REVIEW.

Grey River Argus, Volume III, Issue 158, 17 January 1867, Page 3

REVI EW.

; -^'^Cr^B^l^^iomalLife^' By B. '-•'■ ''i£l!i ''^^^^W^ ® une( -^ li '• Wnv Hay, -* v .•i*', ti: ife'Cißces r .streeti^' ~.- . • -■'. rti*fspsss:*jte^ , : : fulfilled the half pro- ' ;jni]B(^^!|iEE^i^jifi'-''the preface to his last 'Worlc|^|Siiad9ws oh the Snow," and has jprraeiiwd'-his readers with another tale, . which^ fully sustains the reputation his ; :gyevipu3 effort achieved for him. In it we have endeavored to (Jo ||l|||ustice to the aims and intentions of the Hflpß&.sh.or, as conveyed in the book now be--I||p|pre vs — so far, at least, as one can do so Nvithin the limits we are compelled in .assign to our notice. The fictional works that have hitherto .emanated from the colonial press have not <done much towards establishing a roputa* ''.-.. '.tion for colonial writers, and in the •majority of cases the " Stories of Colonial ,L;ife" have been mere records of personal experience or adventure, occasionally iu■•tere^feng. it may be, as such, from the .liat ; j|re of the facts related, but hardly to hold a place in colonial literature. Mr Far j eon is certainly entitled to be considered one of the foremost at those whose desire to see a colonial literature* worthy of the future is likely to 1)3 largely realised as the result of their (Own efforts. It appears at first sight strange that so little has hitherto been -done towards founding a permanent literature in the Colonies. There is ample evidence hi the ephemeral productions of the press to show that we have many able ;sind "talented writers, shrewd observers of men and things, and gifted more or less rwith brilliance of style. But how is it that the wide and green Held which the ■Colonies afford for the exercise of all the best faculties of fictional writers, has been «o loug neglected ? Some few have attempted the task of interpreting colonial life, and the idio^yncracies of colonial society, but in too many cases they have failed to do more than simply draw -jbhe barest outline, or else have completed only a very clumsy painting whose coloring is rough and unfaithful. • They think •itsuffieienttofixtheir scenes and characters in' the Colonies, but their men aud women .do not think and speak as colonial people, there is no reflection of the complexion of real colonial life 5 in fact, both scenes and characters mightaswellbe placed elsewhere. <3asufcl thinkers may say that this is no great matter— that people think and act •pretty much the same in the Colonies as' ■;it Home— that we have the same social institutions, the same conventionalities, the same freedom of thought, and the : same laws and religion ; and that, conse--qucutly, there cannot be much to create iiny special individuality. But surely it will not take much observation ov reflection to notice that this individuality of character docs exist iv the Colonies. The circumstances of colonial society, from its foundation upwards, have all tended to produce a set of people differing almost as jnuch from their former selves, or from their pro jeni tors, as the Americans do •from their English cousins. The easier ■conditions of existence, the equality of i-ank, and the free and ample facilities for achieving ' Worldly success, aud many other causes, have produced a greater indepen4euce of thought aud action than is to be found in the crowded ranks of English life. And until colonial writers learn to faithfully interpret the people amongst whom ji'.iey live, and catch the tone of colonial life iv its everyday aspect, we must hope Bin vain for the establishment of a per- ' miinent colonial literature. Mr Favjeon 1 gave so much promise hi his first effort— ''Shadows on the Snow"— that wo are sure the book now before us will bo read jyith great interest and pleasure, which •feelings aye fully justified by the character pi the work. " Grif " fulfils many of the /conditions which we hold to be necessary to constitute a successful book —conditions ' ivhicli we can detect are fully understood by the author, if they aro not always fol-lowod-^aml it has the merit of being what jt professes to be— a " Story of Colonial Life," the faithfulness of which will be recognised and admitted by all who read it. In style it shows a marked improvement on the author's