LITERARY CHAT

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 March 1901, Page 480

LITERARY CHAT

By Danveks Hamber.

John Strangb Winter's latest story, A Selfmade [Countess, Ipublisbed in Bell's Indian and Colonial Library, is forwarded through the medium of Mr. R. Mackay, of Auckland, by Messrs. George Robertson and Co., of Melbourne and Sydney. The self-made countess tells the history of how she made herself well known in the world of society. She is the youngest of three daughters of a widow not too well endowed with this world's goods. She marries an earl — a real love mateh — but she is a long while getting into quite the inner circle of the haut ton. She " works for her living," that is, she gets up entertainments in her own house for charitable institutions, but though she enriches the funds of the various hospitals and societies she befriends, she does not attain the distinction of being patronised by Royalty for a long time. Her husband presently puts his foot down on the working for a living idea, wishing only that his wife should be known as the Countess of Grmdlebury, and not as the woman who could succeed in taking the largest amount of money by a drawing-room entertainment at which all sorts and conditions of men and women foregathered. One day she gets an inspiration which makes her famous. On one of her husband's estates was made a famous lace in days gone by. She revives that industry, makes her

tenantry happy and prosperous and maps out a career of enterprise which is successful from all points of view. Royalty comes to the first sale of the Thatch wood Lace, and the specimens realise fabulous prices. Thereafter all is plain sailing, and the young girl makes herself extremely fashionable, and her permanent success as the Countess of Grindlebury is assured. There is not so much military colouring in this book as is usual in the stories of " John Strange Winter," but the authoress makes the Earl of Grindlebury — commonly called " The Grinder " by his brother officers — a fine manly fellow without a scrap of nonsense or an atom of affectation. The portraits of the three girls are well drawn, and the picture of the clever mother, who launches her girls successfully on the sea of life, is also capitally done. The dialogue is frequently smart and amusing, and the book as a whole is decidedly entertaining.

From Messrs Uptou and Co., of Auckland, comes a charming idyll entitled Immensee. This little story is a translation from the German of Theodor Storm. It is published by Messrs Gowans and Gray, of Glasgow. A very large edition has been sold in Germany, and the translation has been so

popular in England that an extensive circulation has been achieved, lmmensee is the evening dream of an old man. This is the opening chapter : " One afternoon, late in autumn, an old and well-dressed man went slowly down the street. He appeared to be returning home from a walk, for his old-fashioned, buckled shoes were covered with dust. He carried his gold-headed cane under his arm, and now and then his dark eyes, which still retained the fire of youth, and were in striking contrast with his snowwhite hair, gazed up and down the street, which lay before him in the hazy sunshine. He seemed almost a stranger, for only a few of the passers-by greeted him, although many a one was involuntarily constrained to look into those earnest eyes. At last he stood before a high gabled house, looked once more iuto the street, and then stepped into the porch. At the sound of the hall clock an old woman peeped through the green curtains of a small window which faced the porch. The old man motioned to her with his cane. 'No light yet!' he said, with a somewhat southern accent, and the housekeeper let the curtain fall again. The old man went across the wide lobby into a room, against the walls of which stood lai'ge oaken sideboards with porcelain vases upon them ; through another door he stepped into a small verandah, from which a narrow flight of stairs led to the upper windows at the back of the house. He mounted the steps slowly, opened a door, and entered a moderately-sized room. Here he was at home and undisturbed. One wall was covered with bookcases, on another hung portraits and landscapes, and before a green-covered table, upon which several books lay open, stood a heavy arm-chair with a red velvet cushion. Putting his hat and stick in the corner, the old man sat down in the chair, and rested with folded arms after his walk. As he sat thus, through the panes of the window a ray of moonlight fell across the pictures, and as the bright streak slowly widened, his eyes followed it involuntarily. Then he stepped over to a picture with a narrow black frame.

'Elizabeth!' said the old man in a lowvoice, aud as ho spoko the word, time had changed: he -was young again!! And then the old man dreams his life over again, he sees himself the boy Keinhurdt, meeting the graceful little Elizabeth, they play in their turf house, the girl threading a necklace of marsh mallow seeds, the boy telling fairy stories. Their school-days pass, and then lleinhardt leaves Inimensee for the purpose of receiving higher education. Before he goes, the day before he leaves, he learns that Elizabeth is not only his little guardian but also the expression of all that is lovely and wonderful in his dawning youth. He comes back and finds Elizabeth a charming girl. He says he will go away for two years, and then on his return he will have a great secret to tell. ' Don't forget,' he says, and the girl shakes her head. When the two years are nearly over he receives a letter from his mother telling that Elizabeth is engaged, and will be married soon. Years after ho comes back again once more, and meets and talks with Elizabeth. He knows she has married to please her mother, and he knows that Elizabeth still loves him as he still loves her. Before the household is awake he goes, but Elizabeth has also had her sleepless vigil, and suddenly she stands before him. She put her hand upon his arm, and her lips moved, but no words were heard. ' You will not come back,' she said at last. ' 1 know it, do not deny it, you will never return.' ' Never !' he said. She let her hand fall, and said no more. Ho crossed the hall towards the door, but turned once again, and there she stood motionless, gazing at him with a strange death-like expression in her eyes. He stepped forward, stretched out his arms, towards her, then tore himself away and departed." Aud then the dream is over, and this pathetic little sketch finishes with : " The window-panes let in no longer the moon's pale light ; it had become dark ; but the old man continued to sit with folded hands in his arm-chair, gazing at things absently around him. As he pondered, the dim twilight gradually resolved itself before his eyes into a broad,

