The Bookshelf.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 10, 5 March 1913, Page 44

The Bookshelf.

By

DELTA,

FEUILLETON. More Hyndman Reminiscences. /TA ACMILLANS have published, at ill 15/ net, some further reminis--1 7 eences of Mr 11. M. Hyndman, / whose first volume of “Reminieceneco” met with such a remarkable success a year or two ago. Complaint is made that Mr Hyndman is too garrulous, but this, of course, is a matter of taste. Here is Mr Hyndman’s estimate of AV. T. Stead: “For myself, I never could stand the man. His mind, his ethics, his manners, his methods alike revolted me. He was that not uncommon variety of self-conscious ascetic, a Puritan chock-full of guile, and in his /way utterly unscrupulous.” This view of Mr Stead is, however, not the general one. Nor is it mine. Mr Hyndman has done tlie late Mr Labouehere the honour of a chapter to himself. On one occasion Mr Labouehere had been guilty of some longeurs while debating at Northampton, on Socialism. The morning after the two men met at .breakfast, and Labouehere related a story which, in a few words, comprehensively expressed Labouchere's opinion of the impracticability of Socialism. ‘That story, Labouchere,’ said I, ‘you should have told last night.’ 1 never saw him so nettled before or after. But he did feel at that moment he had missed a chance.” Mr Hyndman thinks that Mr-G. B. Shaw “is no fool.” Their paths have crossed, not only in Socialism, but in music. In a dispute about the merits of Wagnerian music, Mr Hyndman would seem to have got the worst of it, for he says: — “Shaw’s reply swept me along, it tumbled me about, it stripped me of all raiment, denuded me of any self-respect, and landed me a battered and forlorn creature—to my surprise, walking apparently •whole and in my right mind by Shaw’s side along the Thames Embankment. Finding that I was not quite obliterated, that 1 lived and moved and had my being, I ventured to utter a few small and still words to myself. ‘But, my dear Shaw,’ I said, ‘I knew Wagner’s music before you were breeched.* It was quite true; but of course he did not believe it, and so we parted at the door of the house he had come to call at.” “In fact,” says a “Daily News” reviewer, “as ■we read Mr Hyndman we are impressed by the amount of fun great minds must get out of one another on the mutual assumption that the truth is nob in either of them.” Here is a story of Butler Johnstone. Mr Johnstone was caught on the Brighton line with some very important City men. They were all very upset. One said he would miss several pressing appointments, another had a meeting at his office to make final arrangements for a big issue, and every man in the ear had something similar to say. “Has it occurred to you, gentlemen,” said Butler Johnstone, in his sweetest voice, “that it would make very little difference to anybody if none of you ever arrived at all?” But the book should be read to be estimated at its proper value. Mr Hyndman has passed the allotted age of threescore years and ten. and while this latter volume has, perhaps, Ices of superficial interest than the former, it is, nevertheless, very well worth buying. “ Cease Firing.” “Cease Firing,” by Mary Johnson (Constable), is a novel written in the interests of peace. Probably, says a Home critic, the American novelists will never cease writing about their Civil War. When the American Tolstoi arrives, he will certainly write a new “War and Peace” on that tremendous theme. It will be the great epic subject for American writers for centuries to come. Luckily, in spite of its manifold heroisms, they arc no longei* inclined to glorify it blindly. “War is so stupid,” says the heroine of “Cease Firing” almost with her last breath; and the novelists, like the moralists, are coming to realise more ami more clearly that a groat war. like the American Civil War, is not only a great stupidity, but a

great crime. Mies Johnson tries in this novel to show us war without the glamour. House-burnings and wounds and plunder and anguish and murder—these are the ingredients of warfare no lees than deeds of high courage and eelfsacrifice, and she spares us none of them. She does not, perhaps, make us realise the filthiness of war so terribly as Gustav Jansen did in his stories about the Italian raid on Tripoli. But she does leave us with a vivid sense of the procession of cruelties which every war is, and, not least, the perfectly avoidable war between the 'North and the South in America.” An Indictment of War. Iler novel, which takes us from the siege of Vicksburg to the eve of the end of the war, is less a story thau a h:story. There are heroes and heroines—

