A pretty little volume is Mr. ANTHONY C. DEANE'S _Holiday Rhymes_ (HENRY
& CO). That its merits are high may be safely inferred from the fact
that the largest instalment of its verses came from the columns of _Mr.
Punch_. Mr. DEANE handles his varied metres with great skill, his style
is neat and pointed, his rhymes are above reproach, and his satire,
especially when he deals with literary and academic matters, hits hard
and straight. And, though the author is a Deane, he never sermonises.
But why not sermons in verse? I commend the idea to Mr. DEANE. He could
carry it out excellently, and earn the thanks of countless
congregations.
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Messrs. METHUEN are publishing a series of English Classics, edited by
Mr. W. E. HENLEY. They have started with _Tristram Shandy_, and have
persuaded a Mr. CHARLES WHIBLEY to introduce LAURENCE STERNE to the
reading public of the present day. "Permit me," says Mr. WHIBLEY, in
effect, "to present to your notice LAURENCE STERNE, plagiarist,
sentimentalist, and dealer in the obscene," a right pleasant and
comfortable introduction, setting us all at our ease, and predisposing
us at once in favour of the humble candidate for fame, whom Mr. WHIBLEY
alternately kicks and patronises. 'Tis pity (I have caught Mr. WHIBLEY'S
own trick) that Mr. WHIBLEY had not the writing of _Tristram Shandy_.
He, at any rate--so he seems to think--would never have outraged our
sense of decency, or moved us to "thrills of æsthetic disgust" by such
platitudes as _My Uncle Toby's_ address to the fly. RABELAIS, it appears
(Mr. WHIBLEY has got RABELAIS on the brain, he is Pantagruelocephalous),
RABELAIS may steal a horse, but STERNE must not look over a hedge. One
may have no wish to defend the "indecencies" of STERNE, but to condemn
them by contrasting them with the efforts of RABELAIS is a highly
modernised form of criticism, of which I should scarcely have supposed
even a WHIBLEY capable. On the whole, I cannot commend this
introduction, with its jingling, tin-pot, sham-fantastic style. I feel
inclined to cry out aloud with Master _Peter_, "Plainness, good boy; do
not you soar so high; this affectation is scurvy." And why is Mr.
WHIBLEY so hard upon the suburbs? His own manner of writing is
excellently calculated to fascinate Clapham, and move Peckham Rye to an
enthusiasm of admiration.
Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS have brought to a happy conclusion their
monumental work of republishing the CAMPBELL AND STEBBING translation of
_Thiers' History of the Consulate and Empire_. It is in twelve neatly
bound, conveniently sized, admirably printed volumes, illustrated with
many steel engravings. A little soon, perhaps, to talk of Christmas
presents. But if there be any amiable uncle or fairy godmother kept
awake o' nights wondering what they shall give for Christmas box to
Dick, Tom or Harry, here's the very thing for him, her and them. The
volumes comprise a library in themselves, and their study is a liberal
education. Since the world began there is no human life that possesses
for humanity an interest keener or more abiding than that of NAPOLEON.
Sometimes for a while it seems to sleep, only to awaken with freshened
vigour. The NAPOLEON cult is one of the most prominent features of
to-day. The Presses of Paris, London and New York teem with new volumes
of reminiscences, letters or diaries, all about NAPOLEON. THIERS'
massive work has stood the test of time and will ever remain a classic.
To us who read it to-day it has the added interest of its author's
personality, and the sad labour of his closing years. It is pretty to
note how THIERS, writing before the creation of the Third Empire, for
which this book did much to pave the way, shrinks from mentioning
Waterloo. For him it is "the battle after the day of Ligny and Quatre
Bras." We are well into his detailed account of the great fight before
we recognise the plains of Waterloo. THIERS does not disguise his effort
to extol the Prussians at the expense of the English. It was BLUCHER,
not WELLINGTON, who won the fight the Prussians call the Battle of La
Belle Alliance, NAPOLEON the Battle of Mont St. Jean, and the
presumptuous English Waterloo. The patriotic and therefore irascible
Frenchman little thought the day would dawn on France when it would
learn of a battle more calamitous even than Waterloo. Still less did he
perpend that he himself would make the personal acquaintance of the
Prussians in circumstances analagous to those amid which, on a July day
in 1815, three plenipotentiaries set forth from Paris to meet the
foreign invaders, and sue for terms that should, as far as possible,
lessen the humiliation of the occupation of the French capital.
I confess I am disappointed with ANTHONY HOPE'S _The God in the Car_.
Some of the dialogue is in his very best "Dolly" comedy-vein. The last
interview between hero and heroine is admirably written. But it is not
"in it" with his most originally conceived story of _The Prisoner of
Zenda_. The title requires explanation, and you don't get the
explanation until the climax, which explanation is as unsatisfactory as
the title. "The hazy finish is," quoth the Baron, "to my thinking,
artistic." "What becomes of the lady? what becomes of the lover?" are
questions the regular romance-reader will put. And the reply is
evidently the old one, on which no improvement is possible, "Whatever
you please my little dear, you pays your money and you takes your
choice." But it is well worth reading, and our friend "the Skipper," who
"knows the ropes," will find there are some, though not very frequent,
opportunities for his mental gymnastic exercise.