first production ; and we are glad to observe there is Jess indulgence in the metaphor, the use of which is so dangerous hi inexperienced hands, although so precious to those who understand its mysteries. It involves no charge of plagiarism to saythatMr Farjeon 'has' 'drank deeply at the same fountain which has inspired the writings of Charles Dickens. In literature, as in the arts, masters have arisen in all ages who have indelibly influenced their contemporaries or their successors. What. Michael Angelo, liubeiis, Rembvandt, or Corregio'in the past, and Turner, Landscor, Etty, or Millais in; the present age, have dove for painting ; or Handel, Mozart, Beethoven, or Mendelsohn have done for music, such authors :as Scott, Dickens, Thackery, Bulwer, or George Eliot have done for imaginative literature. Each ha 9 placed his stamp on the minds and hearts, of his readers, given a fresh direction to thought, oi< presented scanes whose color and drawing .preserve a distinct individuality, but which are but faithful reflections of human thoughts and r human actions under dissimilar phases, w It is no wonder that Mr Dickens has so many followers, or' that out of the thousands of those whose imaginations have been delighted and instructed by his master performances, there should have arisen some who, fresh from the influence of his writings and fidl of sympathy with his ide;is, should endeavor to walk, in his footsteps— however distantly. Mr Farjeon has, whilst taking Dickens for his' p.iiclo and model, escaped ma much greater degree than many others of the same school the dangers of imitation; -His first effort — " Shadows on the Snow '.'—might perhaps be considered open to the ohai'ge of want of originality in the idea. The resemblance to " The Cricket on the Hearth" was too close to be perfectly safe, and in the general style there was asimilar imitative, tatnt. . But. the, book now before us presents claims to originality which cannot fail to be recognised, And it is an originality at once attractive and ref.eshing. Purity of thought arid the finest human sympathies, aye incorporated ■with the story, whilst there is an amount of evontf ulness which,' whilst free from the " sensational," is. sufficiently full of points to sustain the interest throughout. Mr Farjeon's powers of description are j scarcely equal to-, his. imaginative conceptions, and lie has thus missed several opportunities for tho descriptive v. in the progress of his story. .;.. . Y ai "k may, .howovev, bo applied . fly to his delineation of imagined IP does full justice to such as 1 witlun the scope of his personal

observation. Nothing could '"'Lbe •more ' vivid or lifelike than his description of the New Hush, which is' ■, given in the Welsher's story. The hurry and excitement, the feverish contentioiij and the other concomitants of a new' rush are faithfully and happily painted. - The subject of the story is one of those social waifs which are to be found in\ colonial cities as in London— -a lad without J vicious propensities, brought, up under I vicious influences, aiid whose mind, dulled ! and dwarfed- by the circumstances around I him, still preserves a native purity that i might, under more favorable auspices, been developed into something far greater and better.- Hii is the son of a bad father, ! a man whose prototypes are found infosting the lowest ranks of society, and who has naturally allowed the lad to form his associations among the same class. Grif, for that is the boy's name, is accidentally thrown into the society of a good and virtuous woman, the daughter of a wealthy squatter, and who, by her marriage with Richard Handfield, her tutor, has alienated herself from her family. Her husband is a man who, reared and educated in a superior position, has by his want of energy and infirmity of purpose, rather than by any vicious proclivities, fallen so far as to become involved in the society of a gang of criminals, of whom he is at once the tool and victim. His wife, Alice, although. she could, by abandoning her husband, obtain her father's forgiveness and return to the comforts and luxuries of her old home, steadfastly clings to the man of her choice, patiently hears thesulferiiigaud privations of her position, buoyed up with the sole, hope of redeeming her .husband from the; course of life which "-circumstances have almost forced upon him. The story opens in an old dilapidated house in .