SHADOWS ON THE SNOW.

West Coast Times, Issue 129, 15 February 1866, Page 2

SHADOWS ON THE SNOW.

Mr Farjcon describes birnsolf modestly enough in his dedication to Mr Chas. Dickens, as " a young colonial author." In tho history of no one of tho groat musters of fiction has tho truth been moro verified than of -Dickons hinißolf, that authorship has its youth and its growth. Time was when tho greatest living novelist of the ago was known only to a sinal* oirolo, as the clover young man who was ongaged by a epoculativo publishing houso to •upply aomo letter-press illustrations to a set of humorous okotches. No doubt Mr Dickens' recollections will revert to this early yarfc of his ovm career, as ho roads tho simple dedioation to him of a first work of fiction by a New Zealand author. And as ho reads tho book through, ho will be sensiblo not only of tho admiration entertained for him as an author at the antipodos, but of tho permanent improssion his writings havo loft upon tho litornturo of tho day. Mr Farjeon is not a novico in tho art of literary composition. Ho has been successful as a dramatic writor, and has often employed his pen in the composition of lively skotches of mon and manners. But the littlo volunio befovo us is. we boliovo, his first sustained offort at th,o production of a story of life. That Dickens, ovidontiy his favorite author, has been accoptod as his model, with a certain fond dovotodnoss — is ovident, not moroly from tho < dedication itself, but from tho wholo stylo fend the whole structure of tho story. v Tho introductory passages are a speohnen of tho alliterative word-painting by which the earlier novels of Dickons especially wore so marked. Who can rend tho following, without knowing at once in what school tho author has studiod> and-of what master he is tho disciplo*? Our story commences in a quiet lane in Devonshire — in a nanow, quiet lane, where, in tho summer, the flowered hedgerows on either side shut out from view tho pretty homesteads in their rear, and where, in the winter, the naked ' branches threaded the air with snow-lines fantastically, while the sharp, thin twigs were whitely lighted up with pearl-drooping eyes of ioiole: A quiet, narrow lane, luxuriantly dotted with violets and forget me-nots, delicious in the drowsy summer, when the hum of bees could be faintly heard in the taDgled bush of honeysuckles and wild roses. A quiet, narrow lane, at the end of which came, suddenly and quaintly, a view of a shallow reaoh of a noble river, fresh from the sea, where the clear water lay calmly in its rustic shelter, while on its bosom glowed the shadow of i's gardened banks. A quiet, narrow lane, wherein, summer and winter, a thousand new graces unfolded themselves, and where Nature made holiday in every season of the year, Tho description of tho Christinas meeting at Reuben Harrild's looks almost like a veritable leaf ,out of tho " Cricket on tho Hearth," or some othor of tho dear old Christmas volumes of a long time npo. Every room in tho houso had such a bright look about it that thore was no mistaking tho time. Had old Father Timo himself suddenly made his appearance out of his weather-beaten rcsidenco, and told you it was all a mistake, •ndthat it wasn't Christmas, you wouldn't have believed him. Not Christmas f A nice •thing indeed ! As if you did not know better ! As if evory saucepan in the kitchen did not know hotter ! As if tho very sparks flying out of the fir© up tho chimney did not know better I Not Christmas I Ask Mrs Ramago. Who was Mrs Ramago ? Why Mrs Rainago was a Largo woman (the printor wilLploaso put a largo L to tho word) with a Large mouth, and a Largo noso, and Large oyes, and Largo limbs, and. a Largo way of assorting herself whioh thero was no resisting. And in Mrs Ramage wns merged Mr Ramage, who was a littlo man (tho printer will please hero put a littlo 1) with a liltlo mouth, and a j little nose, and littlo limbs, und such a very littlo way of assorting himself that no one took the slightest notice of him. If by tho merest ohanco, ho was mentioned, ho was •poken of as ono who had vested the wholo of his right, title, and interest in and to human life in tho wife of his bosom j who, indeed, had parted with it to her so thoroughly and \ completely that, it might be regarded as a •urn, which sho~addod up, subtracted from, multiplied, or divided, at her pleasure. Not Christmas ! Why hero wi£ Mrs Ramago, this tremendously solemn and inagnificontly Largo woman! actually laughing, and beaming kindly smiles upon poor littlo Mr Ramage,' who -hopped meekly about hor, and