Edward Cary and Desiree Gaillard, sudden and happy lovers, are the chief —- but armies rather than individual human beings are the characters that live and move in the pages of the book- Edward and Desiree, however, keep appearing and reappearing amid the confusion of great movements, and we follow their fortunes with excitement. Time and again we rejoice at their escapes, and near the end we feel sure that they are now going to win through to “happiness ever after,” as every good romantic hero and heroine ought to do. But it is not Mias Johnston’s purpose to give us romantic heroes and heroines. Her indictment of war is that it wastes the young and the beautiful and the daring, and what more memorable example of this could she offer than by showing Edward and Desiree themselves overtaken by a cruel and wasteful death? Many readers will cry out against so tragic an ending. But, in the circumstances, no other was possible. It is only fair to add that Miss Johnston makes’ us realise the gaiety and courage and adventurousness of soldiers, as well as the carnage which they inflict and suffer. “Cease Firing” is a very human book, and those who like the more serious sort of historical novel will read it with the greatest interest.

“ Every Man’i Desire.” "Every Man's Desire” is the very attractive title of Mrs. Mary Gaunt’s new novel, which was to be published last month by Mr. Werner Laurie. Mrs. Gaunt has without doubt “arrived.” This month she started for China, commissioned by Mr. larurie to write a novel whose scenes arc to be set in that

country. As Mrs. Gaunt's brother-in-law, Dr. Morrison, formerly “Times” correspondent at I’ekin, is now adviser to the Chinese liepublie, her material will •be had at first hand. We wish Mrs. Gaunt “more power- to her elbow.” Some Methuen New Publications. The date of the publication of “The Fool in Christ,” by Gerhart Hauptmann, had to be postponed last month, so great was the initial demand for it. On January 16 “The Terrors and Other Stories,” by Mr. Archibald Marshall, was published by the Messrs. Methuen. Mr. Marshall's book contains a selection of the pick of the stories he has issued during the last seventeen years, and they form the find collection of the kind that he has made. They are mainly humorous sketches of life and its episodes. A new novel by Theo Douglas (Mrs. H. D. Everett), entitled “Hadow of Shaws,” was announced to be published by Messrs Methuen on January 16. It is the story of an unwilling wife and her endeavour to escape the obligation of a nominal marriage, into which she is forced at the age of sixteen. When the story opens, the dreaded husband is returning from India after an absence of four

yeans. The expedient to which she resorts and its after consequences supply the thread of a briskly moving romance. The scene is laid in a country village not far remote from the London of 1796.

Attractive Sweden. The Olympic Ganxa at Stockholm last year turned many eyes to Sweden as a new health resort. Intending visitors to that country unacquainted with the many attractions it presents would do well to invest in Miss G- C. Hargrove’s “Silhouettes of Sweden,” in whieh the author discusses very informatively and pleasantly the charms and suitability of that country as a winter resort and aa a serious rival to Switzerland, in the way of providing the many winter sports so beloved of the English, who arc year by year becoming more anxious, not to escape the cold of the English climate, but its fogs and the depressing atmo,ephere of the majority of its winter months. Miss Hargrove’s “Silhouettes” were to be published by the Messrs. Methuen on January 16. The New Life of Byron. Some time ago I gave my readers a tolerably comprehensive idea of Miss Ethel Colburn Mayne’s “ Byron,” which has been declared by the leading Homo critics to be the most masterly and impartial “ Life ” of the poet ever presented to the reading public. Byron’s biographers have nearly always been either his violent detractors, or have so ridiculously apotheosised him as to fail to secure the serious attention of the best class of readers. But Miss Mayne has hit the happy mean, and while she has nothing extenuated of his faults, she has neither set down aught in malice, or failed to credit Byron for the many traits in his character that were essentially fine, noble, generous and miraculous A greatly enhanced value and interest is added to Miss Mayne's work by the fact that for the first time, the truth regarding Lord and Lady Byron’s seperation has been_ ma fie public property. By Miss Mayne’s skilled investigation of this delicate and painful matter, a tardy act of justice has been made to Lady Byron, who emerges from the ordeal in her true character —as a woman of narrow mind, perhaps, but of unswerving rectitude of character, and of almost superhuman power of self-conrol, and of keeping her own counsel. Annabella Byron never invited sympathy, nor craved to be understood; but, stoic as she was, one cannot doubt that she must’ often have longed for both. But, thanks to Miss Mayne’s research and advocacy of her cause, she has at last been placed beyond the reach of injustice. Jane Clairmont, the Claire of Professor Dowden’s Shelley, is revealed by Miss Mayne as “ throwing herself at Byron’s head.” It is not possible, I think, for any unbiassed reader to come to any other conclusion than this. Byron, “Don Juan” as he was, was ever generous in his treatment of the women with whom he had illicit relations; and if he was unduly harsh to Claire, the reason must have been greater than appears in the many versions given of it. In no case is Jane Clairmont a person that will arouse in readers either pity or respect. And when one thinks of the thorn she was in Shelley’s side, even tolerance borders on detestation. Miss Mayne's book will certainly be found a pearl of price for By-

