BOOKS and AUTHORS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue XIX, 9 November 1895, Page 574

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 entirety unremunerative, no ★ees or commission being taken. Queries and Correspondence on Literary Matters Invited. AU Communications and Commissions must be addressed THE BOOKMAN,’ Graphic Office, Auckland. „ . , Presumably there must exist in the < Colonial colonies a very considerable class which finds itself unwilling or unable to give ‘ Barrack Room s j x shillings f or a book of verse, no Ballads.' matter how meritorious. This is at least the only supposition which seems to me to account for the appearance of the * Barrack Room Ballads ’ in Methuen’s Colonial Library. The action of the publishers cannot be too highly commended, and I earnestly hope the venture will prove as successful from a financial point of view as it is meritorious. At the same time one cannot help thinking that people who declined to purchase the Ballads at six shillings will pass them by in the cheap colonial edition. Anyone who appreciates the genius shown in this, the best and finest work Kipling has yet given the world, would never grudge six shillings for the familiar buckram-bound volume. If it seemed an impossible extravagance one week, something would be done without the next, and sooner or later the book borne home in triumph. But to endeavour to persuade a man who does not read verse to buy a book of it because it is cheap, seems to me an extremely hazardous and doubtful experiment. Concerning the ballads themselves. I had not intended to speak, believing that they were almost universally known by the reading public in this colony. A prominent bookseller informs me that this is not the case, and that comparatively few people really know anything of what I honestly consider the freshest and most characteristic book of the decade—the book on which Kipling’s claim to the admiration of posterity must unquestionably rest. Francis Adams, whose recent death robbed Australia of her most notable critic and man of letters, declared that ‘ Mandalay ’ was the finest of all Kipling’s work, and certainly few will differ with him on this point. * Mandalay ’ is not merely a ballad ; it is a poem, and a poem which will strike a chord in many and many a heart. Here we have a true poem, and if ‘ Mandalay ’ were his only work Kipling’s name would still be enrolled on the list of these whose work can never be forgotten or overlooked by posterity. MANDALAY. By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea. There’s a Burma girl a-aettin’, and I know she thinks o’ me ; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple bells they say : • Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay I’ Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can t you ’ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ? On the road to Mandalay Where the fiyin’-flshes play. An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay! Er petticoat was yaller an’ ’er little cap was green. An’ ’er name was Supi-yaw-lat—jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen. An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot, An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an eathen idol’s foot: Bloomin' idol made o’ mud— Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd— Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed er where she stud On the road to Mandalay . . . When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droopin slow. She’d git ’er little banjo an’ she’d sing ‘ Kulla-10-lo ! With ’er arm upon my shoulder an’ ’er cheek my cheek We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis pilin’ teak. Klephims a-pilin’ teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek. Where the silence ’ting that cavy you was ’arf afraid to speak ! On the road to Mandalay. . . .

But that's all shove be'ind me—long ago an’ fur away. An’ there aint no busses runnin* from the Bank to Mandalay ; An’ I'm learnin’ 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells : • If you've card the East a-callin,* you won’t never ’eed naught else.' No ! you won’t 'eed nothin* else But them spicy garlic smells. An' the sunshine an* the palm-trees an* the tinkly temple bells: On the road to Mandalay . . .

1 am sick o’ wastin' leather on these gritty pavin’-stones. An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones ; Tho’ I walks with fifty ’ousemaids outer Chelsea to the strand. An' they talks a lot o* lovin’, but wot do they understand I Beefy face an’ grubby and— Law ! wot do they understand f I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay . . .

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst. Where there ain’t no Ten Commandments, an’ a man can raise a