-Melbourne, the resort of thieves and vagabonds. Alice and Grif are sitting b}' a gloomy lire, the former thinking sadly of her life, and the latter more intent upon his companion than of airytliing in particular/ A strangely assorted couple— -she, fair,. 1 delicate, refined, and good ; he, with but a faint glimmering of the' mysterious superiority .which the character of his couipauion reveals, but conscious of some, inborn sense of what he .would like to be. ■ Grif, in his comments on his own expe- | rieneas, unconsciously propounds some . practical problems in political economy : — " I wonder where the rich coves gets all their money from? If I wos a swell, and 'ad lots of tin, I'd give a pore chap like me a bob now and theu. Biit they're horlie stingy, Ally, is the swells ; they don't gtv liotiuu' away for nothin'. When 1 was' hi quod, a preacher chap comes and preaches to nie. He sets, 'isself down upon -the bunch, and reads somethin 1 out of a, book. — a bibie, you know — and arfter he'd preached for 'arf a 'hour, hoses, ' W<>t do yer think of that, 'nigktcd boy ? ' ' It's worry good,' 1 scs ; ' but 1 can't eat it. ' ' Put your trust above,' he ses. ' But s'pose all the grub is down ere,' ses I ; ' I can't go up there and fetch it.' Then he groans, aijd te'ls me a story .about a hinfant who was found iii the bulrushes, arfter it 'a<l bin deserted, and I ups and tells him that I've, been deserted, aand wy don't somebody come and take me. out of the ■bullrushcs"!, Wosii't he puzzled, neither." Grif chuckled, and then encouraged by his companion's silence, he resumed — "He enni agin, did the preacher cove, afore I was let out, and he preaches a preach about charity. 'Don't you steal no more,' he ses, ' or your sole '11 go to inorchal perdition. Men is charitable and good ; just you try 'giu, and give up your evil corses.' So when 1 gets out of ijuod, ses Ito myself, I'll jiat .try if the preacher cove is right. 1 waited till I was 'u'ngry, and couldn't get •nothin' to eat, without stealiu' it. I could 'aye took a trotter, for the trotter man was a drinkiu' at a bar, and his basket was on a bench ; but I wouldn't. No ; I goes straight, to the swell streets, and there I sees the swells a walkin' up uud down, and liftin' their 'ats, and smilin' at the gals. I didn't 'aye courage at iirst to speak to 'cm, but w'eii I did, send 1 may live ! they started back as if I was a mad dawg. You be'awf, they ses, or you'll be guv in 'charge. Wot could a poor beggar like me do arfter. that '! I dodged about, werry sorry [ didn't take that trotter, wen who should I sec cumin' along but the preacher chap. ' 'lire's a slant !' scs Ito myself. He 'ad a lady -on 'is arm, anil they both looked wery grand.* But wen I went up to him, he starts back too, and ses, ' Begawn, young ropererb.ite !' AVen 1 heerd that, % sed, (Jharity be blowed ! and 1 goes and finds out the trotterinan, and takes two trotters, and no one knows anything about it," ' : Grif, despite the tliickness of his moral epidermis, is endowed with fine human sympathies, He had a favorite dog, liough, which had been poisoned by one of, his father's companions in grime out of .petty revenge. Grif thus eloquently j recals his dog's death : — -"Wen I crawled out, there was poor Hough/ a dyiii'. He'd been pizened out of spite by the Tenderhearted Oystarniau. liough, he shoves 'is nose into my 'am I. and he stretches 'isself out. Ib was raiuin' 'ard, and I was shiveriu' cold, but wen I was certain Rough- was dead, 1 took 'im. up in my arms, and carried 'im to a churchyard, and berried 'im. Then 1 ses, good bye, Rough ■— [ can't 'elp it, Ally," the boy ; said, bursting into a tit of tears, "he was a wery good friend to me, -was Rough, though hs was only a dawg. " The native kindliness which first found vent. in his affection for his dog, becomes elevated to a feeling of devotion towards Alice, who, talcing pity 911 the lad, and stretching out her sympathetic hands to him in their mutual misery, enlists his better feelings, and awakens in him all that is good in his nature:— The girl laid her hand upon Grif's head, and looked pityingly. at him. As their eyes met, a tender expression atole into his face, and rested there.. ..