BOOKS and AUTHORS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue XVI, 19 October 1895, Page 483

BOOKS and AUTHORS.

A LITERARY CAUSERIE for COLONIAL BOOKBUYERS and BORROWERS. BOOKS marked thus (*) have arrived in the colony, and could at the time of writing be purchased in the principal colonial bookshops, and borrowed at the libraries. For the convenience of country cousins who find difficulty in procuring the latest books and new editions, the 'BOOKMAN’ will send to any New Zealand address any book which can be obtained. No notice will, of course, be taken of requests unaccompanied by remittance to cover postage as well as published price of book. It is requested that only those who find it impossible to procure books through the ordinary channels, should take advantage of this offer. The labour involved will be heavy and entirely unremunerative, no fees or commission being taken. Queries and Correspondence on Literary Matters Invited. AU Communications and Commissions must be addressed THE BOOKMAN,’ Graphic Office, Auckland. .„ _ . . This * Story of Russian Intrigue ’ will doubtless be warmly welcomed by the the Brotherhood. j arge c ] ass o f nO vel readers who prefer sensationalism to style, and who hold that the novelist’s first duty is not merely to tell a story, but to load that story with exciting and ever varying incidents. The author of By Order of the Brotherhood has several aults, but la ck of imagination is assuredly not one of them. The novel under review simply bristles with incident. One is hurried from one series of strange occurrences to another with a rapidity that is almost bewildering, which miraculous coincidences are plentiful as blackberries. The central idea is not new. The young man who is unsuspectingly drawn into the toils of a secret brotherhood, and whose redemption is only completed in the last chapter, has been dealt with effectively by more than one modern novelist since Mr Black’s ‘ Sunrise ’ delighted the world, lint though more than one of these writers have exceeded the author of By Order oj the Brotherhood in very similitude, not one has succeeded, or indeed attempted so stupendous a number of what theatrical posters call ‘ new and original effects.’

The story is put into the mouth of an old family solicitor, who leaves his practice to endeavour to trace the hero of the story, Edward Chartron, who has prepared one for his disappearance by making the said solicitor sign a deed promising to go in search of him in the event of his suddenly vanishing from amongst his friends. This event occurs at the highly inopportune moment when his father, with whom he had quarrelled violently, has been found shot dead, murdered in his own diningroom. Very naturally it is supposed that Edward Chartron is the culprit, but, perhaps as naturally, his lawyer refuses to believe him guilty, and sets out to find him, assisted by one of those acute retired detectives, who are becoming so alarmingly prevalent in novels nowadays. The manner in which fortune plays into the hands of the lawyer and the detective is, to say the least of it, extraordinary, and would have certainly stood modification. The author may observe ‘ But if therehad been no such run of unusual events there would have been no excuse for the story.’ It is, however, always well not to overstrain the imaginative power of the reader. Novel manufacture of this style is a game of make-believe, and if the originator—the author, that is—is sufficiently skilful, the reader can enter into the spirit of the game and enjoy it with as much belief in its reality as the author himself. But unless the former is possessed of that rare quality of genius which enables certain writers to captivate imagination, and play with it as they like, care must be exercised. Imagination is not a shy bird. Once caught, it is docile, tractable, and extremely difficult to frighten. If, however, you overstep reasonable bounds and do scare it away, there will be no chance of catching it again till the place of operation has been changed, and the trap skilfully barbed and set. In this book the imagination is frequently strained to a dangerously extreme point : with some readers I cannot help thinking the breaking point will be reached.

The fault lies in the fact that no attempt is made to give the extraordinary events and coincidences with which the book is crammed an air of likelihood. The lover of sensational literature will, however, be less likely to carp at the author’s shortcomings in this respect than I am. I can perfectly imagine that the book may prove irresistible to a large class of readers. I,e Voleur such is the name the author writes under—is a person of many ideas, and in future work will probably scatter them with less reckless and unnatural prodigality. The power of discrimination which Le Voleur lacks is one of the secrets of the art of authorship which is seldom bestowed ; it has to be gained, often somewhat slowly, and there are hundreds and hundreds of fiction manufacturers who never attain it at all.