ronians, and the lover of biography. The book has eighteen illustrations, and Methuen’s have issued it at 21/ net. Some Temple Thurston Digressions. A compilation of the many good and brilliant things that are scattered broadcast through Mr. Thurston’s many books have been collected and arranged by “ Belwattle.” Chapman and Hall are the publishers of the compilation, and its price is three and sixpence. Here are a few extracts from it:—• On Women—- “ What a woman expects of a man goes to his credit if he brings fulfilment, but she counts it against him if he fails.” “The first realisation in a woman of her failure to attract is the beginning of every woman’s tragedy.” “Dignity may often come before humanity with a woman, but pity will always outride the two.” “ Few women can draw a straight line. None can argue in it.” Two Subtle Poisons. “Success and Civilisation — these are the subtle poisons from the effects of which we are all suffering. Nothing fails like success! Nothing degrades like civilisation.” On Indecision—- “ The tragedy of life is indecision. They bury suicides at the cross-roads, for that is where lurks all tragedy'—the indecision of which way to choose.” On the Riddle Life Presents—• “And yet these simple things arc life. A face peering from a window, a hand trembling at a touch, a sudden laugh, a sudden silence, they' all may hide the greatest history, if one had the eves tc read.” On Romance—- “ Money has no value in Romance. There are coins of the realm, it is true, but once you begin to count them—puff! out goes Romance like the flame of a candle. You will find yourself in the dark with the counter and the till between you and the only thing in the world that matters.” On Life—• “Life is not the dreadful thing. It is the living of it.”

REVIEWS.

Tenderly Unman Story. The reader who loves to brn-.'.-.-c* in the pastures of the fiction that deals with ancient pagan Rome will revel in “Faustulus” (by John Ayscough), which a prominent Home critic has ranked higher than Kingsley’s “Hypatia.” From “John Ayscough,” which it is now quite well known is the pen-name of the Right Reverend Monsignor Bickerstaff-Drew, Protonotas Apostolic, and Prelate of the Papal Household, readers have already learned to expect the highest literary art in presentation, and the unusual “Faustulus” (per Wildman and Arey) is the story- of a vestal virgin who becomes a Christian in secret, and, because she is suspected of having broken her vestal vows, which were literally forced upon her, is walled up alive, but is afterwards rescued by the man who had been her true lover from early childhood. No njgre tenderly human story has ever been conceived of pagan Rome than “Faustulus,” and I shall refrain from any farther outline of the plot in common justice to its sublimate trend and its author. Whether as a masterly' study' in characterisation, or as a series of historic sketches of Roman life in the fifth century, the book is above criticism—compelling both love and admiration. The author's preface is an appeal for readers’ approbation, and an acknowledgment of the fact that though the centuries pass, and religious tolerance is greater, human nature remains the same, yesterday, to-day, and for ever. In his dedicatory preface to Lady Glenconner, the author says:—“l hope you will like ‘Faustula,’ not the mere story in which I have tried to set her forth, but the human creature, the daughter of Faustulus. Her other father loves her as well as he loves ‘Consuelo,’ better than lie loves ‘Marotz’ (these are former creations of John Ayscongh's). To him it makes no difference that she should have been born more than 1,500 years ago. To him there is no archaic chill about her; all the centuries between are for him only * ■white bridge, far beneath which all the world’s change lies dwindled, upon which she stands with a lonely cry for pity and sympathy. If no one else

answers it with love, he must. Her wrongs are bitter to him. 'May they appeal to you also. If you find her worthy of the generous admiration you gave to Consuelo, I do not doubt that others will also receive into their hearts the desolate Roman girl for whom Clotho wove the thread so harshly knotted that God, not Atropos, bent down to cut.” To read this fine, moving story is a liberal education in the humanities.

