The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 2, 1898, Page 22

HALLAM 1 Z Ve 7] O cast a retrospec- % tive glance over the 5 work that has been done inliterary fields during the past twelve months is to court disappoint- ment and a feeling akin to gloom at the paucity of what re- ally constitutes lit- erature that has found its way into print. We shall not be accused either of undue pessimism or exaggeration when we make the state- ment that the good books of the year may- be counted on the fingers of two hands. Those that will live, that will be accorded a permanent place in bookdom, may be counted on the fin- gers of one; but they are the best— entitled to rank as masterpieces; and they will afford valuable material for the writers and readers of future gen- erations. Nevertheless, with sorrow do 'we say it, they resemble the righteous in the biblical city—their number is swallowed in the preponderating and heterogeneous mass of that which is trivial and worthless, in the “mixed multitude” element of literature. Admitting the truth of the postulate that the reader of to-day desires of all things to be amused, that he has little leisure or inclination for aught else than fiction, we shall first notice this branch of the writer's craft. The out- put of good fiction for the year has been small, and we are inclined to award the palm in this class to Mr. James Lane Allen’s “The Choir Invisi- ble.” This is a striking and powerful story, the framework of which had previously been exposed In a short sketch by the same author entitled “John Gray.” Like Thoreau and Stev- enson and Blackmore, Mr. Allen has done a great work in bringing us closer to natur His “Kentucky Cardinal” was styled a perfect calendar of Na- ture's year, and the characterization is true to an even greater extent of the later book, which is as fully a story of nature as of life. Mr. Allen’s Gama- liel at whose feet he has sat with profit to himself and delight to his readers is unquestionably Mr. Thomas Hardy, from whose pen we have had a notable book this year. “The Well Beloved” isa gloomy story of a disillusionized seeker after an ideal, but it is relieved by the charming descriptions of scenery and reflections on life and character which place his writings above most of the fiction of the day. The untimely death of Gecrge du Maurier lends a pathetic interest to “The Martian,” which appeared in bound form, after running as a serial. It has been claimed that the principle “De Mortuis” should not apply to the work of authors, and that literary me- rit should be' judged apart from any personal consideration. We find it im- possible to apply the principle in the case of the creator of “Trilby.” Let the reader consider the position of this able delineator of English draw- ing-room life whose energies were bent toward success in one branch of art and who suddenly ac- quired fame in another. His “Peter Ibbetson” was received with coldness; many had never heard of it. Then with startling unanimity all the world enthusiastically threw up its hat. And over what? The story of a grisette in the Quartier Latin! - But, for a lit- erary dessert, it was a most delecta. ble dish, and assuredly. a pronounced success; was it therefore too much to anticipate a strengthening of the popu- lar author’s style in his. later work? Was it not reasonable to expect some- thing better than we.received in *“The Martian”? For, apart from some ex- cellent pictures of schoolboy life in France, the book can only be called mediocre, and inferior to the tardily recognized “Peter Ibbetson.” It will be readily understood that the canons of good taste forbid further comment on so painful a matter. Kipling’s “Captains Courageous” and Stevenson's “St. Ives” have aiso made their second bow to the public after a debut in the magazines. The first might be classed as a-juventle, a light, “s¥wer rat derives jts THE SAN. FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, JANUARY 2, 1898. —and their Aathgfs airy and ephemeral composition, mainly remarkable for clever word-painting in pastel of the Grand Banks fishermen. It may safely be prophesied that Mas- ter Harvey Cheyne will not divide lau- rels with Private Terence Mulvaney. Robert Louis Stevenson’s “St. Ives” suggests the author’s farewell to his loving public; it reads as if by some strange, clairvoyant instinct, he knew that this was to be his last story, and, knowing this, had put as much as pos- sible of his own strongly marked per- sonality into the character of the hero. Upon A. T.Quiller-Couch was bestowed the task of completing the book whose writing was interrupted by the death of Stevenson. The highest praise that can be accorded “Q's” work i§ sum- med up in the assertion that it is weil nigh impossible to discern where the work of the pupil dovetails into that of the preceptor. The year that has just closed has marked the advent of but one or two authors of promise. “Benjamin Swift” has come forward with his “Nancy Noon,” published first, we believe, in England. This young writer has dem- onstrated the possibility of the Scotch story, with the ripe, rich and mellow kailyard flavor, but minus the dialect. The shrewd philosophy and originality of his progenitors is all there, and he can be assured of the support of a large audience in his very apparent at- tempt to deal a vital blow at certain much praised and little understood il- lustrators of the “hoot mon” theory. There has also arisen in England a ri- Val of Mr. W. Clarke Russell, in the person of W. W. Jacobs. Whether this gentleman, who is a clerk in the Lon- don postoffice, has ever