THE

death

Henry Harland

The news of Mr. Henry Harland's came as a surprise to those who knew him only through his books, for he was still a young man; yet his intimate friends had long been aware that he was the victim of an incurable disease. Mr Harland had made his home in England since 1889, so that comparatively few persons can now recall much of the American part of his literary and personal career. The desire to write came upon him in 1884, when he was twenty-three years of age. At that time he occupied a minor position in the Surrogate's office, and his hours were long-so long, indeed, as to make it hard for him to spare the time for literary labour. Hence, he adopted a scheme of life which practically lengthened the ordinary day. Directly after dinner he would retire and sleep until one o'clock in the morning, when he would rise, and after a large cup of black coffee would go to his desk and write steadily until breakfast time. After breakfasting, he betook himself to his office and performed the day's work with apparent zest. In this way, he completed his first book, As It Was Written, a fantastic but powerful story of a Jewish musician. Technically it was in parts a crude production, yet one may doubt whether any subsequent work of his can be regarded as at once so strong and so sincere. This story he followed up with Mrs. Peixada and several others, the

was

success of which led him to give up his official duties and make literature his profession. Harland had discovered a new field-the life of the well-to-do Jews of New York-and he delved in it most industriously and with excellent results. At that time he wrote over the penname of "Sidney Luska," and both because of his chosen theme, and because his cast of countenance somewhat Jewish he was supposed to be a co-religionist of those about whose life he wrote. Indeed, many Jews were equally mistaken. When his Yoke Thorah appeared, some parts of it gave offence to his Jewish friends, and he was asked to appear and defend himself, which he did very effectively in one of the New York synagogues before a large assemblage.

of

In 1889 he went abroad and began the second phase of his career. In London he formed a connection with Mr. John Lane, who made Mr. Harland editor of The Yellow Book, a publication which had a wide though ephemeral vogue, and which finally gave the adjective "yellow" a new and interesting application that has been found so expressive and so useful as to have fixed itself in the English language. The Yellow Book was at times extremely "yellow"-morbid, sensational, and decadent-but Mr. Harland's Own contributions to it, like the pictorial eccentricities of Mr. Aubrey Beardsley (who first became. known in its pages) were conspicuously superior to the rest of what the volumes offered to the public. Mr. Harland had now acquired a good literary technique, and he wrote several books-among them Mea Culpa-which were fairly popular. But they were in the "yellow" vein, and like all such writing, ceased at last to make any general appeal. They undoubtedly represented, however, the sort of literature which by preference Mr.

Harland cared to produce; for he was deeply influenced by the contemporary French school of fiction. Nevertheless, he was shrewd enough to see that he had reached the end of that particular sort of popularity; and so after several years of rather desultory writing, he deliberately selected an entirely new manner, and gave a perfect example of it in The Cardinal's Snuffbox. This book represents a genuine tour de force, a triumph of carefully planned delicacy of style and daintiness of theme. It is, indeed, a sort of literary méringue, with no substance and no lasting flavour; but here is the light, fine-spun fluffiness of a thistledown, elusive, airy, exquisite in its way, too exquisite, in fact, with its almost impossible Italian mise en scène, its fairy princess, and its atmosphere more courtly than that of any court. But it caught the public fancy, and from its sales Mr. Harland is said to have received the sum of $70,000. He repeated his tour de force, if not his financial success, with My Friend Prospero, and The Lady Paramount. But had he lived, he would have found himself reduced to the creation of still another manner in order to keep his hold on the public. Mr. Harland had really mastered a style of great smoothness and grace and even distinction. What he most lacked in all his books save those which he produced as "Sidney Luska," was the crowning virtue of sincerity, without which no author can long maintain a faithful following.

Jebb and Jowett

The anecdote which we related last month about Sir Richard Jebb and Dr. Jowett has called forth a critical good deal of commentary in the press. Its accuracy is questioned, but as no two of our censors agree in their own stories, our version may be allowed to stand, especially as it is the only one that has any point to it. Like all clever sayings, this one of Jowett's has been ascribed to a number of persons. The question as to whether the characterisation of Jebb was uttered by Jowett of Balliol or by Thompson of Trinity is, however, a minor detail. The

interest of the story lies in the characterisation itself, which we gave as follows:

"What time he can spare from the neglect of his duties, he devotes to the adornment of his person."

Few, we think, can fail to appreciate the delicious twist contained in the first clause of this sentence. But a particularly dense Englishman writing to the Evening Post of this city over the signature of "Cantab. '76," solemnly balks at it, and misses the point altogether. Dr. Thompson, he says, would not have expressed himself so awkwardly as to speak of "time spared from the neglect of duties." The only comment which this sapient criticism demands is an exclamation point. So here it is!

would lead to a renewal of her domestic trials. The same writer also speaks of a very celebrated author who told him of a visit the day before from William Sharp and Fiona MacLeod and dwelt emphatically on the latter's personal charm and cleverness. In fact there are a great many theories on the subject flying about. Many profess to believe that Fiona MacLeod was an actual person. On the other hand, some claim that Fiona MacLeod was simply the expression of a very feminine streak in Sharp's nature, and that in assuming, for the time, this identity he not only changed entirely his mood and his forms of expression, but absolutely altered his handwriting.

So extraordinary were the measures taken to invest Fiona MacLeod with a real personality that the William Sharp first astonishment caused and by the announcement Fiona MacLeod that the author was simply a pseudonym for William Sharp, who died in Sicily on December 12th, has given way to general expressions of scepticism. The English Who's Who has always treated Fiona MacLeod as a living person and with remarkable detail. In addition to a list of her books, it notes her favourite recreations as "sailing, hill-walks, and listening," and gives her address. There have been also many persons who, during the last few weeks, have come forward with personal letters signed by the discussed author in handwriting bearing very little resemblance to that of William Sharp. One English man of letters tells of walking with Sharp in Surrey shortly after the first Fiona MacLeod book appeared and asking him about the authorship. Sharp replied with great frankness that the author was a friend of his own, that she was the wife of a Highland laird, that she had been obliged to separate from her husband, and that she was most anxious to conceal her name, as if it were made known it

THE LATE WILLIAM SHARP