Highly Farcical. Mr. Heuffer is scarcely at his best in “The Panel” (per Upton and Co.), which is highly farcical, and suitable only as a holiday companion. Major Edward Brent-Foster, returned to England from India, compelled, by semiblindness, superinduced by sunglare and a too great devotion to his duty to retire from active service in H.M. Indian Armji—_X)wing to the extravagances of his forbears, Brent-Foster has nothing but his pay to retire upon, though he has some chance of becoming heir to his mother's sister, who, though in trade, baa 'gentle instincts, and who, though Brent has quarrelled with her husband, has a very sincere love for him, and has determined since hearing of his ill-fortune to make him heir to her very considerable private estate, she having no children of her own. But though Major Brent is now a reformed character he had had certain flirtatious passages in Simla with two ladies; flirtations which, as the story progresses, place him in several very awkward positions. One of these ladies, Mrs. Kerr Howe, «s a writer of sex-problem novels, the other, Miss Flossie Delamere, is a variety actress. Before leaving Eng-

land Brent had been tacitly engaged to a penniless, though well born, girl, Nancy Savylle. But his poor financial position had made it impossible for the engagement to be publicly announced. Nevertheless, the hard work done on service by Brent had been manfully gone through in the hope that it would bring him such fame and financial success as should justify his again appearing as a suitor for Nancy Savylle’s hand. But Mrs. Kerr Howe, with whom he had broken, had forwarded him the announcement of Lady Savylle’s marriage (Nancy had in the meantime, by several accidents, come into the family title and estates, and was exceedingly wealthy), and Brent, purblind and broken, had engaged himself to Olympia Peabody, a wealthy American of the Ichabod Bronson type, ignorant of the fact that the lady Savylle who had married was the dowager of that noble house, and not Nancy. This mistake, of course, was the mistake Mrs. Kerr Howe intended Brent to make, in the hope of attaching him once more to her own person. Arrived in England, and by the warm invitation of his aunt, Brent pays a visit to her at Basildon Manor, which she has managed to rent from Nancy. Here, under his aunt's hospitable wing, he finds the four ladies aforementioned— Nancy masquerading as “her ladyship's own maid,” left in charge to see that the valuable heirlooms Basildon contains come to no harm. Of course, complications arise, and the whole four, bent upon having it out with Major Brent, manage to meet in his room at midnight, some of them lie!ped by the knowledge of a secret panel in his. room which gives, unnoticed from without, ingress and exit. Now the reader is not to imagine that Mr. Heuffer’s book is in

any way improper. It is broadly farcical, and contains not a few hard knocks at the mal administration of (English law, the problem novel, moral plays, societies for the prevention of this and that, and the use of philanthropy as a lever for the gaining of social position and rank. Mr. Heuffer has presented better work from a literary point of view, but nothing so entirely entertaining. A Gambling Story, Mr Grant Richards is to be warmly congratulated on the quality of his “Caviare” (per Wildman and Arey), which is of the very best brand, leaving a fine, clean savour on the palate rarely left by fiction whose theme is of Monte Carlo and Wall Street gambling, even though permeated by the pure sentiment that so often redeems many gambling novels. Here is the outline of a story that marches with vim and humour from start to finish. The Hon. Charles Caerleon, given to overdrawing his banking account, and a little too fond of high living, while en route to Monte Carlo, sees a girl in the Cafe des Vertus, Paris, with whom he immediately falls in love. Before leaving the cafe he is enabled to render the girl a service, and is invited by her father, Cyrus Gorham, a wealthy Wall Street financier, to lunch with them next day at the Hotel Meurice. Afterwards, at Mr Gorham’s request, Charles shows them the sights of Paris. A midnight visit to the “Abbaye,” on which both the Gorhams are particularly bent, brings them an unpleasant adventure, and shows Cyrus Gorham that he is being shadowed in order that lie may be kidnapped, and prevented from operating in certain railway- shares of which a rival American financier wishes to acquire a monopoly. But the Hon. Charles saves the situation for the moment, and, emboldened by this service rendered, proposes for the hand of Alison Gorham and is refused, on the ground that he is an idle trifler. of adequate income. So Charles, resolute in the love-born wish to become a man of business, receives from Mr Gorham letters of introduction to some leading New York financiers, and sets off to New York to make his fortune. While at the Abbaye with the Gorhams, Charles renders tt service to a girl of the demimonde out of pure pity and good nature. In New York he again meets this girl, who is mistress to a stock gambler, and she, out of gratitude to Charles, strongly urges him to put everything he lias in certain railway stock which is now below par, but which is shortly to boom. Charles does this, and reaps an enormous fortune. In the meantime, Mr Gorham, in spite of Charles’ warning never to go out alone in Paris, has managed to get kidnapped, and his failure in consequence to keep in touch with his New York agent has caused the slump in the very' shares by which Charles has won his fortune. However, Charles points out to Mr Gorham that he is rich enough for all three, and the lovers marry and live happy ever after, which they richly deserve to do. This is an exceedingly' crude outline of a ripping good story, which is not only one of wholesome sentiment, graphic description, and exciting incident, but shows Mr Richards unusually observant of and equally at home in the society of Paris, Monte Carlo, and New Y’ork. To those readers surfeited with the over-senti-inented or the novel of propaganda, I cordially' recommend Mr Grant Richards’ “Caviare.” BITS FROM NEW BOOKS. When Alphonse Was Courting. “When Princess Ena was in San Sebastian she expressed to the King her fondness for Spanish oranges. When she was returning to England she stopped for several days in Paris. The Spanish Embassy in that capital received a dispatch that the King was sending to it ‘some oranges’ to be delivered to the Princess Ena of Battenberg. The quantity was not stated. The embassy did not know whether to arrange for the delivery of a box or a barrel. Imagine its surprise when there was delivered tB it for presentation to the Princess a full-sized orange tree in its native earth, loaded with golden fruit.” —“At the Court of His Catholic Majesty,” by W. M. Collier. Bill Clark’s Gratitude. “‘Gratitoode 1’ said Bob Evans, with a hard laugh. ‘ Jf people wot I’ve helped in my time ’ad only done ’arf their dooty, I should bo riding in mv carriage. There was Bill Clark. He ’ad been keeping

