Literary Chat

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 September 1904, Page 460

Literary Chat

The first of an amusing series of "" Sermons in Braid Scots " has recently been published in Edinburgh at sixpence nett. The volumei opens with ''The Ne'er-do-Weel," by the Eev. D. G. Mitchell, of Cramond United Free Church. An idea of its simplicity, quaintness and braidness will be best obtained by a quotation. Luke, Chap, xv., verses 11-28. " There was ance a man had twa laddies, an' the young- ane said till his father, ' Father' wad ye no gie me noo my am share that'll fa' to me ?' An' he pairted his gear an' plenishin' at ween them. Noo, no lang efter the young ane gethered a' his graith thegither, an' gaed awa intil a farawa place ; an' there he tint a' his gear wi' routh o' pleesur. " An' when he had nae langer a fou hand, there begude a reg'lar dearth in that place, an' he sune faund his bawbees a' birled awa. Sac he gaed an' hired himsel to ane o' the burgesses as an orra-man, an' was budden gang ootby to fodder the swine. Fain wad lie hae filled himsel wi' the hools that the swine were eatin' ; an' fient a hae't did a body gie him. " But when he cam' to hissel, he said, Hoo mony orra-men o' my father's hae eneuch an' to spare, an' I'm deem o' hunger ! I '11 rise up this meenit an' gang awa hame to my father, and I '11 jist tell him, ' Father, I 'ye been a rale gowk an' wastrel again Heaven, an' in yer am sicht ; I 'm nae langer fit to be ca'ed

yer am bairn ; jist mak' me an orraman.' Sac he got up at ance, an' gaed straucht hame to his father. " But he had a geyen lang gait yont to gang when, his father spied him, an' was rale put aboot, for he thocht a hantle o' the lad, an', fu' o' pity, cam' rinnin, an' fell to huggin an' kissin him. " But the lad tell't his father, ' Father, I've been jist a gowk an' wastrel again Heaven, an' in yer am sicht ; I'm nae langer fit to be ca'ed yer bairn.' '' The father turned himsel aboot to his leid men an' said, ' Haste ye! gang awa an' get haud of the brawest cleadin ye can, and rig him oot fu' braw, an' dinna forget to put a gowden ring on liis hand, an' a pair o' gude shoon on his feet. Haste ye, noo ! " ' An' see ! tell them at hame to bring in the plumpin stirkie, an' stick it, for we maun hae a rale gude merrymakin ower't, for my bairn, that's been as gude 's dead to me sac lang, is leevin yet ; the callant was tint, an' we 'ye fund him again.' " Sac they begude to mak' a hearty nicht o 't. " Noo the aulder 'brither was ootby, an' jist as he was comin in ! by to the hoose he heard skirlin an' dancin, an jaloused somethin byordinar' was gaun on. Sac, cain ane o' the men, he speired at him what had garred them a' gang wud at hame. "An' the man tell't him that his

britlier had come home, an' his father had stickit the plumpin stirkie, because he had ance mair gotten him hale an' stieve. l< But his big 'brither was rale glumshie, an' wudna gang iriby." • ■» In a recent number of " The Fortnightly," a story, which is certainly worth repeating, is told by Mr. James Baker, with regard to accusations of exaggeration brought against Blackmore in " Lorna Doone." He says : " How often one hears his description of the famous water-slide in the Doone Valley, or, rather, on the Baclgworthy water side of the Doone Valley, spoken of as exaggerated. But once, when walking up the side path worn by the thousands of tourists who now, impelled by the book, seek out this water-slide, I was listening to the usual exclamations from a critical friend. -' Well,' I said, ' you think Blackmore' s words are exaggerated ; they are put into the mouth of a lad, who in winter, when no path was here, climbed with bare feet and legs up that stony water-course and fall. You are a man, and this is summer, and there is no rush of icy cold water to dash you off your less ; but take off your shoes, and try now to clamber up it.' He declined the task, and said no more about exaggerations. On speaking on this very point with Mr. Blackmore, he said he had not attempted to be minutely accurate with the scenery, he was not so exact then as he would be now ; but to wish the book altered to exactitude would be to wish all the glory taken out of a Turner, or all the beauty of diction out of Ruskin's ' Stones of Venice/ because, forsooth, he, in his younger days, _ saw beauty that his middle age failed to see." * In my reading recently, I came across an amusing anecdote about Bishop Watson. As he was an