thirst: ’ For the temple bells are callin', an its there that I would belly the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; On the road to Mandalay. Where the old Flotilla lay. With our sick beneath theawnings when we went to Mandalay 1 O the road to Mandalay. Where the Hyin'-fistes play. An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China crost the Bay ! I trust the publishers will excuse the length of the quotations from the ‘Ballads.’ It is, I am aware, beyond the limit usually sanctioned to extract a whole poem, but the ballad is one it is impossible to cut. Most profoundly do I envy the persons who have yet to make acquaintance with these and the other ballads which compose the volume. Before them lies some of the pleasantest hours literature can afford. The ‘ Ballads ’ are, indeed, quite beyond recommendation of mine, and seeing that their excellencies have been the theme of essays by the foremost critics of the day, I should scarcely have ventured to slip in my oar save in the hope of inducing every reader of this paper who does not possess the book to obtain the colonial edition instanter. In the matter of print and paper, the colonial edition is the same as the original six shilling edition, the type being identical. Methuen and Co. are indeed, as has been already said, to be warmly congratulated on this, the most important addition yet made to colonial Libraries. In Comrades in Arms, by Mr Arthur * Comrades we have a novel—or ‘ military in Arms.' romance ’as the author prefers to call it —of the simple old-fashioned sort. Here, after a prolonged absence, all the old favourites are again brought in contact with the reader. The modest and beautiful heroine, the indestructible hero, the vindictive adventuress with a questionable past, the high-born villain, rejected by the modest and beautiful heroine and mixed up with the questionable past of the vindictive adventuress, all are here. Then we have the false charge, nobly but idiotically endured by the indestructible hero, the estrangement of friends and their reconcilement in the jaws of death, and .finally the death-bed confessions of the high-born villain and the vindictive adventuress, with virtue sm’lingly triumphant in the last chapter—a resurrection in short of all the old stage figures and situations.

Yet Mr Amyand so far throws in his lot with the moderns as to claim a purpose for his story ; indeed, his purpose, he tells us, is threefold, and he is thus even a little in advance of his age.

The story is not wanting in good points, but these are so obscured by diffuseness and general recklessness of writing that they might almost as well have been left out. It would have been better, however, to have left out half the book. Writing by sound would appear to be one of the most rampant of modern literary disorders. It lends itself to a redundancy of adjective, and lands its user in tautology before he is aware. Sound-writing is probably responsible for such a redundancy as ‘ terribly fatal.’

Mr Amyand's description of life in barracks is interesting, and probably exact ; it certainly fulfils one part of his purpose, which is ‘ to stimulate the reader’s interest in soldiers, to lead to an increased sympathy with those of them below commissioned rank, who on conclusion of their service with the colours, are frequently driven to fight and struggle anew ; not, indeed with any foreign enemy, but with one much nearer home—beggarv and Starvation.’ The part of the book, in fact, which deals with military affairs has an excellence which will compensate the reader for many defects, and on this ground Comrades in Arms is to be recommended. It must be admitted that Mrs J. K. * Th,rteen Spender has chosen an admirably suggesDoctors.' tive, and indeed startling, title for her really excellent series of doctors’ stories. The thirteen do not, as one imagines from the title, combine to commit some terrible crime. Thirteen doctors conjure up fearful prospects of death and disaster on an almost unlimited scale. Imagination halts appalled before what thirteen doctors might accomplish. But here, at all events, their work is excellent. Each of the thirteen tells a story of professional experience, and a capital set of reaconteurs Mrs Spender makes them. The introduction, in which the author tells where she got her stories, is not the least interesting portion of the book. The answers given by various doctors when she proposed pumping them are, as she says, surprisingly different.

One. who prided himself on his plain Abernethian speech, irrowled. ‘ If you mean the sort of doctors' stories that have lately been in vogue with the public, I am afraid I and my colleagues get a good deal of amusement out of them, though it may not be exactly the sort of amusement that you writers intend.' Another said. ‘ The secrets of our patients are sacred—it is a point of honour not to betray them. Therefore we resent some of tho literature that goes by the name of doctors' stories.’

To the latter I could only answer that 1 was as well acquainted' with the necessary professional etiquette as he was, and thal i herefore I should prefer those tales from real life which referred to men and women who bad passed into the ‘silent land,’ and that in the case of the few exceptions no names must be revealed. 'That is the reason,' I explained, 'that there will be an old fashioned tone about some of these stories. I can give as modern a touch to them as possible, and yet I shall ask for most of them from men who have been long in practice. When the actors are dead and the names of some of them clean forgotten, there can be no reason why you should not tell me some of your experiences.' ' But if the experiences are not thrilling, possibly your public may not care for them.' remarked another. • According to wi;/ex perience the sensational rarely happens in everyday life.’ ‘ Quite so. but it does not follow that everyone prefers the sen sational. There will probably be a reaction in the public taste. 1 am not sure that it is not coming already. Incidents in everyday life may be as interesting as blood curdling experiences.’

