LITERARY NOTES

Te Aroha News, Volume VIII, Issue 484, 28 June 1890, Page 3

LITERARY NOTES

London, April 11. Mrs Kendal’s priggish “ Dramatic Opinions ” have been re - published in pamphlet lorm at a shilling, which most ot “ the profession ” consider just elevenpence too much. The general public, however, take kindly enough to the little volume. The buxom and voluble writer has plenty to say that is interesting, only, unfortunately, she puts it all in such an exasperating form. Now two shilling re-issues include Sarah Tytler’s “ French Janet,” Norris’ “Adrian Vidal ” (not one of his happiest efforts), Gissing’s powerful “Nether World,” and a silly story called “ The County,” generally attributed to Jas. Payn’s daughter. The rebellion of the “ Daily News ” and “Pall Mall Gazette,” which refused to report Gladstone's speech at the .N. L. Club because their representatives wore requested to dine in another room, and come into dessert afterwards, like children, or social inferiors, has been warmly applauded by all pressmen. Such arrangements may, perhaps, have been advisable when the reporters of even big papers were out-at-elbow stenographers, frowsy, and altogether impossible. Now, however, they are preposterous. The “Pall Mall” man on the occasion i-eferred to was Charles Morley, an Oxford M.A., a nephew of Jno. Morley, and a person of consideration in society, and the “ Daily News ” reporter, William Senior (“ Redspinner”). The Club Committee must have been crazy to suppose two such men would calmly pocket a gross affront. Naturally, they did the only thing possible (under the circumstances)—withdrew, leaving tho G.O.M.’s speech to fate and the n6ws agencies. Who. one wonders, is Mr J. W. Buel, whose “Beautiful Story,” weare told, had a sale of SOD, OOO in America in two years, and who. e works turn him in an income (royalties) of over £IO,OOO a-year ? Howells I have heard of, and Cable, likewise Henry James, Mark Twain, and Mrs Burnett; but J. W. Buel ? I must forthwith obtain that “ Beautiful Story.” The cheap edition of Ansley’s “ Pariah ” has caught on unusually well for a six-shill-ing novel. It is certainly a tale every novel reader should peruse notwithstanding the skilfully aggravating plot. At Sotheby’s last week two copies of the fiist edition of “ In Memoriam ” were sold, and realised respectively £5 and £4 4s. A fine copy of the “ Paris Sketch-book ” was knocked down at £8 15s. £5 10s was paid for Ainsworth’s “Jack Sheppard,” £l4 for the “ Ingoldsby Legends,” and a fair copy of “Vanity Fair ” in tho original parts was considered cheap at £lB ss. “Alice in Wonder-land ” was bought for £4 4s. _ Compared with tho fabulous prices realised at the famous Mackenzie Bale in February, 1888, the above were, from a collector's point of view, comparatively cheap. On that occasion “ Alice in Wonderland ” fetched over five pounds, the buyer being William Hutt. I believe the-copy is still in his possession, though he imagined he could readily dispose of it at a considerable profit at the time. Here is a good story from the current issue of the “ Publishers’ Circular.” A lady recently went into a bookseller’s shop to purchase a present for her husband. She hovered round for a time, manifesting the usual indecision, whereupon an assistant in charge, to help her out of the difficulty, suggested a set of Shakspere. The wouldbe purchaser, however, met this proposal with the prompt remark, “Oh, he read that when it- first came out!” William O’Brien’s “ When We Were Boys ” is, on the whole, worthy of its author. It contains enough matter for six stories, and would have made a lengthy book in the conventional three volumes. The publishers, indeed, wanted to bring it out in this form, but the fiery William insisted that the book should be within reach of the middle classes and of small school and village libraries. The “ Daily News ” naturally enough gushes over “When We Were Boys” just as the “St. James’s ’ scornfully picks it to pieces. I have nob had time to read the book yet, and so reserve judgment. Berry, the hangman, following the example of M. Sanson, has written, and is about to publish, his memoirs. Chapter I. explains how Berry came to adopt his profession ; Chapter 11. tells of “My First Job; 1 ’ Chapter 111. describes “My Apparatus;” Chapter IV., “My Patients;” Chapter V., “Relations with the Public;” Chapter VI., “ How Murderers Die ;” Chapter VII., “Travelling Experiences;” Chapter VIII., “ Views on Capital Punishment Chapter IX., “Celebrities I Have Met.” Need I say that the publisher will be the incorrigible Tuschlor, and that I strongly suspect the book has been written after the Benzoncum-Vero-Shaw method.

Rider Haggard’s “ Beatrice ” and the first two volumes of Justin H. McCarthy’s “ French Revolution ” are promised for the 12th insb.