author of repute it will not be out of place in these columns. It was told by an innkeeper in the Lake district of England, and ran as follows : " Near a village on the shores of Windermere there lived Richard Watson, author of the once famous ' Apology for the Bible/ You will remember that when George 111. heard of the book he said he never before understood that the Bible needed an apology. Watson was made Bishop of Llandaff, and his neighbours showered compliments upon him. One of these neighbours was the landlord of a prosperous hostelry styled ' The Cock/ who thought it well to have a sign painted with a portrait of the good Bishop, and to change the name of his house to ' The Bishop of Llandaft'/ Thereupon a rival landlord, who had previously looked with envious eyes on the prosperity of his neighbour, took up the discarded sign, and so gained the custom of many tourists and other strangers, who had heard of the repute of ' The Cock/ This naturally annoyed the first owner of that name, who proceeded to put things right by inscribing in bold letters beneath the Bishop's portrait the words : ' This is the Old Cock/ " The narrator left the question of whether the Bishop appreciated the compliment or not to his hearers. __$, — In the April number of the " Contemporary Review," Mr. Edward Wright has much to say in defence of the Art of Plagiarism. A few quotations will suffice to show his contentions. " The men who first conceive an idea, a situation, a melody, a colour scheme are insignificant ; the men who best conceive these things are great." "By discovering the material of art one acquires no right over it ; the claim to a title rests on incomparableness of form alone." " The art of plagiarism is especially shown by recalling some exquisite'

passage, some line phrase, in a favourite author, and lovingly recreating 1 it out of joy in its beauty, by deepening the magical significance with which in some moment of wonderful emotion he endowed single words and associations of words ; in enlarging his slight sketches into finished pictures ; and, above all, in catching the peculiar quality and tone of his style in the treatment of some situation which he would have delighted to describe/ " Plagiarism is an art in which the finest critical power is. exhibited by means of creation. To understand fully another man's work is to create it anew under the form of an idea, and to embody this idea in another artistic mould is to criticise the original work in the best manner. The greatest of poets are naturally the greatest of critics ; their plagiarism is appreciation in the grand style." Arthur H. Adams, who has frequently contributed to this Magazine, has recently published a book entitled "Tussock Land: a Romance of New Zealand and the Commonwealth." The following criticism appeared in an English periodical : " The ' First Novel Library,' so happily inaugurated by Mr. Fisher Unwin some time ago, well maintains its high prestige. ' Tussock Land ' may not he quite so good as some of the other stories that have preceded it, but that it possesses great merit none can deny. Perhaps the chief fault of the book is that, like so many first novels, it lacks a certain consistency of touch.. The author has not yet acquired confidence in the treatment of his characters, and the picture when completed shows discordant lines. Perhaps in ' Tussock Land,' also, there is too much love-making-, which as frequently as not ends in nothing. The reader is apt to get irritated with King Southern for the facility with which he bestows his affec-

tion. At the conclusion it is almost satisfactory to find that he mates with his first love, who has definitely given him to understand that she cares for another man, and shall continue, despite his heartless treatment of her, to do so. That they then link hands, after the fashion of lovers in modern fiction, and descend the hillside to face the dread enigmas of life together makes no impression upon us. We know he will be unhappy, that the other man will turn up again, and were it not for his true-natured little wife we should almost be glad. ]n other respects the story has the warm colouring of colonial life, and in reading it we seem to inspire fresh air and invigorating breezes." — 0 The Centenary of George Sand has recently been celebrated in France. She was born on July sth, 1804, in Paris. Her father was a dealer in birds, but she traced her descent to Marshal Saxe, of Fontenoy fame. At eighteen she married M. Dudevant, and in her own words,, " I made great efforts to see with my husband's eyes, and to think and act as he wished. But hardly had I got into harmony with him than I fell out of harmony with my own instincts, and fell into a terrible sadness/ Nine years of married life sufficed her, she left her husband, and took the name by which she is so universally known. A most prolific writer, she turned out an average of no less than two books a year for forty years. Flaubert envied her such an output. She found fault with his laborious seeking after perfection of style, which was the reason of his being so far behind her in prolificness. She told him that " a romance ought before all things to be human. If it is not, people will like it no better for being well written, skilfully put together, and for showing accurate observation, and- this because the essential quality is lacking — interest."

