NW worms.*
Change has many good points. It is a good story, in which the denouement is not after the manner of novels. Basil Rutherford, the hero, has been jilted by a beautiful woman, now married to a great brute of a husband—an English country squire. Mr. Rutherford remains for along time soured, saddened, and un- eonsoled for the loss of lady love. They meet again under cir- cumstances calculated to renew old feelings ; but he is angry, and she is an unhappy married woman, proud and correct. A little niece of this beautiful aunt falls to Mr. Rutherford's guard- ianship; and, after a time, the child wins her way to his heart. He begins to console himself in her society, and when the brute of a husband dies, he does not rush back to "sea premieres amours," as a well-regulated novel-hero should do, but like a genuine man, is only too glad to find that he has won the fresh young heart of the niece, who is the aunt's namesake. This story, and much of interest collateral to it, is simply and effi- ciently told, without any. delay or blundering, so as to make a very agreeable and enticing volume to a reasonable reader ; one who is mad after thrilling or exciting scenes, or witty and sar- donic reflections on "universal human nature," will find nothing in this volume to gratify his taste. The authoress shows some of the most painful changes in life very truly, but without any hardness or bitterness, and she is tender and gentle to all her fictitious personages, good or bad, without any sentimentality. There is no fine writing to extract, no "points," or "splendid bits ; " the tone of the whole work is easy, calm self-possessed, but not brilliant. The tale opens well, and leads us into the midst of Mr. Rutherford's life in the first chapter. Many men will read this tale with pleasure, although it is written by a woman, and bears one common mark of the feminine novel, the greater number and better drawing of the women than of the men. The book is sensible, cheerful, and good—it is free from cant of all kinds.
One of Them, is Mr. Lever's latest novel, and, to our thinking, one of his best. We do not, indeed, relinquish an early pre- ference for Charles O'Malley and Harry Lorreguer, young Irish- men oomme II y'en a pen, out of the British army, and not too numerous in ; for, though we firmly believe all Irishmen are born funny, they are not all born witty. Charles O'Malley and Harry Lorreguer excepted, we remember no novel of Mr. Lever's snore entertaining than the present. It was orginally published in All the Year Round, and, gave much pleasure to the readers of that periodical. By some error or oversight, there is no inti- mation in the volume before us, that One of Them has ever been published before. It is quite a mistake to suppose that everyone reads All the Year Round, and that it would be wasteful and ridiculous excess of printing, to insert a statement in the volume that the tale is a reprint. It is well worth reprinting, for it is amusing—very amusing. The scene is placed in Italy, where English people of various kinds, Irish people of Mr. Lever's in- fallibly clever kind, and a Yankee who is sui generic, meet and make acquaintance—and the present story. Quackinboss, the Yankee, is, perhaps, the most successful; his first meeting with Sir William Heaticote and his son is very well described, and gives the reader an interest in him at once.
Mx. George Meredith, who must not be confounded with the
• champ; or Some Passages in the Life of Basil Rutherford. By Emily Cuyler. Published by Booth.
One of Them. By Charles Lever. Published by Chapman and Hall. Eras Harrington. By George Meredith. In three volumes. Published by Bradbury and Evans. poet who takes the name of Owen Meredith, is a writer of rut- common ability. The Shaving of Shagrat, Farina, and The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, all show talent and culture not of the ordinary kind. Evan Harrington is as clever as any of those former works, and without some of their faults. As a story, it is interesting, and will carry the usual style of novel reader on swimmingly to the end in spite of much allusive matter above his comprehension, which may be marked in every chapter. This cannot be said truly of its predecessors. They were written by the author to please himself, without much regard to talking over the heads of his hearers. There was a good deal of youthful dis- play of eccentricity about them quite as much as of genuine origi- nality. The best sort of originality in fictitious writing is almost always unconsciously attractive and alluring., not surprising or startling. Mr. Meredith's vein of humour in literary composition is clearing and fining down as he grows older. We surmise from Evan Harrington that he is still young. His charm to an intel- ligent reader is that he thinks and speaks of what he has seen and known, for himself—he is not conscious of imitating anyone, even iii The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, which had the misfortune to bear a superficial resemblance to Sterne. Evan Harrington has no imitative trick about it, conscious or unconscious ; it is a good story on a subject not yet hackneyed. The hero is the son of a tailor in a country town—which tailor has a soul above buttons, and is every inch a man—and a gentleman as far as mind, ap- pearance, and manners go. Old Harrington's wife is also a hand- some and a ladylike woman. She shows her sense of gentility and good-breeding in attending to