dark lake ; black waters heaped themselves one upon another, ever deeper and further, and there — so far away that the eyes of the old man could scarce descry it — a white water-lily lay floating solitary among the broad leaves. The door opened, and a bright light shot athwart the room. 'It is a good thing, Bridget, that you came,' said the old man. ' Just put the lamp down.' Then he pulled his chair to the table, and taking one of the books which lay open, became absorbed in the studies to which he had once devoted the strength of his youth. 1 ' Mr. Albert Barkas, the librarian of the Richmond Public Library, Surrey, has in his possession two interesting memorials of Victor Hugo and his family in exile. One of these is a photographic album — compiled by the famous Frenchman's friend, Charles Asplet — which contains the portraits of the author of Les Miserables, of Madame Hugo, and of their two sons, Victor and Charlie, as well as thope of several friends and fellow proscrits, such as General Le Flos, C. Barbier, Claude Durand, August Vacquerie, and Paul Meurice, the autographs of all the members of the circle being attached to the portraits. There are also two pictures of the Jersey house in which the family lived. One page bears the signature of Victor Hugo, Madame Hugo, and the other members of the company who were present at the farewell dinner given by M. Asplet on October 28th, 1855.

Mhs. L. B. "Walford's story, One of Ourselves, is published in Longman's Colonial Library, and is forwarded by Messrs. Upton and Co., of Auckland. A short time ago I spoke in praise of Sir Patrick : the Paddock, the work preceding the book under notice. Mrs. "Walford's newest story also deserves the highest

acknowledgment. It has a cleverlyconstructed plot, the usual charming feminine characters, and plenty of good dialogue. The clever authoress has this time limned a despicable creature as her chief villain, but the character of Billy Farrell is well drawn. The three principal girls in the book use much of the latest slang in the early part of the story, but they develope into downright good women as time wears on, and after Bet — the heroine — has found Billy to be clay, and bad clay, too, from head to foot. The story of Bet's disillusionment is not the pleasautest reading possible, but Mrs. Walford is remorseless in her picture of the middleclasp banker who robs and ruins an oldestablishod business, and who, having a wife already, would elope with a loving and confiding girl with the shadow of his lesser crime falling heavily upon him. This book is not likely to attain the popularity of some of Mrs. Wai ford's earlier novels, but at the same time it is very clever piece of work.

Thk following is Conan Doyle's .account of how he came to originate Sherlock Holmes : — " At the time I first thought of a detective — it was about 1886 -I had been reading some detective stories, and it struck me what nonsense they were, because forgetting the solution of the mystery the authors always depended on some coincidence. This struck me as not a fair way of playing the game, because the detective ought really to depend for his success on something in his own mind, and not on merely adventitious circumstances, which do not by any means always occur in real life. For fun, therefore, I started constructing a story, and giving my detective a scientific system, so as to make him reason everything out. Intellectually that had been done before by Edgar Allan Poe with M Dupin, but where Holmes differed from Dupin was that he had an immense fund of exact knowledge to draw upon in

consequence of his previous scientific education. I mean by this that, by looking at a man's hand, he knew what the man's trade was, as by looking at his trousers lei he could deduce the character of the man. He was practical, and he was systematic, and his success in the detection of crime was to be the fruit, not of luck, but of his qualities.'' «♦-— Messrs. Cassell and Co., of London, have recently published a highly interesting book by the Key. W. Tuckwell entitled Reminiscences of Oxford. The author has much to say about the old coaching days, and tells many amusing anecdotes. This about the driver of the London coach is good : — " He spent three nights of the week in Oxford, four in London, maintained in both a house, presided over by two several wives, with each of whom he had gone through the marriage ceremony, and had for many years — so distant was Oxford then from London — kept each partner ignorant of her sister's existence The story came out at last ; but the wives seem not to have objected, and it was the business of no one else ; indeed, had he been indicted for bigamy, no Oxford jury could have been found to convict Black Will."

Messrs. Hutchinson and Co. have lately added Unleavened Bread, by Mr. Robert Grant, to the Colonial Library. Mr. Grant is the author of that successful story The Bachelors Christmas, and in his latest book he has done work of good quality. Selma White, the chief character in the hook is a thoroughly selfish woman, with the predominant idea that she is in the world to accomplish great things. She marries thrice. Her first mate is a varnish manufacturer. He gets divorced for a faux pas. Her second, an architect — the best

man of the trio — dies, and her third partner, a smug and oily politician, becomes Governor of his State and Senator. And Seltna is satislied, though she lias induced

her husband to act in a manner which should make him despise himself for ever afterwards. Unh'arened Bread in cleverly written, and contains much good character drawing 1 Messrs. Upton and Co. are the Auckland publishers. Mr. Aiii-MtKi) Austin, the Poet Laureate, has written an ode to the .New Year. The following is the last stanza : — " Yet mind her dawn of the dark, for she, She, too, must pass 'ueuth the lyeh-gato porch ; And give to her keeping the vestal Torch, That may oft-time s uoulder, and sometimes scorch. But rebrightens and burns eternally ; The beacon on land and the star at sea, When the night is murk, and the mint in dense, To guide us Whither, remind us Whence, The Soul's own lamp through thy shades of .sense. She must tread the Unknown the dead year trod ; Though rugged the road, yet the goal is God, And the will of all-wise Omnipotence "

Mksshs. Wii-dman and Lvki.l, of A uckland, send The Ace of Spades, a psychological romance, written by Messrs. ft. Andre' and Gr Leitch Walker, and published by Messrs Ward, Lock and Co., of London, Melbourne and New York. This is a gruesome story of insanity, red murder and sudden death, which should be highly pleasing to those who delight in sensational reading. The plot is too incredible for serious consideration, but the story might be an agreeable change to readers whoso literature consists of the Newgate Calendar and the New York Police Gazette.