been to sea is not known, but he is thoroughly ac- quainted with the ways of the modern mariner “from the deck up,” and uses his knowledge ably in “Many Car- goes."” With a passing reference to Ibsen’s “John Gabriel Borkman,” a bitter study in pessimism; to Anthony Hope" “Phroso,” a good “shilling shocke: and to Mr. Richard Harding Davis’ “Soldiers of Fortune,” a nondescript production which we decline to class- ify, we arrive at that subdivision of story telling called by the Germans “Tendenz-Fiction,” the novel with a purpose, the story with a moral. Writ- ers of this kind of literature have been busy the past twelve months. Early in the year came Olive Schreiner with her “Trooper Peter Halkett of Mash- onaland.” Then our charming compat- riot, Mrs. Gertrude Atherton, with a heroine rejoicing in the romantic pat- ronymic, “‘Patience Sparhawk.” Ed- ward Bellamy's “Equality” arrived third, and Mrs. Sarah Grand a close fourth with “The Beth Book.” The reader was scarcely aroused from a mournful contemplation of this array of talent when lo! Hall Caine appeared on the scene packing his “Christian,” and the greatest of all these is “The Christian.” Had Mr. Hall Caine foreseen the storm that would gather about his ears as the result of the publication of his book he might have hesitated in his urgent instructions to his publishers. He might have foreborne to inform the newspaper men in London that "Arry had read the proofs of his 'Ampstead ‘eath scene; that the Duke of Nocash had performed a like service for him in the matter of horse racing and note- brokers; that Dr. Sawbones had care- fully revised his admirable descrip- tions of the doings of hospital nurses and internes, and that the eminent danseuse, Miss Lottie Highkick, had provided him with the latest wrinkles in the matter of stage undress. But no' With a flare and a blare of trum- pets “The Christlan” was launched. How was it received? In a manner that befitted the trash of which the book is composed. The London Times contemptuously dismissed the work with five lines, sandwiched in be- tween foreign markets and home raile. Other competent critics were ejually merciless, and one, also in a London review, scathingly ref: to Hall Caine as “tne arch he prostitute of the Fnglish larguage.” * This treatment was deserved, for the work is one of the most astigmatic pictures of Jife that we have ever pursued. Its characters gather what little strength .they. pos- sess from the same source whence the iewonsness, and its Perc is polluted. by the foul touch of Mr, Caine’s hand. From th2 name of the book which appears on .the titla page to the quotation from the Episco- pal marriage service which precedes the word “Finis,” ‘“The Christian” is a fraud and a sham, destined to ob- literate what fame the author had ac- quired in his previously issued works. The impartial reader can satisfy him- self of the truth of our observations by instituting a comparison between the respective styles of Mr. Hall Caine and Mrs. Humphrey Ward, each of whom endeavors to ‘preach.a sermon. In the one is noticeabie the striving for effect, the appeal to-the gallery, the PROF- T JSLOANE cheap manner melodramatic; in the other a real lesson is imparted and driven home with all the force that a gentle character can lend to it. Pop- ular “The Christian” may be, but the popularity -will be short. lived because it is gained by pandering to diseased literary tastes. Comes now Mrs. Gertrude -Atherton with “Patience Sparhawk and Her Times,” which, to quote from a letter addressed by the lady to the writer of these notes, purports to be “the truest American novel that has ever ap- peared.” But is it? What has Mrs. Atherton attempted to show? That New York society is slowly becoming a replica of European high life? That vapid inanities form the bulk of the conversation of New York society women? Granted that this is so, can it be offered as sufficient excuse for a 500-page novel? We took occasion, on the appearance of this book, to seri- ously condemn Mrs. Atherton for having forsaken her legitimate birth- right, the field of California romantic literature, for the mess of pottage of- fered by the devotees of the erotic novel and of sensational journalism. Then came a letter to The Call from the lady herself, admitting that the review was a fair one, but attempting Justification on the plea, “What is the use of writing stories that no one will read?” and asserting that Californians themselves were indifferent to the work of their native writers. We endeavored to show that this was not the case, and in reply gave it as our conviction that until Mrs. Atherton returns to the niche she formerly adorned she will produce nothing worthy of note in a literary way; and by this statement we must abide. The case of Mrs. Sarah Grand ex- hibits many points of similarity to that of Gertrude Atherton. Mrs. Grand labors under the misapprehension that she has been placed upon this earth as a crusader and that her mission is to reform all existing abuses, real or imagined. She, too, adopts long-winded methods of pleading her cause, and her latest production, *“The Beth Book,” shows that much talent has been wasted upon wheat that has been thrashed and rethrashed. It would be well were the author of “The Heavenly Twins” to quit didactics and devote more attention to the study of child- life, in which direction she has proved her ability. The revival of interest in the origin of American nationality has led to the publication of a number of novels based upon the study of the earlier periods of our history. Some have lit- erary importance, while others