the shop which her much- admired husband neglects. We are very sorry to say, Eveues father dies in the first chapter—a chapter, be it observed, of re- markable cleverness, putting the reader an fait of all necessary knowledge without stepping a sentence out of the high-comedy scene enacted by the neighbours who are discussing Mr. Herring- ton's character after his death. The grocer and the butcher, and Kline, the publican, all have a kind word for the splendid fellow who was a tailor, and yet rode, and hunted, and dressed,and dined, with the best in the country occasionally, and was really so much of a man as not to be ashamed of not being a gentleman. There was a story current which gave him the nickname of Marquis. It is thus told by Kline, who had it from Harrington himself— said he, you're an honest man, and a neighbour, and I'll tell you what happened, the Squire,' he says, likes my company, and I like his table. Now the Squire'd never do a dirty action, but the Squire's nephew, Mr. George Thiloft, he can't forget that I earn my money, and once or twice I have had to correct him.' And rll wager Mel did it, too ! Well, he goes on : There was Admiral Sir Jackson Roseley and his lady, at dinner, Squire Foulke of Hursted, Lady Barrington, Admiral Comble- man—our admiral, that was; Mr. This and That, I forget their names-- and other ladies and gentlemen whose acquaintance I was not honoured with.' You know his way of talking. And there was a goose on the table,' he says; and, looking stern at me, 'Don't laugh yet ! ' says he, like thunder. Well, he goes on—' Mr. George caught my eye across the table, and said, so as not to be beard by his uncle, If that bird was rampant, you would see your own arms, Marquis.' And Mel replied, quietly for him to hear, And as that bird is couchant, Mr. George, you had better look to your sauce.' Couchant means squatting, you know. That's 'eraldy ! Well, that was'nt bad sparring of Mel's. But, bless you! he was never taken aback, and the gentlefolks was glad enough to got him to sit down amongst 'ern. So, says Mr. George, I know you're a fire-eater, Marquis,' and his dander was up, for he began marquising Mel, and doing the mock-polite at such a rate, that by-and-by, one of the ladies who didn't know Mel called him my lord' and his lordship." And,' says Mel, I merely bowed to her, and took no notice.' So that passed off: and there sits Mel telling his anecdotes, as grand as a king. And, by and by, young Mr. George, who had'ut forgiven Mel, and had been pulling at the bottle pretty well, he sings out 'It's Michaelmas ! the death of the goose ! and I should like to drink the Marquis's health !' and he drank it solemn. But, as far as I can make out, the women part of the company was a little in the dark. So Mel waited till there was a sort of a pause, and then speaks rather loud to the Admiral, By the way, Sir Jackson, may I ask you, has the title of Marquis anything to do with tailoring ? ' Now Mel was a great favourite with the Admiral, and with his lady, too,—they say—and the Admiral played into his hands, you see, and, says he, 'I'm not aware that it has, Mr. Harring- ton.' And he begged for to know why he asked the question—called him Mister,' you understand. So Mel said, and I can see him now—right out from his chest he spoke, with his head up—' When I was a younger man, I had the good taste to be fond of good society, and the bad taste to wish to appear different from what I was in it.' That's Mel speaking; everybody was listening ; so he goes on. I was in the habit of going to Bath in the season, and consorting with the gentlemen I met there on terms of equality; and for some reason that I am quite guiltless of,' says Mel, the hotel peo- ple gave out that I was a Marquis in disguise ; and, upon any honour, ladies and gentlemen—I was young then, and a fool—I could not help imagining I looked the thing. At all events, I took upon myself to act the part, and with some success, and considerable gratification ; for, in my opinion,' says Mel, no real Marquis ever enjoyed his title so much as I did.' One day I was in my shop—No. 193, Main Street, Lymport—and a gentleman came in to order his outfit. I received his directions, when suddenly he started back, stared at me, and exclaimed, "My dear Marquis ! I trust you will pardon me for having addressed you with so much familiarity." I recog- nized in him one of my Bath acquaintances. That circumstance, ladies and gentlemen, has been a lesson to me. Since that time, I have never allowed a false impression with regard to my position to exist. I desire,' says Mel, smiling, to have my exact measure taken everywhere ; and, if the Michael- mas bird is to be associated with me, I am sure I have no objection ; all I cay say is, that I cannot justify it by letters patent of nobility.' That's how Mel put it. Do you think they thought worse of bins? I warrant you, he came out of it in flying colours. Gentlefolks like straightforwardness in their inferiors—that's what they do. Ah ! ' said Kline, meditatively, I see him now, walking across the street in the moonlight, after he'd told me that. A fine figure of a man ! and there ain't many Marquises to match himp, This story was originally published in Once a Week, but no mention is made of that fact in this reprint. Nothing is gained by this suppression, except the imputation of ill-natured persons that it is being passed off as something quite new.
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