Save, perhaps, “The Dilemma” (which was by the able author of “The Battle qf Dorking,” and can be got from Blackwood’s for six shillings) I have never read a better story of the Indian Mutiny than “ The Rajah’s Heir.” From the lirst page to the last the narrative is epir' redly told, just enough horrors being introduced to give lady readers an occasional and enjoyable shiver. Tom Gregory, an English-bred lad with a commonplace future before him, wakes up one morning to lind himself Rajah of Gumileund in Upper India. How this comes about, and how Tom proceeds to India, and after being thoroughly Orientalised is welcomed by his people, 1 need nob tell. Suffice it to say the mutiny almost at once breaks out, and Tom refusing to be drawn into the intrigues of the Ranee of Jhansi and Dost Mohamed Ali, converts Gunileund into a City of Refuge. On her way thither, with a party of terrified women and children, Grace Elton (the heroine of the story, and Tom’s beloved) is kidnapped by Dost Mohamed in the hope that through her hemay influence the young Rajah. Needless to say the latter proceeds promptly to the rescue, and is tempted in vain by the wily Indian. The pair have scarcely ceased talking when the English arrive and blow up Dost Mohamed’s Palace. Then Tom finds Grace is nob there, and a harrowing search for clues ensues. At last a vague hint reaches the young Rajah that Grace may be found somewhere in the jungle. To the jungle, therefore, Tom and a small party of faithful followers betake themselves. The terrible dangers of the weary journey through this pestilential region are vividly described ; and when Grace at last turns up, the sufferings she has undergone prove to have disturbed her mental balance. However, of course, things come all right in the end.

The May “ Blackwood ” contains the opening chapters of a new novel entitled “ A Secret Mission,” which is founded, we are told, on events arising from the present state of armed tension between the great European Powers. The plot has a foqndation on a tragic incident', wnich was scarcely allowed to pass beyond the official circles under whose nqtice it fell. Tfie conditions of life on a fortified frontier lino under a system of suspicion, surveillance, and ordinary despotism are full of novel and dramatic Situations, which the author, from personal

knowledge, has been able to turn to full account. Either the Messrs Blackwood are modifying their manners ana customs, or they must think highly of “ A Secret Mission,” as never before have they thus advertised a novel about to appear in “ Maga ” before. Captain Andrew Haggard is mentioned as the probable author. The re-issue of the Household edition ot Dickens, with the whole of Barnard s admirable illustrations, but in a smaller and handier shape, sells well. “ Dombey and “CoDperfield ” are now complete, and at 2s 8d per vol. (handsomely bound in red) seem very cheap. Those, however, who prefer the illustrations of “Phiz ” to Barnard s, should order the new Crown edition of the great novelist’s works at 5s per volume. “ Pickwick ” and “ Nickleby ” are out. “Syrlin.” Ouida’s preposterous story “Syrlin’ does not display a scintilla of the cleverness which made the absurd blunderings of “ Under Two Flags ” or “ Strathmore ” endurable, and even enabled one to wade sorrowfully through the puerile gush of “ Moths.” It is simply deadly dull. “ Ouida’s ” dukes and duchesses, and lords and ladies bear no more resemblance to real people than do similar folk in the “London Journal.” “ Syrlin,” in fact, is sublimated “ London Journal.” It has, however, no plot to speak of, and every one of the puppets Ouida calls characters have figured again and again in her later books. “Syrlin” is Correzeot “Moths,” just as Lady Avillion is a modified Princess Napraxine and Beaufront Othmar, Their tinsel balk, their cheap cynicism, and their generally odious sentiments irritate the reader inexpressibly. Occasionally, of course, as in all Mdlle. de la Ramee’s stories, there are flashes of better things, touches which remind one that this woman wrote “A Dog of Flanders ” and “ Two Little Wooden Shoes.” Of late, however, these hints of nobler possibilities have grown fewer and fewer.

Syrlin (represented as a retired actor of superlative genius and distinction) falls in love with the beautiful Lady Avillion, whose husband, wishing to rid himself of her, lays ingenious traps for her destruction. Lady Avillion, however, declines to step into them. She loves Syrlin a little, but she loves her good name and her position far better, and when he recklessly compromises both she rules him like an angry fishwife. Syrlin feels so hurt by her be haviour, that he incontinently shoots himself, and Lady Avillion is “left alone with her dead lo<-e, with her empty heart, with her false gods, alone for ever in the midst of the gay, great world.” This is the story of Syrlin. Robert Louis Stevenson. The Mutual Admiration Society at the Saville Club regard Mr R. L. Stevenson’s resolve to shut himself up for ever amid the tropic solitudes of Samoa with tolerant scepticism. They think that, like most of the whims of the erratic poet-novelist, this particular fad won’t last long. Stevenson is too much of a poseur to live alone long with only niger nudities as an audience. Some fine morning or dewy eve he will be seized with a hungry longing for the smoking-room at the Savile, with “dear Andrew ” in the chair, and the gracious Henley worshipping dumbly at his feet. Then will Robert Louis start off home in a hurry, and once amidst his satellites, again forget “Sunny Samoa and tho lithe brown damsels there.” Meanwhile wo are all anxiously looking forward to this gifted eccentric's new novel.