that are useful and meritorious have very slight value as fiction. Dr. S. Weir Mitchell's ““Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker,” is, per- haps the most important book of this kind that has so far appeared, and ob- jections to it have mainly been ad- vanced on the score of its length. Much good work may be looked for in future from Dr. Mitchell. In England, the star historical novel has been ““On the Face of the Waters,” by Mrs. Flora Annie Steel, who has performed the remarkable feat of con- veying a clear idea of the forces that led to the Indian mutiny. Long resi- dence in India, combined with a most attractive style of storytelling, com- mend Mrs. Steel's work to the reader, while careful study assures a sub- stratum of truth in her novels. The rapidly successive calls for extra edi- tions indicate to what extent Mrs. Steel has enthroned herself in the af- fections of the public. A second Kip- ling she certainly is not, but no fault will be found with her on this account. Small as has been the output of good fiction during the year, the volumd of poetry has been even smaller. The most notable contribution in the way of verse has unquestionably been Rud- vard Kipling’s “Recessional.” At once an invocation and a warning, its ma- jestic rhythm has met with apprecia- tion the world over. In the height of the celebration of the sixtieth anni- versary of the Queen's reign, an event unparalleled in the annals of history, Kipling appears to have been moved by the same spirit which animated Job when he offered sacrifices after each of the festivals of his sons, saying, “It may be that my sons have sinned.” It was a lofty thought which actuated Mr. Kipling, the real laureate of Eng- land, to pen the verse: If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— . . Such boastings as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without: the Law- Lord God of Hosts, he with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget. Solemn words, these, and pregnant with meaning to a nation inclined to put her trust “in recking tube and iron shard.” And it is singular that these noble verses should have called forth @ response from another poet whose “Year of Shame” was equally an ap- peal and a burning denunclation of Britain's’ policy in the East. William Watson saw fit to take up the chal- lenge and incidentally to expound his own peculiar theological doctrines. “Lest we forget,” said Kipling. And the answer came, quick and sharp, from the agnostic William Watson: Best, by remembering God, say some, We keep our high imperial lot. Fortune, I fear, hath oftener come When we forgot—when we forgot! A lovelier faith their happier crown, But history laughs and weeps it down! In the domain of history we have had this year the second, third and fourth volumes of Professor Willlam Milligan Sloane’s “‘Life of Napoleon Bonaparte,” a work that is remarkable principally for its perfectly impartial treatment of its great subject. Professor Sloane re- gards the “Man of Destiny” as no ob- ject for hero worship, yet he defends him from the attacks of prejudiced writers. The fourth volume of Justin Me- Carthy’s “History of Our Own Times,” bringing that notable work down to the diamond jubilee, is another valuable contribution to history, as is the same author’s “Life of Gladstone,” issued several weeks ago. There have been those who complained that Mr. McCar- thy permits his prejudices to influence his writings, but this cannot be said of the two works named. The well known member for North Longford possesses a remarkable faculty for giving in a few lines a lifelike picture of a person- age, and his sketches of Parnell, Dis- raeli, Cardinal Manning, Tennyson, Browning and Stevenson are really re- markable studies of these men. The history of the Victorian era as it is written by Justin McCarthy is worth reading even by those who read for entertainment only and we commend his fourth volume and the “Life of Gladstone” to any who desire a clear exposition of the Irish question in all its phases. ‘Works on travel have been few and far between this year. Two large and handsome volumes, verv completely il- lustrated, contain that record of stren- uous endeavor, the journal of Nansen's trip to the Pole—“Farthest North.” Here again the reader associates the personality of the author with his work, and regrets ill-advised action mani- fested in large advertising with its ac- companiment of sordid statistics. Nan- sen’s courage was put to a terrible test in those three years which he spent in the frozen regions, and he has received ample recognition from learned socie- ties the world over on this account. With these laurels. the highest which can be gained, he should be content. The native dignity of his race should prevent him from exploitation by cheap commercial methods. Dr. Nansen has fallen a victim to the prevalent craze, and that in a way which is not to his credit. Turn we now to the most important branch of literature, to that division which treats of men and is therefore possessed of the strongest human in- terest, biography. It is to this division of belles lettres that our introductory remarks most nearly apply, and one feels almost compensated for disap- pointment in other directions by the wealth of good matter that has poured in from the three or four competent bi- ographers whose work has cast a ray of light, across the path of the ha- rassed book reviewer. In point of or- der there is Captain Mahan's “Life of Nelson.” It seems strange that it should have been left to an American to write a standard history of an alien commander. Of course