THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW.* SOMETIMES, as a visitor to

the Academy toils through the crowded rooms at Burlington House on a hot summer afternoon, his

eye—tired by following the long succession of gorgeous person- ages, historical or mythological, of dancing-girls or ladies in satin dresses—may chance to be caught by some bit of fresh, cool landscape; and he will thankfully abandon more importunate pictures, to sit down for five minutes (if a seat be available), and rest sight and brain before the friendly canvas. It represents a stretch of farm-land, perhaps, lying in the shade and sunshine ; a group of unidealised working-folk, going about their peaceful tasks; a brook, or a country lane; whatever it is, there is a plea- sant refreshment to be got out of it, just because it is innocent, natural, and harmonious. To such a picture as this Mr. Gib- bon's book has a great resemblance. It is a story short in time, slight in action, and entirely without tragical elements,—a background of country life in harvest-time, with a group of men and women, not numerous, nor very remarkable, moving about their daily affairs in the foreground. If we look at the incidents singly, we find the most sensational ones to be the breaking of a country bank, which ruins none of our acquaintances ; the death of an old man, and the drenching in a swollen river of a young one ; we are not even brought into the company of any- body exceptionally good or wicked, nor introduced to very fine In. very low company. But the book has no small charm for the blasg reader of "society" and other novels. The country life is so genuine, the tone and manner so wholesome, the "atmo- sphere" so real and fresh, that it may safely be recommended as the pleasant companion of a weary or an idle hour.

The Queen of the Meadow has various points in common with that extraordinarily clever but disappointing story, Far from the Madding Crowd. In each the heroine is a handsome young woman, mistress of a fine farm ; in each she has two lovers, the best of the two being ber helper in agricultural matters ; in each there is a sort of chorus of labourers and their wives. But while the quaint humour of Mr. Hardy's chorus remains unapproached, " Polly " is morally and mentally superior to his Bathsheba; and her harum-scarum lover, Tom Walton, is in every way far above Serjeant Troy.

Polly is a modest and dignified young woman, as well as a clear-headed one, and though she does .a few foolish things, she never forfeits our sympathy. She is least agree- able when brought into contact with Tom's sisters ; and as if to carry oat the axiom about touching pitch, she be- comes almost odious in one scene, where she and the eldest of these personages have a passage .of-arms.

While Mr. Gibbon can draw very effectively the characters be likes, he is wanting in the delicate skill required for making those he does not like disagreeable or ridiculous, and yet not monsters. He wisely declines to make them mon- sters, but they are apt to lose interest altogether, as he tries to paint them with heavy strokes and dull colours. The three Misses Walton, especially "the Angel," who labours in vain to protect her brother from Polly's fascinations, might, in the hands of a hamourist, have been made very amusing, if not very original ; as it is, they and their mother all united are unable to persuade us to smile. They are the special failure of the book, reaching their highest level in the following conversation. Tom has just come from the Meadow, and finds them at lunch :—

" To prevent any reference to the famous Alderman, and to make matters pleasant for himself, he determined to have conversation of some sort. How did you girls know I had gone to the Meadow ?'

• The Quoest of the Meadow. A Novel. By Charles Gibbon. London: Matto and Winans.

he asked.—' I knew the lad who came for you,' answered Miss

Walton, who had resumed her 'And shetold us all,' chimes in Carry ; and it's very foolish of you, when you know that she hasn't a penny.'—' And you haven't much more,' added Alice, severely.—The mother gulped down a piece of grouse, and groaned,— ' Oh, if my poor dear father, Alderman—'—' Have a glass of sherry, mother; you don't seem to be well.'—' How can I be well, with such dreadful goings-on, and expecting every day to be turned out of our ancient home ? Oh, if nly—.'—'Here you are, mother,—drink it up; it will do you good."