company with a gal and got tired of it, and to oblige *im I went to her and told ’er he was a married man with five children. Bill was as pleased as Punch at fust, but as soon as she took up with another chap he came round to see me and said as I’d ruined his life. We ’ad words about it—naturally—and I did ruin it then to the extent of a couple of ribs. I went to see ’im in the horsepittie—a place I’ve always been fond of—and the langwidge he used to me was so bad that they sent for the sister to ’ear it.’”— “Captains All” (new edition), by W. W. Jacobs. A Pleasant Affliction. “To be particularly susceptible to feminine charm and influence is a common affliction of genius.” “ The Golden Venture,” by J. C. Fletcher. Wisdom from “ Hilary.” “It is much easier to be good when living with people who laugh than with those who always notice when the wind is in the east.” “There are some women who can’t lead a pussy-cat existence; they break through their environment, they go; they are the makers of history, and hundreds of men are in love with them.”—“Hilary on Her Own,” by Mabel Barnes Grundy. Classifying Her. “ There are two kinds of women . . . the experimenting and the experienced.” ■ —“The Well-Intentioned,” by A. StodartWalker. Hints for Lovers. “In courtship, my friend and I each had a different system of reaching out for the easy places in the female heart. Paisley’s scheme was to petrify ’em with wonderful relations of events that he had either come across personally or in large print. I think he must have got his idea of subjugation from one of Shakespeare’s shows I see once called ‘Othello.’ There is a coloured man in it who acquires a duke’s daughter by disbursing to her a mixture of the talk turned out by Rider Haggard, Lew’ Dockstader and Dr. Parkhurst. But that style of courting don't work well off the stage. Now, I g?ve you my own recipe for acquiring cordiality for the proximities of a woman. Learn how to pick up her hand and hold it, and she’s yours. It ain’t so easy. Some men grab at it so much like they was going to set a dislocation of the shoulder that you can smell the arnica and he*ar ’em tearing off bandages. Some take it up like a hot horseshoe and hold it off at arm’s length. And most of ’em catch hold of it and drag it right out before tjie lady’s eyes, without giving her a chance to forget that the hand as growing on the end of her arm. Them wavs are all wrong.

“ I’ll tell you the right way. Did von over see a man sneak out. in the back yard and pick up a rock to throw at « tomcat that was sitting on a fence looking at him? He pretends he hasn’t got a thing in his hand, and that the cal don’t see him, and that he don’t see the cat. That’s the idea. Don’t let her know that you think she knows you have the least idea she is aware you are holding her hand.”—“Heart of the West,” by O. Henry.