bobbed his littlo head in ecstasy at hor affability. - ' Not Christmas ! Ask tho Woys and tho Wyinors, of Messrs Wymer, Woy, and Wymer, tho celebrated firm which transacted all the legal business of tho district. The firm ofigiually was Wymer and Woy, but a femalo Wvnier, sister of the .senior partner, having in her own particular right become possessed of a sura of monoy which tho firm was anxious to pass to its credit, would onjy consent to invest it on the condition that her name was . added to the firm. As she was a strongminded and bony old maid, her condition waß accopted, and the titlo henceforth was Wymer, Woy, and Wymer. They were nil long, lank, and lean, and grew, a 9 did their parohmonts, more shrunken and rimvollod ovory term. LiftTto them was not made up of happinoss and sorrow, sympathy, lovo, affection, charity,, and othor suoh-liko trifles, .but, it was made up of Law. They talked nothing but Law— they knew nothing but Law — they broathod nothing but Law. They pjayed tho game of existonco witli law, and thoy played it so skilfully that they nevor missed tho odd trick. Yot oven they looked frostily pleasant, and thawed a littlo under tho genial influence of tho time ; dimly recoguising that kindliness at such a season was an enactment of some old law of humanity. And if thero was a shadow of a doubt on tho subjoot— if any misguided person still entertaiuod tho most infinitesimal particlo of disbeliof as to tho fact— ho had but to look at tho face of Laura Harrild, and the tiling was settlod. Thoro was nothing extraordinarily handsomo' about Laura— sho was simply a dear, lovable woman, gemmed with the graces of a happy, innocont youth. A pleasant gladnoss rested on hor faco, and shed its influenco upon all around her. Such women ore tho roses ofthoworldj happy tho man who has ono blooming in tho garden of his life. Thoro are, porhaps, few writers who have not at tho commencement of thoir literary caroer felt tho inspiration of some great master of their craft, and tried to follow with loving rovorenco in [his footsteps. Dickens is a writor, Avhose stylo is especially calculated to oxorciso this fascinating spoil j in its original freshness it has a magical charm, and happy is the author who can catch its inspiration without {bocoming Enslaved to its excesses. Dickens'B own stylo has grown upon him until it hat brcorao distorted and exaggerated. So far Mr. BWjcon has oscapod tho danger of imitating its eecentrioitios, and thoro is quite •Shadows on ma Snow; a Christmas Story, by B. L. Parjoon, with illustrations by N. One* valier. Pnnedin, Mr Hay,

sufficient cvidenoo in tho volumo before us of a strong and healthy originality, to assure us if any misgiving could bo felt on tho point, that the author, like many auothor who has, started with ainodrf, possesses the substantial olomonts ' *"^ pf ft stylo of his own. Much of Mr Parjeon'a character, painting is good. Hero is a photograph of littlo Dr. Bax, the good genius of tho story :— William was accompanied by a singularlooking individual, scarcely fivo feet in height, but with a head so enormous that it might, properly have belonged to one of tho sons of Anak. This man was an institution in tho' neighborhood ; had coino many years ago from nobody knew whore, and had gradually workod hhnsolf into the confidonce, and gained the love and esteem, of every man, woman, and child, for twenty miles round. Nothing more was known of him than that his name was Bax, that ho was a doctor, and that ho practised his profession more love than for gain. Doctor Bax was welcomed everywhere, and by everybody. Ho took an interest in overything. Women would spoak of him as Dear Doctor Bax, and husbands were not jealous to hear; children would rim out to meet him, and "Laocoon" his legs without putting him out of temper ; young men in lo vo would press him into thoir confidence ; and .young women would* whisper thoir littlo troubles into his ear. He had a kind word and honest advice for all, and never seemed tired of doing good gratuitously. Now, ono would have thought that tho very sight of such a man would have been sufficient to induce somo sign of cheerful recognition. But not so thought Stephon Winkworth 5 ho ovidontly looked upon the littlo doctor as an intrusion, and did not caro to conceal his feelings in tho matter. But as for Doctor Box, bless your soul ! sour looks had no moro effect upon him than upon tho Sphynx, and ho returned Stephen's surly recognition with a smilo genial enough to havo molted all tho ico in every water-butt in Devonshire. This Stephen himself