there are the histories of Southey, of Nicholas and of Russell, to name the three best, but Captain Mahan is the only biographer who has done justice to one of the greatest characters in English naval annals, his work at the same time be- ing free from the technicalities which are ever a stumbling block to the lay reader. Particularly worthy of admira- tion is his treatment of the unfortun- ate episode of Lady Hamilton, which has never received careful attention, former historians being often blinded by the prejudice acquired from con- temporary writers. The life of Nelson as narrated by Captain Mahan will without question take precedence over all others, and it is gratifying to note that this opinion is shared by every competent critic on both sides of the water. With a word mentioning “The Let- ters of Benjamin Jowett,” ““The Mem- ories of Hawthorne,” by his daughter, Rose Hawthorne Lathrop; “The Ro- mance of Isabel, Lady Burton,” and the “Private Life of the Queen,” all of which have received notice In the book columns of The Call during the past twelve months, we come to “Margaret Ogilvy,” J. M. Barrie’s memoir of his mother, which merits some comment. and that of a not altogether flattering character. Mr. Barrie has fallen into the pit that opened to receive Forster when the latter wroce his “Life of Charles Dickens.” At that time it was said that the proper title for the book should have been “The Life of Forster, With Feminiscences of Charles Dick- ens.” With ‘equal force might it be HALL CAINE said that Mr. Barrie's book should have been called “James M. Barrie as u son; how he carried shawis an& made beds and scoured plates in his own home, and went to London and wrote books about his friends and relatives. and the strange faces he ‘tade while writ- ing them; what he thought of things in general, and himself in particular; with full details of his daily habits and do- mestic life, and occasional glimpses of his mother.” If Mr. Barrie could have suppressed the all too prominent ego in his work, one could have pardoned the questionable taste of issuing the book at all. The literary event of the year has been the publication of the “Life of Tennyson” simultaneously in England and in this country. We have pre- viously taken occasion to point out the debt that is due to Hallam, the poet’s son, for his uniform good taste and judgment, for his correct sense of the fitness of things, and for his regard not only for effectiveness but for truth and justice. Hallam Tennyson appears to have completely recognized the aver- sion which Tennyson had for anything that might savor of self-advertisement or self-glorification, and has preferred ' to let the life of Tennyson be told from his letters and other written memoran- da. For this reason there is a certain disjointedness in the work and some obscurity in places. This, however, is excusable when one remembers that the facts of the book were compiled from more than forty thousand letters, a task requiring consummate tact. The value of the “Memoir of Tenny- son” is enhanced by the fact that very little authoritative matter was pub- lished regarding the poet during his lifetime. His retiring habits made him no mark for the omnipresent inter- viewer, and it was perhaps this charac- teristic which gave rise to the idea that Tennyson was a dreaming sybarite, an epicurean, averting his eyes from all _that was unpleasant, that failedto meet ¢ with his approval. It was fortunate that Lady Tennyson lived long enough to correct the proofs of the memoir, which was sent to press but a few months after her death, and the book will pass to posterity as the true record of the life of a man whose verse was the classical expression of the philosophie, metaphysica! and literary bias of his century. In bringing to a close this review of the more important works that have seen the light during the past twelve months, we are impeélled to a reitera- tion of the statement made in these columns some weeks ago that the giants of the pen are dead; that mod- ern literature finds its prototype in the kodak: that our writers are photog- raphers of little obscure scenes that few care for; that modern literature has no heart, that there is no mighty love in it. It would really appear as if literature had become feminine; that it is to-day written by women for women. As we have pointed out, apart from one or two notable works of fiction and the same number of impor- tant biographies, there Fas been noth- ing issued in book form this year that can really be classed under the head of literature that will live. And what we said at the beginning of last year touching the nom-appear- ance of the really great American novel may be echoed at this writing. We hold with Professor Harry Thurs- ton Peck that the great American novel, for whose appearance every de- vout resident of these United States should pray thrice daily, will not be a novel constructed on hitherto unheard of outlines,” but one that is an active delineation of the life that is lived in this huge colossus of a country. We appreciate the complicated difficulties that beset an author who tries to limn in a large way the life and attributes of the American people, but we do not yet despair of discovering the Ameri- can novelist who shall be truly great, who shall deal with no small, isolated section of the country nor with the petty acts of its inhabitants, but one who will be entitled to that-place in the affections of American péople that Thackeray and Scott and Dickens and Stevenson occupy in the hearts of, our trans-Atlantic cousins. EMANUEL ELZAS.' JUSTIN L RTHY. XX o