-..::■ "I'm wery sorry for you, Ally," he said. "I wish I could do soraethiu' to make you 'appy. 7 It. doesn't' much matter for a poor beggar like me. We was always a bad lot, was father, and Dick, and tne..; , But you— look, 'ere, 'Ally, " he exclaimed energetically, ' • If . ever you want me to' do anythiu'— never mind w Qt it is, so long as I know l'n* a. doiu' of it for you ; I'll do it, true and faithful, I will; so 'elp me"-—- Her hand;, upon; his lips checked the oath he was about to, utter, He seized the hand,, and placed it over, his eyes, aud leant his cheek against it,;as if itbrought balm and comfort tpliim ; as indeed it . did. ' ' You b'lieye nic, , Aily, : , don't, you ?" he continued. "I dou't want you to say nqthin', more than if ever I can do spmethin' ; for you, you'll let me doit."; : ... j;■ ;• . ; / ; "I will, Grif,. aud Ido belieyG you,';': she. replied. "God help me, my poor.; boy,, you. are my only friend." ;■ : .- ■<: ''';.:'.. ■■■ ••!■■.■ " That's it," he exclaimed triumphantly. ' ' That's wot I am, till I die. !" Alice is waiting to see her husband to persuade l)ini to abandon his vile companions! Meekly and lovingly does she bear his sullen dogged indifference to her pleadings. He is writhing Under the knowledge of* the hard lot ; he has inflicted on his wife, and* hating him-

self for ..that, lie 1 ; yet lacks the "conrage-to break the chain which, if not' severed; must inevitably diag him down into the abyss. His very love for Alice makes him fierce iii his misery, and, hopeless of lib^self, he implores- her to leave hiio-^east hjin ofssaiid return to her -father. Alice, however, wRI not leave her husband, although he tells her he has seen her father, who will take her back if he will divorce himself from her. The story goes 011 : Alice, after surr.ep.titio.usly. . obtaining aii interview with 'liei" father, 'imi plnres his aid and forgiveness ; lie, hard as adamant in his selfishness,- -doles- out a scanty sum, but resolutely refuses to forgive her, and Alice leaves liim.welhiigh broken-hearted.; Her husband has in the meantime 'left his' bad .companions and. gone to the diggings, (irif remains' as the friend anil protector of Alice. Richard Handheld picks up a lnate-r-a man, yclept "The Welsh er" — a sturdy powerful fellow, with a heart as big as himself —strong as a lion, gentle as a child. They proceed to the new rush together, and our author seizes the opportunity of ■ giving us al picture of the exciting scene, which is an excellent bit of description. Eichard Hand Held and the Welsher. after, passing through" 'various phases of good and bad luck, at last hit upon a good claim, ' and. fortune appears at length to hold put her hand to Alice's husband,: and > lie and Shis- mate in their confidences over the camp Hve forecast their plans for the future. But the bad spirit of the stovy interposes — one of Handfield's quondam associates, who are resolved to force him back to their society, aud aid them in their nefarious plans. To elFect this one of the'gang, with the «/(</<; " the Te'udei'hearted Oystermau" disguises himself, and contrives* under the name of ' ' Honest Ste'eve" to introduce himself to Handlield and the Welsher, and his identity still undiscovered, j he is admitted as their mate. The claim is worked out, and the time of division takes place. The disguised Steeve has villaiuiously poisoned the minds of Handheld anil the Welsher 'against e;tch other, has been the ' means of their quarrelling before the diggers, I and determines to murder the Welsher, steal : the accumulated gold, and cast suspicion on j Handiield by perpetrating the bloody deed with his knife previously stolen for the pur- j pose. Steeve— alum the Tenderhearted Uysterman, has an interview with the rest of the gang who are camped in an out of the way gully in the neighborhood, details, his j murderous schemes, and receives their congnifmkfcioue on his sagacity. The conversation between the scoundrels is made the j means of acquainting the 'reader' that the] gang require Handlield for no less a purpose.; l than assisting in a burglary oh the station of Alice's father, who is known to have a large sum of ready money iii his possession. The plot succeeds ; the murder is'done, and suspicion