is a bitter morose person, known as " tho woman hater;" surly, ungainly, a, " dried up piece of anatomy, with overy drop of tho milk of human kindness squeezed cleaii out of him." Ho distils tho poison of jealousy into tho ear of tho hero of the story, and so fabricates tho t'plot." Stephen was deceived by his wife, and deems all deceptive, except^ his maimed daughter, tho only remaining object of his lovo. Tho following passage is good : — A^ A girl, dwarfed and mis-shapen, with a face on which quiet grief had so firmly set its seal that an expression of gladness \ipon it seemed almost an impossibility. A girl, scaveo. eighteen years of ago, without a trace of youth in hor form or countenunce. Yes, one. Humpbacked, ghastly as she was, massos of silken hair enveloped her, and gavo hor something that belongs to the grace of youth. As the man looked down tipon hor crippled form, a shudder of remorse passed across his features, and ho stooped to lay his cheek against hor upturned face, caressingly. Ho had been tho cause of the child's deformity, dashing her when an infant to tho earth in a mad paroxysm of jealously. Father and daughter aro sketched hi the lines that follow :— 1 Well, my lass,' cried ho, •wo must mako ourselves fine to-night. Reuben Harrild's house will be filled with gay company, to wolcomo Christmas, forsooth ! as if Christmas could not go on well onough without their torn-foolery.' Nothing but a sigh answered him for a time. Presently — * Father,' sho said, ' I 'wish .you would not epeak so lightly of Christmas. It is the only holiday wo havo through tho year. It is a good time.' ' No time is good for me, child, when I sco you thus.' and his voice trembled with strong emotion as he turned her hair from her face. ' I havo no holiday while you are suffering. 1 'Yes, yes,' sh« answered dreamily, 'it is wearisome, wearisome But I am not quite unhappy, father. It cannot last for over. I often feel 1 contented with my pain when I think of bye-and-byo.. And Christmas is a good time.' 'I could think so, child, if I saw you, as I see others, enjoying tho tune as they do. All times would bo good for me— aye, oven mo, whom all men hate ' 1 No, no, father,' she pleaded. 1 All timos would bo gaod for me,' ho conj -turned, unheeding tho interruption, ' if I could «^ tee you, as I sco others of your ago, happy and light-hearted— if I could sco you as I sco you in my dreams, as I should sco you but for tho blight that fell upon my heart when you were, thank God 1 oh, thank God ! too young to romerabor. Forgivo mb, child, for causing these tears. There, let mfc kiss them away.' ' It cannot bo helped, fathor / she said, with a kind of pitiful humour. ' Doctor Bax said I could never como strajght again ;' and sho oast a look of pity upon her stunted shape. ' And I might bo worse you know. I can see, and hear, and speak j all these aro blessings of which I might havo been doprivod, and so I am thankful. When I look up to the sky, on such an eveniug as this, I feel almost happy. And tho time » good, fathor, is it not? Christmas is a good time.' But no assonting answer fell from his lips. Ho stood there, with his poor maimed child by his side, ga7Jng at. tho floating clouds, and fighting with his heart. 'I could bo happier— l know' l could bo happier, if you and tho world were different to each other — if you did not look upon it as your enemy. But it cannot be, father, can it V ' No, child, it oannot be.' * 'You aro good and kind to me, father. Stoop down and kiss mo. I love you as dearly as I know you love me. Why should you so lovo mo and bo bitter with all others ? All men aro not bad.' ' Child, child, do not torturo mo.' ' And nature is full of goodnoss,' sho con-" tinued, still sweetly pleading; 'and sco, fathor, soo ! there is my angel. 1 And pointing upward, tho child showed him a largo gray cloud, with white fleecy wings, which hor imagination had quaintly fashioned into the figuro of an angel. ' Look at his arms, extended as if Ko were blessing us and the time. I enn sometimes almost distinguish his faco. His wings aro stretching now as if ho would enfold all heaven to his bosom. I never saw him looking bo grand before I know ho is at his best because of tho time Say that Christmas is a good time, and mako mo happy.' ' Christinas is a good tinio, child,' ho said, almost doggedly. ' No, no ! not liko that ! From your heart, fathor — I want yon to say it from your hoart. Look lipon mo, fathor, look upon mo, with gentle thoughts, and then sit down by ray side, for I must toll you something or I shall

