LITERARY NOTES.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 451, 5 March 1890, Page 3

LITERARY NOTES.

(FROM OUR LONDON CORRESPONDENT.) Robert Browning’s Work. Browning is beyond me. I felt one ought to know something more than “The Pied Pip.er,” “ Hervb Riel,” and “ How They Brought the Good News from Aix to Ghent,” of the deceased poet’s works. I therofore bought them (12 vols. octo.), and, well—it’s no use—l blush to own it—but they’re beyond, quite beyond me. Never, it seems to my limited intelligence, did a man take more trouble to wrap up a beautiful thought in obscure language and comparatively unmelodic metre than this recently deceased great master. Of course I now speak of “The Red Cotton Nightcap Country,” etc. When Browning chose to be simple and melodic bis verses were indeed exquisite. I don’t know if your readers are acquainted with this—“ Crossing the Bar ”: Sunset and evening star, And our clear call for me; And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea. But such a time as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening hell, And after that the dark ; And may there be no sadness of farewell When’l emha’.k. For tho* from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face \V lien I have crossed the bar, Tho much - quoted opening verse of “James Lee’s Wife” is in its way nearly perfect— Ah ! love but a day And the world has changed, The sun’s away And the bird estranged. The wind has dropped And the sky’s deranged; Summer ha 3 stopped. Grand, too, is the story of the two old friends who’ve quarrelled so hopelessly that they must fight — Let them fight it out, friend, things have gone too far, God must judge the couple, leave them as they are. The culprit is killed, and the avenger thus reflects “ after ” : Take the cloak from his face, Let the corpse do its worst.

How he lies in his rights of a man, > Heath has done all death can, And absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not; he heeds , Nor his wrong nor my vengeance On his senses alike; And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change. Ha! what avail’s death to erase His offence, my disgrace l I would we were boys of old In the field by the fold. His outrage. God’s patience, man’s scorn Were so easily borne. I stand here now, he lies in his place; Cover the face! The idea of the following four lines has often been expressed in poetry, but never quite so perfectly : The beauty that endures on the spiritual When we shall stand transfigured like Christ on Herinon Hill, And moving each to music, soul m soul, and light in light, Shall flash thro’ one another in a moment as we Trill. Browning had a profound intolerance of criticism, but he was never angered by it. “No amount of goose criticism,” he once wrote, “ shall make me lift a heel against what waddles behind it.” As Browning lived so he has died, felicitously. Seldom (says Mr Stead) in literary history has there been a page ol so many poetic coincidences.as might be written on Air Browning’s deatiu Many years ago he wrote in “ De Gastibus ” : Open my heart and you will see, Graven inside of it Italy. He has died in that land of his love and adoption. Florence was the city of his married life, Venice of his later years, and in a lighter vein lie wrote the other day that “ Browning may find himself like Brown,” the Anglo-Venetian, who could not tear himself away from the Queen of the Adriatic, “Bella Venezia, non te lascio pin.” And he died at last in the lap of the lagoons he loved. Mr George Meredith laments the death of one whom he “loved as a friend and reverenced as a teacher.” Now dumb is he who walked the world to speak, - And voiceless hangs the world beside Ins bier, Our words are fobs, our cry of praise a tear; We are the smitten mortal, we the weak, We see a spirit on Earth’s loftiest peak Shine, and wing hence the way he makes more clear; See a great Tree of Life that never sere Dropped leaf for aught that age or storms might wreak. . . Such ending is not death ; such living shows What wide illumination brightness sheds From one big heart; to conquer man’s old foes, The coward and the tyrant, and the force Of all those weedy monsters raising heads Where Song is murk from springs of turbid source Amy Levy s Poems. Tho proofs of the slim little volume of verse by Amy Levy, the talented young Jewess whose ill-fated success with “ Reuben Sachs ” led to such shocking results, were corrected only a week before her death. . That she must have been for some time meditating self-extinction, is shown by a gruesome poem on the Swinburnian model, entitled “ Felo-de-Se.” For repose I have sighed and have struggled—have struggled and sighed in vain— I am held in the circle of Being and caught m the circle of Pain. , ~ I culled sweet poppies and crushed them—the blood ran rich and red; And I cast it in crystal chalice, ana drank or it till I was dead. A weary, semi-pessimist tone pervades most of the verses, but some are really very neat. Here, for instance, i 3 a “ March Day in London ” : The east wind blows in the treet to-day, The sky is blue, yet the town looks grey. ’Tis the wind of ice, the wind of Arc, Of. cold despair and hot desire, Which chills the flesh to aches and pains. And sends a fever through my veins. Excellent, too, is the “Ballad of an Omnibus.” Tho author describes how, from the roof ot the omnibus, she notes— The scene whereof I cannot tire— The human tale of love and bate, The city pageant early and late. Unfolds itself, rolls by to be, A pleasure deep and delicate. A few days ago a poor old lady with streaming white hair, wild eyes, and neither bonnet nor shawl, was staggering along the streets of Hartford conncrooning a hymn, and followed by a crowd of jeering, hooting boys. She occasionally broke into talk as she tottered weakly along, and, smiling at her persecutors, pathetically murmured, “ Only a little way further.” This was Mrs Beecher Stowe, author of the immortal “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and other world-known works. She has been hopelessly insane for some time, but is quite harmless, and usually content to walk about her house crooning the hymns of fifty years since. On this occasion the poor lady had somehow strayed out, and several minutes elapsed ero she was missed. Fortunately, a local tradesman caught sight of the little procession, and guessing who the lady must be, went to the reseue. To their