And while we are fault-finding, we may just go on to say that there are passages here and there throughout these three volumes which suggest the idea of two different hands at work upon the manuscript. We have often wondered over the novels avowedly produced by joint labour—those of MM. Erekmann- Chatrian, or of Messrs. Besant and Rice, for instance— puzzling as to which was which, whether one imagined the story and the other wrote it, or whether certain characters were the property of each partner: but we never found in any of these books the apparent difference of style we notice in The Queen of the Meadow. After going on for some time reading pages so well written that we forget to notice • how they are written (and that is, perhaps, the perfection of style for story-telling), we suddenly fall upon a passage which has all the painful baldness of a child's school composition. But these passages are nowhere frequent, and decrease in number as the book goes on. They could all be cut out, and leave it the better for their omission.

It is hay-harvest when we are introduced to the Meadow Farm, and the stacks of corn have not long been gathered in when we take our leave of it. The question we have been con- cerned with all the time is, whether Miss Mary Holt, "mistress of the Meadow," shall marry Tom Walton, of Walton Abbey, or her cousin, Michael Hazen. Michael is in all respects Polly's equal ; his father has been her guardian ; he himself is her skilled helper and adviser; he knows what ought to be done for a sick cow or a smoking hayrick ; how to get rid of tramps whose presence with their pipes endangers her barn ; best of all, he loves her faithfully and unselfishly. Tom Walton loves her, too, with a perfectly genuine, but hopeful and rather audacious passion. He has a knack of appearing on the scene whenever she happens to be out of temper with Michael, and of overhearing words favourable to himself; moreover, he is incap- able of imagining that she can mean finally to reject a hand- some young fellow, who is a sort of small squire, with a heredi- tary, though deeply mortgaged, farm of his own. He has been refused, however, two or three times before the story begins, with how much effect may be judged by this dialogue, extracted from the first chapter, where it follows a charming picture of Polly superintending her hay-makers in a river-side meadow :—

"Polly did not observe him. till he was close to the waggon ; then she nodded.- .He lifted his hat and adyanoed briskly. I could not pass when I saw you here,' the said, laughing ; 'and besides, I have been out since eight o'clock, had no luck, and I am hungry.'—' Good reason why you should come to as at dinner-time,' she said, in a matter-of-fact tone, but making him welcome at the same time. I am just going up to the house, and you had better come with me.' Thank you ; but don't hurry. I like to be here—with you.'—' I thought you were hungry ?'—' Not when I am beside you.'—' I am sorry to spoil your appetite.'—' I wish that was the worst harm you had done me,' he said, smiling, and resting on his fishing-rod, whilst be looked into her eyes ; but you have spoiled my rest, too, and spoiled my sport. The fish have come to understand somehow where- abouts you are, and they desert the parts of the stream nearest to you ; so I go wandering about with an empty basket. But I am content when I can get a gossip with yon.'—'It is five minutes to twelve, and Sarah will be waiting dinner,' observes Miss Holt, cal- lously; and after a few words to one of the men, she turns towards the house. Walton shouldered his rod and marched beside her. He was not in the least abashed by the indifference with which she treated his pretty speeches.; he was used to it. He made love to her in the most open manner, and she allowed him to run on his course, with no more idea of stopping him than she had of checking the current of the river. Sometimes she was amused by his nonsense,- as she called it, and at other times she proceeded with her own affairs as if she did not hear him. As the two walked away from the workers, the women paused and nodded towards them. They'll make a pretty couple,' said one ; she's a strapping wench, that will hold her own with him.'—' Aye, and the lad's not unhandsome,' said another.—' We may look out for a master, come Christmas, Nance,' said one of the men.—' And it's a good match.' rejoined Nance, a woman of fifty, with a brown, weather.-beaten face, who had been born on the Meadow Farm, and who had never been farther away from it than to the country town once. 'Master Walton's a bit wild, but she'll tame him, if woman can. To my thinking, she wants a man that's a bit wild, to give her somewhat ado. She'd never be con- tented with a steady-going lad like Michael Hazell, though they do say that old Job is bent on the match between they two.'—' Well, more nor Job have counted their ohiokens afore they were hatched, and counted 'em wrong, too."

