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Literature.

Our remarks about the defects of the publishing system (or want of system) in the colonies are borne out in the case of a volume of poems bearing date 1889, The Spirit of the Rangatira, and other Ballads, by Jessie Mackay, a New Zealand author. It is a neat little volume of 112 pages, published by a Melbourne house at a prohibitive price, and quite unknown to most of the New Zealand booksellers. It was not without difficulty that we could procure a copy. The writer, in a modest preface, introduces the verses as « trifles, » and claims « neither depth of reflection nor originality of expression; » yet after taking all shortcomings into account, there are verses in the book worthy of preservation, and that may be taken as a promise of better things to come. The most noticeable and ambitious are the three on native subjects— « The Spirit of the Rangatira, » « Te Wanahu Corner, » and « The Taniwha's Farewell. » The first and the last of these are founded on incidents related in « Old New Zealand, » but considerable liberty has been taken with the narrative. To the first—a tale of Maori necromancy—is prefixed a very prosaic note, in which the manifestations are ascribed to « jugglery, and perhaps ventriloquism. » This matter-of-fact assertion may fairly be questioned. Science has not yet succeeded in pigeon-holing such phenomena, and labelling them with a Greek name; but the easy theory of fraud does not account for all that took place in these old heathen séances. As for the ballads themselves, they are a long way above the average of metrical versions of Maori stories. The writer has wisely shunned the « Hiawatha » measure— almost invariably chosen by amateurs for subjects of this kind, and most exasperating to the reader. The following stanzas are from the title poem:

Dark was the shadows; the firelight was dying;
The last flicker played
On still living faces that hushed even sighing;
And in the black shade
Low knelt the Tohunga.
« Come back from Reinga! » he muttered in kneeling;
« Come for an hour:
Speak, if the old human love and the feeling
On spirits have power
In their dwelling immortal. »
Then he spoke in a language that no creature knoweth
But souls of the dead;
And then was no sound but the river that floweth;
The silence was dread,
And fearful the waiting.
Then a voice from the darkness came hollow and wailing
Like wind in the night,
And a cold horror crept, and our faces were paling
In wordless affright
At the bodiless Presence.
« Peace to you, peace to you, ever and ever,
O tribe and O friends!
He who in life shall return to you never
A love-greeting sends
From the land of the spirits. »

The theme is not equally well maintained throughout—in fact these ballads all fall short in power and vigor of expression. In the native names, the accent is often thrown on a wrong syllable; but the rules of accentuation in Maori are such that it is always difficult to introduce native words into English verse. There are three or four pieces in the Scottish dialect, of which « Strath Erran » is perhaps the best—it is homely and pathetic. « The Bairns' Hymn » —in reference to the dying words of Dr. Guthrie—is genuine and tender; but—like all such attempts—somewhat dilutes the idea, and detracts from the simplicity of the words themselves. The least ambitious ballads contain the best work. Take, for example, these stanzas from « Lorelei »:

Only the spirits of purest mould
Can list to the far-off harmonies,
And the mystery of the strains unfold
Of the birds, the wind, and the roll of seas-
Can hear in mortal songs the ring
Of joy and sorrow and love and mirth—
You know not, Lorelei, what you sing;
You are but earthy of the earth.
Light from light eternal springs;
Into the dark shall darkness go;
The pride of the spell and the voice that sings
In the dawn to come shall be mute and low.

« The Land of Might-have-Been » is one of the best-finished pieces in the book, and the idea of the poem is well maintained. It concludes thus:

The low sweet voice was heard again;
« Was man but made for earthly joy?
Are not the pangs of mortal pain
Given to purge the soul's alloy
And doom of error that has been?
"What is is best, though we cannot see
Beyond the mist that wraps us round
Nor pierce the haze to watch the free
And lofty mountains, snowy-crowned,
That skirt the land of What-has-Been.
« And so 'tis well whate'er befall,
Though hope is crushed and fate is sealed;
The Lord above, he ruleth all,
Behold his plan of life revealed.
Nor mourn the things that might have been. »

« The Mourners » is the best ballad in the collection. In subject it suggests Whittier's beautiful poem of « The Sisters. » We will not quote further, but would indicate « Nar-kissos, » « The Centenarian, » « In the Temple, » and « The Last Prayer, » as all fine pieces of work, as varied in measure and expression as they are in subject. The author has an ear for melody, a good mastery of the various measures, and judgment in selecting such as harmonize best with her theme. In local subjects she is weakest. The best of these are « The Last Prayer » and « The Temple. » There are too many explanatory notes—if inserted at all, they should form an appendix. Care should be taken that Maori words are correctly printed—slips like pah and pukaki are a disfigurement. If the writer keeps to serious, as distinguished from over-ambitious work, and cultivates the creative aud reflective powers which she possesses in far greater measure than she takes credit for, she will make her mark on the literature of the Colony. There is not the taste for poetry among colonial readers that we would like to see; but in a more popular form we think that this collection would meet with appreciation. The little book is a welcome addition to our library of New Zealand authors.

A syndicate of wealthy Jews has offered £40,000 for the Vatican copy of the Hebrew Bible. This precious work has long been coveted by the Jews. In 1512 they offered Pope Julius II the weight of the book in pure gold. His Holiness was desperately « hard-up, » and was tempted. He weighed the book, and found it to be 325℔ = +433℔ troy, or at £4 the ounce, = £20,781! He would have taken this handsome sum, but found that he was not at liberty to dispose of the book. The magnificent offer by the Hebrews of 380 years ago has been quite eclipsed by that of their modern representatives. The price offered is four times as great as that ever given for a single book. In 1884 the German Government gave 250,000f. =£10,000, for the Missal given to Henry VIII by Leo x, along with the parchment conferring on him the title of Fidei Defensor. This is the highest figure yet reached.

A contemporary states that Fanny C. Crosby, whose name is to be found in most recent collections of hymns, has already written between four and five thousand, and is under contract to a publishing firm to supply three new ones weekly. If this be true, it is surprising that the results are as good as they are. Most hymn-writers of the past, who have gained reputation, have written one hymn of special excellence and vitality. No matter how prolific they have been, or how little they have written, there has been in almost all cases one composition—generally written under the influence of strong feeling—which stands prominently out from the rest of their work, and by which they are known. Bishop Ken, Thomas Olivers, Bay Palmer, F. R. Havergal, Jane Crewdson, Mrs Waring, and the Rev. H. Twells, may all be instanced as examples. Some of these were prolific writers, others wrote very little; but no one would hesitate as to the one piece of work which will live and be treasured when the rest has passed away. We do not know that Mrs Crosby has written such a piece—if so it has not yet come into use; and we fear that it is not likely to make its appearance under the contract system.—It is stated that Mrs Crosby and her husband have both been blind from their childhood.

We learn from the Printers' Register that since Mr. Blades's death, parts 2 to 5 of his « Bibliographical Miscellanies » have been issued, the subject being « Books in Chains, » or ancient chained libraries. From the same authority we gather that he left almost ready for the press the manuscript of a work entitled « The Pentateuch of Printing, » something after the style of « The Enemies of Books. » A number of engravings had been prepared for it previous to his death, and it will probably be issued this year by his executors.

The Critic, after an uninterrupted issue extending over 170 years, has come to an end, having been merged in Society. It has published nearly five thousand numbers, and among its contributors were Addison, Steele, Smollett, Fielding, Edmund Burke, Goldsmith, Byron, Shelley, Emerson, and Hood. Strange that any publisher should sacrifice an historic name with such splendid associations, for that of a periodical which is of yesterday, and is scarcely known in the world of letters!