credit, be it said, most of the lads slunk away sad and ashamed when they learnt whom they had been hooting-. The latest “ reminiscencer” is Major L 3 Caron, who has just finished writing a volume of experiences. From Chicago, by-the-way, comes a bulky and most instructive work on “Anarchy and Anarchists,” giving the whole history of a number of American conspiracies, with portraits, plans, etc., etc. An old and valued acqu ain bance, M r J. Maclaren Cobban, has just bounded into something approaching celebrity by the immediate and pronounced success of “ Master of His Fate.”' Whilst this story was appearing in “Blackwood” I warned you to expect something unusual, and now it is complete the same observation may be repeated. Not only (to quote that acute critic, the “ Scotsman ”) is “ Master of His Fate ” a powerful tale, but one told with exquisite finish and delicacy. To mention a word about the plot would be to spoil the reader’s enjoyment somewhat. I will simply, therefore, say (for your information when you’ve closed the last page) that Julius Courtney’s secret is considered quite within the future possibilities of science. Dr. Lefcvre, Mr Cobban admits he drew from his friend, Dr. Z. Mennell, a lelative, curiously enough, of Mr Philip, of that ilk and of the “ Melbourne Age.” The price of “Master of His Fate ” is 3s 6d.

Mr Blackmore’s “Kit and Kitty ”is a fresh, open-air romance of market gardening in Middlesex, “ ’bis sixty years since.” First, we learn of the idyllic love of Christopher Orchardson, nephew of a fine old fellow in the fruit-growing line at Sunbury-on-Thames, for the local doctor’s daughter, Kitty Fairthorn. The match is opposed tooth and nail by some venomous women (notably Kitty’s step-mother) and by an evil-minded rival of Chris’s, called Donovan. Ihe pair are, nevertheless, married eventually. Then, however, comes trouble, for one afternoon Kit arrives home to find Kitty missing. How he tries to trust his little wife, how he succeeds, whether she returns, and whither she went and why, Mr Blackmore must bell you in his own unique manner.

The third of the series of four novels, which the indefatigable Miss Braddon has undertaken to write for Mr Leng, of the “Sheffield Telegraph ” syndicate, was commenced on Saturday last. The title, “Whose Was the Hand?” is sensational enough in all conscience, though it somehow sounds familiar. In the course of theyearthis syndicate will publish “The Secret of the River,” by the prolific Dora Russell ; “Blind Fate,” by Mrs Alexander; and a new romance by Ouida. I saw a copy the other day of the “ colonial editiou ” of Mrs Campbell Praed’s new novel, “ The Romance of a Station,” which is bo be issued at two shillings forthwith in your part of the world. This, to be candid, is quite as much as the book is worth. There’s no harm in the story, but if Mrs Praed had never written anything better she would scarcely command the terms she does. “Montague Williams’ Reminiscences ’ are banging fire for some reason or another, and ’tis said publication may be postponed till next autumn. That would be both a pity and a mistake, as there is no book really “the fashion” just now, and a racilytold volume of recollections would almost certainly catch on. David Christie Murray’s younger brother Henry, who claims to have written the greater part of that excellent detective story “A Dangerous Cabspaw,” has now produced a semi-sensational novelette of his very own called “A Game of Bluff.” It is a readable tale enough, but without a tithe of the cleverness of “ A Dangerous Cabspaw.” The plat is old and none of the characters particularly original. In his preface to Wilkie Collins’ posthumous novel, “ Blind Love,” Walter Besanb explains that though he finished off a portion of the third volume, the story is from first to last the author’s own. Mr Collins had drawn out such an elaborate scenario of the plot that all Mr Besanb had to do' was to fill in a few unimportant details. Most people, indeed, will find it impossible to determine where Wilkie Collins laid down his pen and Besanb picked it up. The sale of Browning’s “ Asolando ” ha been much larger_than that of Tennyson’s “Demeter.” The former is now in its seventh edition, whereas only some 2,000 copies have been issued of the Laureate’s volume. _ Black’s new novel, “ Prince Fortunatus, is the story of the numerous love troubles of a phenomenally handsome and popular young tenor of the “ Tottie ” Coffin School. The likeness to this gentleman is carried pretty close, as you will realise when I tell you that the Mr “Lionel Moore” of the story makes a great bit in a comedy opera, called the “ Squire’s Daughter,” by singing a wonderful serenade known as “The Starry Night.” More of this book anon. _ l'he second number of the “ Speaker ” is a great improvement on the first. Gladstone, Sydney Webb, George Augustus Sala and J. N. Lockyer contribute interesting signed articles, and the “ Notes of tho Day ” are particularly well pub together. From all accounts Wenyss Reid is making up these initial issues very cheap, the majority of the contributions being New Year’s gifts. Both Mr Wm. Morris and Mr Watts, R.A., attended Dr. Charles. Mackay’s funeral, but neither attracted so much attention as a very old white-haired man, Henry Russell, the veteran musician and composer of a score of old-world songs. Russell set numbers of Mackay’s verses to music, notably, “Cheer Boys, Cheer,” “ A Life on the Ocean Wave,” “Woodman, Spare That Tree,” “ To the West,” etc., all of which he sang and played himself in a showy and effective style. Mr Ilussell was hanging on the arm of a bronzed, wiry man of middle age, who proved to be bis son, W. Clark Russell, the nautical novelist.