This passage gives the key-note of the story. Polly likes Tom, who, though "a bit wild.," is a likeable personage, and she loves Michael; but for a while, she is by no means clear which she loves and which she likes. Then everybody tries to make her choose Michael, and she hates to be driven. Also she fancies her Cousin and companion Sarah likes Michael, and would willingly try to give him up to her. But Sarah, who prefers Tom, keeps Michael's heart up in various crises, and all comes right in the end. The loss of Polly's fortune in the bank, and the device by which Michael's is substituted for it, would in some hands have been rather melodramatic, but it does not strike us so here. The actors are so calm, and the question whether Michael or Polly owns the money is of so little practical consequence, that we do not feel ourselves called upon to decide whether such a substitution could have taken place in real life. • The scene where old Job Hazell is made to burn the will by which he has tried to bind. Polly to marry his son, is very good. The old man is ill, breaking down in mind and body, and Polly comes to see him as he sits by the fire, chilly and feeble, with the pipers which have lately much occupied him lying near him, and among them the two wills :—

"'Why don't you sit down, Polly, when you are tired? Give me a light, lad.' There were two papers lying at Job's elbow ; Michael took one of them, gave it a twist, and placed it on the table.—' There's paper, dad. I want to see how strong you are. Can you light it for yourself to-day ?'—' Do you think I can't light my own pipe ?' was the indignant exclamation, as the old man snatched up the twisted paper, and thrust it into the fire. 'It's too thick, and won't burn,' he added petulantly, after several ineffectual attempts to obtain a light.—' Tear it,' was the prompt suggestion. I want to see you do it all with your own hand. Are you strong enough to tear it into strips, so that Polly can make pipe-lights for you ?'—Job, in order to prove his strength, angrily tore the charred paper into shreds, and threw all into the fire, except one, with which he lit his pipe ; then he leaned back in his chair, fatigued by his irritation more than by his exertions, but with the self-satisfied air of one who has accom- plished something. Now are you satisfied ?' he said, as he smoked and gasped asthmatically.—' Very much, dad ; I see you are much stronger than I believed. The doctor will be glad when I tell him, and Polly can bear witness how cleverly you tore up the paper and burnt it. But you did not give her a chance of making the lights for you.'—' It ain't good paper for lights, that's why I pitched it away. You can try it, Polly, if you like with that bit there.' He nodded towards one of the strips which had fallen at his feet. She picked it up, and mechanically began to roll it into a spiral form between her finger and thumb. The paper was stiff, and the process slow ; it was

tough writing-paper, and there was writing on it She was about to give the spiral scrap a final twist, in order to secure the end, when she saw her own name upon it, written in square, formal characters, not at all like Michael's penmanship, and which certainly were not formed by Uncle Job's hand. She made the twist, but did not place the pipe-light on the chimney-piece."

By-and-by, Job gives her, as he thinks, this very will to read, and wonders that she shows no surprise or emotion of any kind :

"Has she read the right will ?' said Job, turning with spasmodic jerks to the table, and dropping his pipe on the floor.—' Yes, dad, she has read the rig ht one,' answered Michael, without changing his position.—' Then where's t'other one ?'—' It was only waste-paper, you know, and it was that I gave you to light your pipe with.'— ' You oughtn't to have done that without telling me ; but it's of no account, and as Polly now knows how things stand, she'll do what's right."

Of coniee, Polly does not know, nor understand that when she promises to try and carry out Job's wishes he thinks she is pledging herself to marry Michael, and the half-explanation between the cousins which follows almost drives her to accept Walton. Job liazell's death is hastened. by the discovery that Michael had cheated him into burning what he considered as the right will ; but though his death draws the two together again, Michael is too thoroughly depressed and out of humour

"with himself to take advantage of Polly's softness, and it re- quires another half-volume and a very &propos interference of Miss Walton to put things wrong for her brother and right for

Hazell. It is done at last, however, and the story ends with a satisfactory wedding.