Here and There Memories. By " H—B—N." (T. Fisher Unwin.)
—By his own account the nameless author of Here and There Memories is a kind of Admirable Crichton. He has been every- where ; he has done everything ; he has known everybody. He is as intimately at home in the camp as in the law-court. He has fought his way from one end of the world to the other. Africa knows him, and Australia; the brilliant enterprises which he undertook in Chili are part of the history of South America. No respectable Irish politician was ever in a difficulty without consulting our anonymous autobiographer. Who was it that ran Pigott to earth ? " H—R—N " of course. Who was it that gave a loyal support to Mr. Butt and divined the possibilities of Mr. Parnell ? Why none other than this same mysterious " H—R—N." Nor do politics and adventure exhaust the catalogue of his achieve- ments. He is an unrivalled shot, a fearless rider, an efficient botanist, a sound draughtsman. And once, that he might prove his sympathy with every form of sport, he hit Sam Belasco, of the Haymarket, over the head with the leg of a chair, "to the great delight of Tom Paddock and other prize-fighters." Yet he withholds his name, and perhaps (only "perhaps ") his reticence is due to modesty. His book might have been a sequel to Jonah Barrington's incomparable "Memoirs." But of course it is not. Written with astounding carelessness, it annoys you on every page with some needless outrage upon grammar or consis- tency. Strange to say it has an index, but the index appears to be composed upon the simple plan of throwing all the entries into a hat and letting them fall out as they will. Moreover, this Admirable Crichton is irresistibly drawn to the quotation of French, and his French would amaze the purists of Stratford- atte-Bow. Nevertheless, with all its shortcomings, the book is never dull. To begin with, it has the impulsive charm of anec- dotage ; you are whirled from politics to sport, from Ireland to New Zealand, with so rapid an energy that you wonder with a gasp what is coming next ; and a most careful reading has only revealed one palpable chestnut. In style and manner the author is a truly irresponsible Irishman, but so varied has been his experience, so seasonable is his view of history, that his book has none of the limitations which might be expected from its origin. He is a Home-ruler of the old school, and Isaac Butt is the god of his idolatry. Modern methods of agitation and intrigue appal his old-fashioned virtue, and it is gratifying to know that Mr. Gladstone's "union of hearts" never deceived him. His account of Mr. Butt, of whom he speaks with unfailing sympathy and admiration, is the most vivid that exists, and it is all the better because it is written without a touch of false senti- ment. On the other hand, "H—R—N" puts Messrs. A. M. Sullivan, O'Connor Power, and the rest, most ruthlessly in their place, nor does he flatter Mr. Healy by a single notice. But the purpose of the book is entertainment rather than conviction, and it is impossible to criticise a bundle of stories. You can but turn over the page with curiosity and amusement. If politics do not interest you then you may find many desultory memories of travel and affairs. The author once met Daniel O'Connell, and he describes the interview with much humour. Then he was an intimate friend of Robert O'Hara Bourke, the first hero to cross Australia, whose pencil dropped from his dying hand as he wrote in his diary, "Waiting, like Micawber, for som—." And of this intrepid adventurer he gives an admirable sketch. In brief, the book, despite its casual inaccuracies and impertinencies, is good reading from beginning to end, and though you would not put it by the side of Jonah Barrington, at least you are glad not to have missed it. It is marred by one serious fault. Its good faith is established merely on a cipher. Now the autobiographer whe boasts his acquaintance with living persons is bound in honour to reveal his name. He need not betray his secrets to the world, but if he speaks he may on no account evade his responsibility. Fiction and history stand or fall by their own merit ; but the friend of great men or of small, when he profits by his acquaint- anceship, must give the world an opportunity to test his credibility. Not long since the reviewers of England mistook a hotch-potch of ancient memoirs for a genuine autobiography, and committed in all honesty of purpose a serious outrage upon a distinguished gentleman. One might condone the ignorance of the reviewers; it is difficult to look with a lenient eye upon the wantonness of the compiler. Therefore " H—R—N " should avoid the very appearance of trickery, and in a new edition or a second volume allow his readers to recognise their gossip. He cannot correct his. blunders or check his waywardness—that is impossible. But at least he may write his name clear upon the title-page.
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