so strongly settled on Handlield, that he is compelled to accept the asylnni offered him by the artful scoundrel and '' murdererwho at last discloses his identity; Alice, meanwhile* has been living ..desolate and; solitary in Melbourne, but cheered' witli the hope of better days. A poor unfortunate j girl, Milly, the paramour of one of the gang ! is 'taken ill at the shop of one Old Flick, a receiver of stolen goods and dealer in every- j thing. Grif who had tried his fortune as a "moral shoeblack" aud failedj takes his ' brushes to Old Flick's shop to sell. There he rinds Old Flick drunk asleep, and the girl Milly lying in a state of insensibility in the gutter. Old Flick wakes up, aud offers Grif money to take the girl home. Grif does so, , fetches a doctor, and ultimately brings Alice I to see the poor dying girl. Alice learns that Milly is the mistress of Jim Pizey, one of her husband's dreaded associates, and before she dies, Milly puts in her hand a letter from i Pizey she had stolen from Old Flick, in which the history of their doings at the diggings, and their projected -robbery at the station of Alice's father are recounted. ' Horror stricken, Alice determines to travel to her father's distant home, and if possible prevent the crime in;, which she fears her husband will be implicated. Grif and she set off together, with little money, and but ill fitted for the tedious j journey. On the road they meet with various adventures. One time they receive the kindly aid of a "gentleman" bullock driver, and whilst camped by the drays one evening j one of the party' tells a story of a mate of his — one Silver-Headed Jack — and a beautiful J story it is. Silver-headed Jack came out to diggings to better his condition and enable him to marry his bethroth.ed in*' England,) ■•. A companion from the same village joins him, and he also, has been a lover, but- an unsuccessful one of Jack's affianced. They ex'peri- "J ence all the ups and downs of a digger's life ; years of continued' bad luck try the constancy of Silvcr-hesided Jock, but still he hopes on, confident in the faith of his bethrothed. Time passes, and J.tck niisaos his accustomed letters, and' is torn with anxiety. His associate and once rival — known by the sobriquet of "Serious Muggins, ".silently nurses his ungovernable Jealousy and hatred, and endeavours to destroy his mate by tampering with the supports of a drive, and thus causing: Jack to narrowly escape death by the falling in of the earth. Ultimately the party strike a rich patch, and Jack is happily contemplating his return to his native village and her ha loves 'so well; "Serious ' Muggins" comes in, and pretending to have just received letters from. England, tells .Jack his Lizzie is dead. Jack is prostrated r with the sudden revulsion of feelings this announcement causes. : " Jack didn't say a word, but dropped into his seat, trembling, and covered his face. I beckoned to Serious Muggins; and we stole, out of the tent; l t thought it was best to'let Jack fight with his grief alone. I knew what a blow this was to him.,. He had not been workiug for himself, but for his Lizzie ; and just at the moment of success, to hear that she was dead— it was terrible. He was in a dreadful way about it. As I sat, outside the tent, smoking, I heard him talking to himself, straugely. .We had left the' cake of gold on the table. .- • . " 'Yon glittering devil,' I heard him say,, 'why did yon allure. Jne*' away from 'my Lizzie? If it haclii't been for you, I should never have left home,- and we : should ■■ have been together now, What ■would it have mattered if we had boon poor ! Why did I fly from happiness to' you; you false cruel devil?' •/':'■;• .'.-■.'