Messrs, Longmans, Green and Co. have just published " New Land : Four Years in the Artie Regions/ by Otto Sverdrup, translated from the Norwegian by Ethel Harriet Hearn. The following 1 description of the book is taken from an English contemporary : " It was soon after the return of the 4 Fram ' from the first Norwegian Polar Expedition that Dr. N arisen told Captain Sverdrup of the wish of Consul Aexl Heiberg and the brewing- firm of MM. Ring'ues Brothers to lit out a Polar expedition with the Captain as leader. There was no question of trying to reach the North Pole. The route agreed upon was to be up Smith Sound and Kane Basin, through Kennedy and Robeson Channels, and as far along the north coast of Greenland as possible before wintering. From thence sledge expeditions were to be organised to the northernmost point of Greenland, as far down the east coast as practicable. Everything was done in the way of altering, refitting, and equipping the ' Fram,' in obtaining capable young scientists and the best instruments ; and, although the expedition was only one of two or three years, provisions were shipped for five. We are introduced to each of the fifteen officers and scientists, who, with Captain Sverdrup, invite the reader to bear them company on their long and often hazardous journey. For it must not be suuposed that, because no attempt was made to reach the Pole, the route was one where no difficulty or danger was encountered or to be expected. The equipment had been begun during October, 1897; but the ' Fram ' was not ready to weigh anchor until St. John's Day, June 24, 1898 ; for it takes long to fit out a Polar expedition. When off the coast of Greenland the ship's company found they were approaching ice, and were soon in the thick of it. Dangerous as it seems to be among drift ice, the wonderful effects produced by the sun's rays on the floating icebergs, as described by Cap-

tain Sverdrup, might reconcile many persons to the risks attending a passage through the floes. After detailing the remarkable forms assumed by many of these icebergs, the writer says : ' Across the whole of this desert fairyland the sun shone golden and warm. The floes were bright emerald green under water, and upwards as far as they were reached by the wash of the sea ; while above the water-level was the glittering white snow. As we advanced into the ice, the floes became closer, bigger, and more uniform ; sometimes they were of a dirty grey colour, arising, I think, from their having formed the bottom of freshwater pools, where deposits of various kinds are apt to collect.' The many readers of sporting works will be delighted with the, chapters on the stalldng of the Polar ox, as the author prefers to call the musk ox, and the Polar bear, and the shooting of various game too numerous for mention here. One serious incident was a fire on board the ' Fram.' It is, however, vain to attempt a detailed account of the multifarious contents of these two handsome volumes, full of interest and value for the scientist, beautifully illustrated, and in every respect so admirably produced.'"' Mrs. L. T. Meade has just published yet another work which seems to have been received with more tolerance by the critics than many of her previous efforts. It is entitled " A Maid of Mystery." There are many readers who consider this authoress has been harshly dealt with, and they will be pleased to hear the " Maid of Mystery " is declared to be both attractive and interesting" ; the critic referred to goes on to say, " She has for the moment deserted her lurid, impossible style, and has given us a book which it is a real pleasure to read. In spite of obvious faults, Mrs. Meade has 1 the indubitable power of keeping one's attention fixed ; she writes simply and

directly, with no literary flourishes, and the result in this case is a readable and entertaining tale. The plot in places is highly improbable, and John Brabazon is not sufficiently well realised to carry conviction. He is the father of the ' Maid of Mystery/ and the mystery is a dark one. The story is told in the first person, and the heroine, Alice Brabazon, soon endears herself to the hearts of the reader ; her scamp of a father is duly disposed of, and she marries the man she loves, after a career of adventure and sorrow/ Books from the pen of 11. E. Francis always repay perusal, and " Lychgate Hall/ published by Longmans, and forwarded for review by Messrs. Upton and Co., is certainly no exception to the rule. In this story the author has gone back to pre-Macadamite days, when wheeled vehicles were few, and country ladies rode abroad on pillions behind their male relatives or menservants. Luke Wright, who tells the story himself, is sent to his uncle's office to be trained for a lawyer. His mother has married again, and his step-brother inherits the farm on which he was brought up, and on which he vainly begged to stay even if, in his own words, his brother should he gaffer and he man. A lovely young woman, Dorothy Ullathorne, came to the village and rented Lychgate Hall and farm. It was a fine old house fallen to decay. The country folk told stories about it which frightened people away, and no one would take it. The young lady was not to be daunted, howiever, she started dairy farming and was very successful. Luke fell violently in love with her, and so did the Squire of the parish, Sir Jocelyn Gillibrand, but the mysterious young beauty did not encourage either of them. She became very friendly with' Luke's mother, and a very practical, sweet young country girl, Patty, a daughter of Luke's step-father by a previous marriage. Strange' things