_ _ , Mr Twisleton s Poem* reveal the grace * Recent New , ... and facility of much practice in the Zealand Verse, an( j differ widely from the rugged verses which from time to time appear under the head of Original Poetry in this colony. His metrical skill may be best shown by the quotation of such a piece as MORNING SONG. Awake, O heart! a joyous song To greet the dawn of day ; For fugitive darkness hurries his throng Through shadowy woods away. Through shadowy woods away he flees. And the conquering sun appears. And over the mountains, and over the leas. He slopes his golden spears. The drops on the grass to emeralds pass. Or to varying tints of pearl: And the wind in the sky on the tree-tops high Makes the green leaves rustle and twirl. And ho! for the red that flames from the bed. From which the bold sun doth upspring; It bars the bright stream with a shadowy gleam. Where the wild reeds quiver and sing. The lark is aloft with melody soft, And the wild flowers open their eyes ; For monarch and clown is the music flung down. And earth’s sweetest odours arise. O child of the sod! lift praises to Gxl For glories that lie at thy feet; O monarch rejoice at the melodist’s voice; And say, is thy state half so sweet ? Then give. O heart, to glorious morn A bold, melodious strain For jubilant hope in delight re-born. For bliss undimmed by pain. Undimmed by pain may t he moments glide, Like the flower-watched streams, away ; Till the flush and the calm of the eventide Breathe peace o’er dying day. But there is more than metrical skill to be found in Mr Twistleton’s slender volume. His pieces reveal a mind of a highly contemplative order. With him the pressure of a mood or a refinement of thought finds outlet in verse as readily as or more readily than the pleasure he feels in the contemplation of a beautiful object. Thus he is never content to sing of a thing for its own sake, but must ever be seeking in it some more or less subtle analogy to the facts of existence. His poetry thus fulfills Matthew Arnold’s condition of a ‘ criticism of life.’ He is a poet of the study rather than the field, and where he tells us of nature he evidently does so second hand. There is an echo of Wordsworth about the following : — UNFULFILLED. Much that I have my boyhood days had not. And yet I seem Far poorer now than when, in some lone spot, I loved to dream Of what might be when manhood’s ripened powers With all that life could give should store the hours. When winter into spring and summer breaks, And grips the bloom. A meagre fruit the unkindly season makes; And so, in gloom Hope bows its head, a living, stunted thing. A summer starveling, pinched while yet ’twas spring. The seasons foil us—in their wayward grasp We helpless stand; And life deceives us when we seek to clasp The prize at hand. The happiness we strive to gain in Time Can flourish only in a fairer clime. And of Longfellow about this :— BY THE SEA BEACH. The sea from the land has retreated. The beach is nearly dry; And only a pool in a hollow Reflects the dappled sky. But long ere the starlight, returning. The waves shall wash again. With ripplings of low, quiet music. This stretch of shell-strewn plain. And so all the yearnings and longings. Once sweet as vernal air. That ebbed in the heart’s weakest season. And left it dry and hire. Shall once more with music flow backward. As back to land the sea. As returns to the earth the daylight, Or bloom to orchard tree. Yet the pieces lose none of their excellence by this suggestion of their origin. Properly speaking Mr Twisleton’s poetry makes no claim to come under the heading of New Zealand verse. He sings—in a pensive and minor key—the song of the exile. Though now and then there is a more or less express allusion to the land of his adoption, as in ‘ The Whare,’ where, by-the-way, he makes a false quantity with the word wimh, yet his heart is evidently elsewhere, and the charm of the new land has for him but an evanescent existence. Of the rata he speaks more than once, but ‘ the musk, the rose, and the woodbine ’ are the flowers that hold his affections —the rose particularly, for of this flower he sings on every other page. Indeed, the author’s main weakness is that he derives too much from books and too little from nature. ‘ The musk, the rose, and the woodbine ’ are among the catchwords of poetry ; as sensuous images they are effete, and save under the revivifying stroke of genius arouse no longer impressions of beauty, but merely of the commonplace. Had Mr Twisleton devoted his fine talent to a portrayal of the new land instead of repining for the old, it is possible he would have given us a book for which the colony would have reason to be grateful. So much can-

not be said for ‘ Poems,’ which, though published here, l>elongs rather to England than to its antipodes. ‘ Thalia' hashadbut fragmentary worsh’pin this colony. Louisa Blake, however, sets out to woo the Comic Muse in real earnest. Her Supper Flies * contains some fifty pages of very excellent fooling, from which if the reader derive but a tithe of our own enjoyment, he will have cause to bless the author. She is probably at her best in the Chinese vein ; indeed, we should not be surprised to discover that the name on the title page covers the identity cf a cultured and poetical Chinaman.

Because no longer names of saints we rol On lettered days or 'grave on parchment scroll. Do they cease live ! the author asks in exquisite pigeonese. And again in the ‘ Story of a Cloak,’ which only lack of space prevents us quoting in full: — And as he drew it round him. facing blast. His courage rose, his feet Were planted firm to conquer this rough cast, Hain and the piercing sleet. Soon from roadside, another joined the track Poorer from want of cloak. And poorer, too. of gait, of courage lack ; Silence a time unbroke. They walked apart; he of the sturdy gait. Was just a little proud. Reflecting that this stranger was no mate; One of the common crowd. A garment, too, the richer than the tramp, (He better every way!; etc. This sample will also serve to show our author’s mastery of language, a mastery so complete that neither grammar nor prosody can stand up against it. Her facility in rhyme is amazing— He had not long began When against the brush he ran. When moonlight falls on such a scene as here. One could imagine fairy-land of old : But in these factful days our minds are clear. We own no spell, nor tale so fancy bold. What a humourous touch is that ‘so fancy bold,’and how essential to the rounding of the stanza ! But it is in her more reflective moods that the author touches the high water mark of the comic. How true it is that In sorrow friends will better mourn with thee. And dole thy wreck, and make thee sadder be; But when thou look'at that thy joy bright their eye. They turn away, not bearing see thee high. Here is the moral to ‘ Supper Flies * — I wish jny story chance might save Some merry little lad ; Prevent his chasing thistle drave On winds that blow so mad. Our satisfaction in this praiseworthy sentiment is only marred by the reflection that if it inculcate in the ‘ merry lad ’ no greater regard for grammar than inspires its expression, it will be as well for him to continue chasing thistle, no matter how it is ‘drave.’ If, however, we have to find fault, it will not be with matters so trivial ; we should rather deplore that the delightful insanity of ‘ Supper Flies ’ is marred by such a passage as— To-day ! we hold it in our hands. Ah child folds fast Some wee wild bird ; When hands in sleep we careless fling. Devouring night on day will spring. It only remains to say that the book is nicely printed, and that the binder has entered into the spirit of the joke by misprinting the author’s name on the cover.

•By Order of the Brotherhood': Macmillan and Co. 2a 6<l paper :Js 6d cloth. Postage. 4d. Poems.—’ ‘ H.L. Twistleton. 1895': Whitoombe and I'ombs. Is. postage £d. •Supper Files' : Louisa lilande. Is. postage 2d.