■ " I wouldn't have him disturbed the whole ; of that night. I knew all the talking in the world wouldn't ease him. Aut when I saw him in the morning, I started back in fright. He was sitting upon the bench, with his head resting hi his hands, staring fixedly at the cake of gold. He had , evidently ■ notmoved during' the whole night, and during that -night, his hair had turned as white as silver! That was how he got to be called Silver-headed Jaok. " i ; "•''/ ; \'{ Some weeks afterwards, however, Lizzie, herself .arrives ou.the scene, having come out-, fronvEriglahd to -look- for her lover. -The villainy of "Serious Muggins" is revealed,: and the lovers are made' happy. This is but the barest outline of the story, which to be enjoyed must; be read in the author's own word?.:: The -incidental' scenes and oharacters are faithful delineations of life on the diggings 1 and cannot fail to interest the reader. But we are losing sight of the principal characters of the booky , AJipe and .Grif 'arrive in the: neighborhood of her father's station almost at ' the same time as her husband and the gang of bushrangers. The station is temporarily deserted by the male inmates who have gone into the bush to search for missing children. Handfield determined tb^sa^eAlice's father resolves to desert'tiie gan| aud-give 'ttie alarm He is steadily escaping from the [close' -vyardi of hii .watchers* when he accidently conies

u])oh.Alice and Grif in their place i»f concealnieiif-. The 'mutual recognition aud explanations aye barely over when footsteps approach. Handfid lis in terror that the gang are searching for him : he grasps his revolver „t<> defend his life to th 6 Jafet. ' But instead: of -the robbers; 'the approaching' party turns out to be Alice's father and men returning with the found children. A hasty explanation is made, and Handlield hurries off with the party ..to attack the bushrangers. During the sudden meeting between Alice aud her husband, Grif had not been an inattentive observer. He had heard Handfield explaining to his wife the circumstances connected with ■the Welsher's -murder-, and -saying that if he had a witness ; who had heard the murderer confess, as he had done to. him,, that he stole the knife for tho purpose of casting suspicion .011 its owner, his innocence would he established. ( irif determinestoobtain tbenecessary evidence, and sets oil* to join his father, who is one of the bushrangers, obtain his confidence, and then reveal his knowledge to save Handiield. ■!'■ On his way, however, poor'.Grif is shot by one of the scouts of the gan», who tn'rii's out to be his own father. (irif is mortally wounded, and although life is fast ebbing he resolves on one final service in his devotion to Alice. Disappointed in carrying out his first idea. Grif solves the difficulty l>y .making' ;■: a i dying- . .declaration of the facts needed to prove the innocence of Alice's husband. We give the closing scene in the author's words. The last act of devotion has been concluded, and the faithful Grif sends for Alice. . ■ ■ : ■;. "Tell Alley to come," he said, as they laid him down. : , Alice came, and knelt by him. " It's all rijrlit. Ally," he gasped. She had to place her ear to his lips to catch his words. " You won't 'aye im more trouble. I've never' bin no good all my life till now. Ally, dear, you sed there was another world. I 3 there?' : ........ •"■Yes, flrif. Vim arc going there now." "Siiall I sco you there, by and by." "We shall meet there, deai Grif," she a:is\vere', keeping back her tears. ' ' it wasn't my fault that I .was'nt no f^ood. I only w; nte'd my grub and a blanket. If any swell 'ad a given 'cm to me, it \1 hin all right. Wy, there's Milly !" and lie suddenly raised himself, and a bright expression oamo.over his face. . Alice held him in her arms, and watched the fading light in his eyes. " And there's Rough.- Rough .' -Rough ! And the old pic-woman, too J" ho cried, as his arm stole round Alice's neck. "Wot was it Milly sed the other night ? Oh, I know ! Forgive me,' (!<id !" And with that 'supplication upon his lips, Grif closed his eyes on the world ! The bushrangers were pursued, and some of them captured and shot. Handfield's innocence is ■ established, and Alice and he are reconciled to the father and restored once more to happiness. '.i Such is a faint sketch of the book before us. Unavoidably we arc obliged' to pass over many incidental passages that merit notice, and which. we would have wishod to do justice to. Our readers will see by 'our short review that "Grif" is no ordinary book, and is of a different class to the generality of colonial productions. Not only is it far above the average of fictional works of the present day, but it contains passages worthy to rank with anything that Dickens has written. To wish Mr Farjeon success in his literary career is almost superfluous, for it is a certainty. " ' ;