happen. She persuaded Luke to assist her in disturbing a grave in an old churchyard. It was done amidst the weird sounds which haunted the place. She sent him on a journey to deliver a large sum of money, in which he is attacked and robbed. A duel is fought between Sir Jocelyn and a more favoured lover. The mystery, which surrounds the young lady and her parentage, is only cleared up in the last chapter. The characters are capitally drawn, and the country life and revels described in the style which has so frequently charmed us in this author's previous works. It is a book which cannot fail to please. From the same publishers, and also through Messrs. Upton and Co., 1 have received " Old Hendrik's Tales/" by Capt. A. 0. Yaughan. This is a collection of short stories of animal life told, by an old Hottentot in his pet dialect to three children aged from six to ten. The titles of the different stories give a good idea of the contents. Amongst them we find " Why old Baboon has that Kink in his tail/ " Why old Jackal danced the War-Dance/ " When the Birds would choose a King," " Why old Jackal slinks his Tail/ " Why the Tortoise has no Hair on," etc., etc. A new children's book is always welcome, but these stories would, I venture to think, have been much more appreciated by our youngsters if old Hendrik's dialect had been considerably modified. It is illustrated by J. A. Shepherd, who has allowed his grotesque style of work full fling 1 , at considerable expense to that faithfulness of depiction which children love. ■*• A book on the Alps, by Sir Martin Conway and that well-known mountain artist, Mr. A. D. McCormick, is to be published shortly by Messrs. Black in their series of " Beautiful Books " in colours.

Vol, X.— No. 6— 30.

Thirty years of mountain climbing have eminently fitted Sir Martin to deal with this subject, and no artist can have a more intimate acquaintance with the Alps, or be able to do them greater justice, than Mr. McCormick. Joseph Hocking has come once more to the fore with a new book entitled " Esau." It is in reality two stories, " Esau " and "St. Issey." It has. been very favourably reviewed. We are told that Esau is a young man who has sowed his wild oats and reaps the consequences. The love of a Spanish girl, stolen by the gipsies amongst whom she was brought up, consoles him for his previous troubles. This does not sound original, but it is certainly a promising subject when treated in Joseph Hocking' s wellknown siyle. Messrs. Cassell and Company recently held their twenty-second annual " Black and White " Exhibition at Cutlers' Hall. This Exhibition is regarded as of great assistance to artists in the respect of showing them the class of work best appreciated for reproduction by publishers, and every conceivable description of work is exhibited. New Zealanders will note with pleasure the following appreciation of a fellow-countryman's work. "There is very little colour work in this Black and White exhibition, though a good deal must be wanted for the ' three or more ' colour process, but what there is is generally good, notably those pictures by Harry Kountree and Miss B. ' Cobbe.'' Harry Rountree served his apprenticeship to art in New Zealand, and has already taken a prominent place in illustrative journalism at home. Messrs. Wildman, Lyell, Arey and Co. forward for review Guy Boothby's latest production. It is entitled " A Consummate Scoundrel/ and is published by George Bell

and Sons in their Indian and Colonial Library. Cyril Armitage, who tells the story, has been ruined by " the consummate scoundrel," his cousin, Gilbert Feversham, who forged a cheque, and contrived that Cyril should be accused of it. Cyril introduces himself to the reader in the last extremity of want, wandering about London on a bitterly cold winter night in the raggedest and scantiest clothing, wondering how he will secure a meal and a night's lodging. He is delighted to u'et the job of carrying a bag some distance for a well-dressed man, but when the man turned round to pay him, lie recognised " the consummate scoundrel/ and flung the shilling back at him with scorn. On second thoughts he picked it up, and gave a mother and child, as destitute as himself, a substantial meal with it. He was recommended to go to Pouncet Street Chapel, where the destitute could procure food and a shake-down. On his way thither, lie met an eccentric individual, Quinnion by name, who took him home, clothed and fed him, and made him his secretary. A beautiful niece, with whom Cyril at once falls in love, comes to live with her uncle. There were many things about Quinnion that Armitage could not understand. It eventually transpired that he had been connected with a secret society, and was being hunted down by " the consummate scoundrel " for having disobeyed an order, and thereby saved a man's life whom he had been instructed to destroy. His sudden disappearance gave opportunity for this author's favourite character, a clever detective, to be introduced, and " the consummate scoundrel's " confession and dramatic death closes the book, which it is needless to say, is highly sensational. It is certainly an improvement on many of its predecessors, and the verdict of an American critic on a similar work can be conscientiously applied to it. " For those who like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing they, will like."