Kate Man y tells the Rev. John lloddor, “ religion’s all ngnt- loi those on top; nub say it would bo •• joke if I got it. There ain’t any danger. But if f did, it wouldn’t pay room-rent and board.” Like its immediate predecessor, “A Mpdcrn Chronicle,’’ ’■ The Inside of the Cup ” is a story of the present day. It sots forth the personal history of this young clergyman—the Rev. John Hodder —and the transformation of his views, and constitutes a powerful study of the modern tendencies in religion and their relation to life. The hook can hardly fail to provoke discussion. just published, a story is told of that caustic old judge, Henry Lord Cockburn (1779-1854), of the Cdckpen family. His portrait was painted by S’r John WateonGordon, who on asking Cockburn’s nine-year-old granddaughter, now Mrs Raban, what she thought of it, got this reply: “ Well, its very like his hoots. 1 ’ 'The latter, we know, were “constructed after a cherished pattern” of the judge’s own. Cockhnrn’s sister became grandmother of the present Archbishop of Canterbury, arid h's brother Robert married Byron’S first love, Mary Duff. Henry Cockburn’s own wit was quite matched by that of his Langton kinsman. Sir Alexander Cockburn (18021320), Lord Chief Justice. At a certain trial a pretty girl was called as a witness. Cockburn was very particular about her giving her full name and address. Of these lie took a note. So did the sheriff’s officer. That evening they both arrived at the young lady's door simultaneously, whereupon Sir Alexander tapped the officer on the shonirler. remarking, “ No. no, no, Mr Sheriff’s officer, judgment first, execution afterwards !”

Haggard's “Louis XI and Charles the Hold” (Stanley Paul) \vc learn of a terrible snipp:ng seigneur. This was von Hagenbach, whom Charles the Bo'd made Governor of Alsace. He rose to favour at the Court of Philippe le Bon by forcibly making bald heads to match that of the old Duke. Many persons voluntarily shaved their heads to save- the Duke’s feelings, but those who were not inclined for the sacrifice were taken in hand by von Hagcnbaeh, who stationed himself at the entrance of the palace with a large pair of scissors' and personally clipped the hirsute. account of the historical deal of 1475—the peace of Picquigny. While Charles happened to be away from his brother-in-law on a money-collecting expedition in Hninault. Lotos clinched the business with Edward IV. “ Come.” ho wrote, “and meet me for a chat on the Somme bridge at Picquigny. I have 75.000 crowns in cash

for you, and you shall at least 50,000 more for the release of Marguerite of Anjou if you will only kindly pack up and go home. Is it a bargain? Will you come?” ’Done!” replied Edward; and the .two Kings met and embraced each other cautiously through a trellis-work in the centre of the bridge. After the embraces Louis met the suggestions of the English- King in a generous spirit, increasing his offers to a pension of 50,000 crowns a _ year, in addition to the sums above-mentioned. When Charles the Bold returned a day or two later he found that he had lost his ally.