The "somothing" is tho lovo of the poor her hopeloßS lovo for William Fairfleld, tt whom Laura Harrild is betrothed. •Do you know my secret, father ?' Bho whispered without moving her head. 'Iguees it, dear child.' ' I cannot help it. I have always loved him. He is so brave and strong. And there it is, you wV«lie Bftid recovering horsolf a little. "He

bo brave and strong, and I such a poor cripple. What is my life worth ; is it worth having, I wonder, in such a shapo ? If I wero anybody else, and could sco such a' one as myself, I should look down with pity upon her, and wonder whether she would not be happior if she were dead. You havo plenty of money, father V He nodded assent to her question. 'Yefc what is the use of it? Money will not buy love, will it 1 Money will not make me different to what I am. I wonder if all homes are like ours. There io no light in it ; it is desolate and deserted. You and I, father, are like two hermits, shut out from tho world. Must it always be bo ? Surely there mußt be something . better in life than experience has shown mo. There is somthing better in it. Thero is love in it, which, ah me ! I shall never, never have.' Stephen ' and Alice, and Dr Bax, though not tho most prominonfc actors in this little drama of lifo, stand out in boldest relief upon tho canvas from their strong individuality of character. Tho action of tho storjfwis soon told. William Fnirfiold and Laura HAwild aro lovers who aro to bo married " beforo next Christmas." On tho Christmas Evo, at , Warloycoinbo, whoro a gay par(.y of rovellors are assembled, William sees tho first " shadow on tho snow,"— that of a man coming on the sceno by Btealth, and embracing his botrothed. His jealous rago excited, ho rushes from tho Bpofc, Suddenly complotes an old half-arranged bargain for tho salo of his farm, and without a farowoll sails to tho colonies. On tho snow ranges of Now Zealand other "[shadows" flit beforo him, and wo quote tho passage bolow as a specimen of tho more fanciful stylo of our author :—: — He was not sorry that thoy had loft for a while. Ho wantod an opportunity of being nlono w.ith his thoughts. Standing by Jbho tont door, ho watched his mates- treading their way carefully along until they wore out of sight, and then ho wont in ana threw himself upon his stretcher. As ho lay dozily dreaming, a strange fancy haunted him. Ho thought lie heard a cry for help sounding from afar off. Ho roused himself, and listened intently. Although tho wind had lulled, ho heard no sound, and ho dozed off ngain — only to bo a^aiu awakened by tho seoining cry. It was but imagination $, of that he was certain j but ho could not rest, so ho roso and wont to tho door. Nothing but tho snow-covorcd peaks and hills could bo scon. No sign of liio- was near ; and a shivering feoling of desolation ' crept over him, as ho thought that perhaps ho irtight never look Upon mortal faco again. As tliis impression grew \ipon him, tho scono reminded him strangely of his last Christmas Evo at Warloycombo. Ho looked around, almost oxpecting to eco tho queer faces and tho shadows of his dream. Tho hill, down which had swept tho avalancho, was boforo him ; ho rould not see tho faces ho had soon peeping down from tho trco at Warleycombo in which ho had fallen asleep, but ho saw Yes, he saw the great hill uodding to him grimly. By degrees it assumed the shape of a monster man, and his fevered fancy peopled its rugged sides with snow-elvea and shadows, oil staring at him with glittering eyes. For a few moments, he gave himself up to the vision, and allowed it to grow upon him. Yes, the Shadows started up from the ground on all sides, and surrrounded him with their waving arms. •As he advanced among them, they retreated, l.ut beckoned him still to come. He felt as though drawn forward by an invisible power, and he Jiad already wandered some distance from the tent, when, overpowered by nervous excitement, he sank down half inscusiblo upon the snow. He did not lose his senso of consciousness ; he was too nervously-wakeful for that ; but everything around him assumed au air of strange unreality. He heard voices in the air, voices that filled him with dread. ' Crush him into the snow! 1 they soid. ' Bury him a hundred miles down ! Freezo for ever the heart of the man who doubled Love, ,the Purifier ! ' And as they spoke, ho saw the Monster ManHill bend threateningly over him, lower, lower, lower ! until he feared lest it should topple and crush him ouf of existence. • 'My lifo is oyer,' he thought. * Hopo has departed from it. Love has melted out of it. The woman I adored was falso !