' Psychological stories I’ queried another doctor, looking at me quizzically. ' Perhaps you have heard that psychology is to be added tc the other subjects for badgering medical students ’’ ‘ But that is not necessarily morbid psychology. Yes, tell me tales that will show that you have not only ministered to the body, but have also studied the characters of your patients; lam sure all of you have much to tell.’ And remembering my role as listener, I was delighted to find that I had roused an interesting discussion as to bow far a clever writer was correct when he wrote a few years ago. • More than ever now the physician must have a knowledge of the soul; must feel with finer, other pulses, and measure beats and chills which no thermometer can gauge. The mind, the passions are his study; unwitting of these, or unregardful, half his work (often the largest half) is unperformed.’ ‘lt is the dream of a theorist.’ objected the Abernethian grumbler. ' to be calm oneself and yet to enter into the ambitions and desires and worries of one's fellow-men.’

■ To find out how the springs of life may be affected by their joy, or sealed up by the leaden weight of failure, lest we should overestimate the power we ascribe to our drugs,’said another. ‘ It has been a duty fully recognised lately, but too much ignored in the past.’ •It opens up new possibilities for the future,’another added laughingly, ‘ and it is certainly a point of interest in which the physician and the novelist may join hands.’ ‘ It is rather a large order,’ laughed one of the younger men, and ' I am afraid that some of the stories may tell against ourselves.'

.After all this one expects something of unusual merit, and on the whole one is not disappointed. The majority of the stories are very considerably better and more interesting than those of the same length and class which have lately appeared in some of the foremost magazines. ‘ A Fuss About Nothing ’ is ingenious and well told, and ‘ Meddling with the Miraculous ’ seems to me the best of the series from a purely professional standpoint, but ‘ Breaking Her to Harness ’ must take first place in point of passion and literary merit. This is, indeed, an extremely powerful study, and remembering it, I shall await with interest any further volumes from Mrs Spender’s pen. . , There is a class of books which to notice * • The Lovely further than will suffice to convey the Malmcourt. fact ot publication and the names of their writers is a labour almost thrown away. This class is certain of popularity independent of the praise or dispraise of the ‘ irresponsible indolent reviewer.’ A quarter of a century ago, or rather less, The Lovely Malincourt might have laid claim to originality. To-day in the midst of novels with a purpose, and sex novels and non sex novels, it is an anachronism. Yet though times change, and man takes to himself a fresh skin of habit with every decade, humanity remains fundamentally very much ‘ as you were.’ Thus I have no doubt—indeed there is no doubt —that the novels of Miss Helen Mathers still continue to suit the tastes of a very large number of readers. Who are these readers ? I can hardly think it possible that they are men. I would hope for the sake of the emancipation of ‘ the sex ’ that they are not women. Probably they are school girls. There is also a class of amemic females who, having abandoned the hope of taking a hand in the game of love, become subscribers to a lending library and devour their novel per diem with a religious regularity. This class very probably does its share. Of course it is a question of taste, and taste, where it is not hypocrisy, is a part of ourselves hardly if at all under the curb of volition. Also the ethics of taste provide us with a problem in which the absolute is far to seek. Thus I merely express an individual opinion when I say that I find The Lovely Malincourt sickening—no other word so exactly expresses my state of mind throughout its perusal. Love begins it and love ends it ; love pervades it and subdues it, and masters it and murders it. It is all love ; there is absolutely nothing else in the book. From beginning to end we are going to make love, or are making it, or havejust made it, but we never have done with it ; we never get away to anything else. I confess to liking a little love vzith my novel ; it gives it a relish ; but, like the customer at the restaurant,who had become accustomed to a blackbeetle in his daily bun but objected to two on the ground that he could not taste the bun, I require alittle life with my intolerable deal of love. This does not seem to me unnatural. No one will pretend that love occupies the place in life which it does in fiction. In life it is more or less a flash in the pan, generally more, yet it may last six months or even twelve. There are unsubstantiated cases of its enduring for a yet longer period—no sane person regards it as other than one of the many interests, or disorders of existence. Love, in fact, is a very delightful side dish on the hospitable board of life, but it does not comprise the whole dinner. Personally. I think it would be a very poor meal if it did, but I have no desire to discourage the men and women whose taste differs from my own. As for school-girls, I am not sure that literature of The Lovely Malincourt type is entirely wholesome for them ; they are not likely to under-rate love, and they may very easily be led to exaggerate its importance.