* • No !' came an awfully deep voice upon his ear,- and the word was eolioed and ie-eohoed a thousand limes by tho surrounding hills. Then the echoes as suddenly ceased ; and, like a bellnotoupon the rarified air, clear and sweot, stole a voice which smote him with mingled pain and pleasure. 'No 1' it said, * tho woman you loved was not false. Why did you judge unquestioningly ? Miserable atom as you aro • it would bo a fitting punishment if you wore loft Io dio in your despair ! She whom you loved is pure— pure as tho snow which may be your grave. What are you, that you should destroy and wither her young life ? Tear from tho roso of Lovo the parasite Doubt, and awake from your dream I1I 1 The voice ceased ; the Shadows disappeared ; and William rose _ from the ground, and rubbed his eyea. Hia limbs wore almost benumbed. Ho had wandered far from the tent ; and ho was returning thitherward, when a dark shade upon the snow, some distance off caught his, oye. This Bhadow was ono of not a more fancy but of a substantial substance. Tho bodies of two men luy at his feet, apparently dead. On searching for signs of lifo, ho found upon ono of thorn a pocket-book, and as ho opened it, " in his hand lay tho picluro of Laura Harrild, looking at him with her tearful oyes." Tho rept is soon told. Tho man who is restored from his swoon, turns out to bo Laura's brother, banished from homo for some early fault, and whoso stealthy ombraco by his sister on tho ovo of his quitting England has cast its fatal Shadow on tho Snow at Warleycombo. Lovor and brother, enriched by their gold mining episode, embark for England, and tho story is vory dramatically wound up in tho last chapter headed " Christmas again at Warlcj combe." Tho penitent son is restored to lm homo, tho wandering lover to tho arms of liis betrothed, Alice is cured of hor hopolesslovo.old Stcphon Winkworth converted to a more gonial faith, and a more mau-and-woman-loving tompov through tho pationt teaohing of Ida deformod child j and littlo Doctor Bax lins abundant cause to rub his hands with dolight and lot a glow of satisfaction suffuse his face at tho " All's well that ends well" of tiio grand finalo. For tho last time aro soon tho Shadows on tho Snow — tho prosago of tho roturn of the .wan-dcrers-^artfully contrived by • tho doctor to break tho shock of tho surpriso. On tho wholo wo must say tho story is capitally told, and wo shall look for othor and more elaborate productions from Mr Farjeon's pen. Ho has only given us a taste of his powor. Certainly ho has established his claim to take high rank amongst tho very limited ordor of colonial authors. Wo know of no other novolotto producod in the colonies of equal litorary merit. " Shadows on the Snow" is illustrated by two exquisite illustrations from tho ponoil of Mr N. OhevaHer, We regret; that ono of tlieso is

printed on tho eovev of tho book. It should at least havo been reproduced in one of the inner pages, so as to bo preserved from rough outrago as a fine delicato piece of art. This is, however, a small point on which to bo oritical. Wo have now something moro grave to urgo against " Shadows on the Snow." It is not based upon any question as to its literary inorits. But we think it will be admitted to havo weight when vo remember that the book is the production of a colonial author assisting in the creation of a colonial literature of notion. Its wholo tendoncy is to associate tho home feoling with the old country, The hero of tho storyjleaves happiness behind him when he emigrates to Australia, and leaves Australia to find happinoss awaiting him on his return. It is not a story of pleasant family life in tho new world. It is an episode in tho history of a man, in whose experience colonial life is merely a hurried chaptor of adventure and suffering. William Fairfiold comes to tho colonies as a wanderor, just as wo have heard of many a man disappointed in his affections) and in consequence disgusted with tho world, travelling in "jjthe far Eist," burying himself in secluded nooks, courting relief and distraction from brooding memories in the dissipation and oxciteinent of foreign travel, thon returning to tho bosom of " Homo "ns tho haven of rest. This is surely a falso moral for a colonial novelist to point, however much it may adorn his talo. It should bo hisaim to depict tho happior phases of colonial lifo, and to toach tho Old World how Christmas can bo onjoyod with all its toudor memories and hallowo'd associations ns purely and ns thankfully in tho homesteads of tho far south as in those of tho old land.