CURRENT LITERATURE.

The Dublin Review, for April,1883. (Burns.and Oates.)—This is a number of unusual interest, inthe first place, for the article on the accomplished and much more than accomplished, the very original, translator of Calderon, Mr. Denis Florence MacCarthy. Miss E. M. Clerke gives fa very good account of that poet's work, which is none the less to be admired that he devoted his genius chiefly to interpreting to Englishmen the works of a much greater genius than his own, the poet Calderon. Neat, the paper on the novels of Anthony Trollope is a clever one, though we do not agree with its eulogy on Mr. Trollope's painting of English girls. We hardly know one of Jtis heroines,—certainly not Lily Dale, whom we should think of 'placing amongst Mr. Trollope's greater efforts. His pictures of the social converse of women of the world,—as, for example, in. the conversations between Mrs. Grantly and Lady Lufton,—are beyond all praise ; but his heroines are apt to be tainted with vulgarity, and even if you admit the novelist's intention that they are so tainted, do. not strike us as conceived at all to the core of the inner life. The very interesting paper on " Fifty Versions of the Dies Ira3 ' " is completed in this number, and is one which will afford great pleasure to all careful students of that noble poem. And again, Mr. John George Cox's paper on " The Changed Position of Married Women," is one of the ablest and most accurate comments on the state of the law on that subject, and of the probable consequences of the new law, which we have ever met with. It is a strong number of the Dublin.

The Life and Letters of Francis Lieber. Edited by Thomas Sergeant 'Perry. (Triibner and Co.)—This is a somewhat overgrown biography, of little interest, in proportion to its size, to the average reader, although doubtless attractive enough to the personal friends of its subject. Yet Lieber was undoubtedly a remarkable man, and there are materials for a really interesting memoir—one-third of the size of the one before us—to be found in its pages. Here is one of his sayings, which dwells in the mind of the present reviewer :—"Aristotle said, The fellest of all things is armed injustice.' I know a feller thing,—impassioned reasoning without purity of heart in him that has power in a free country." Some of our neighbours in Ireland would do well to attend to this warning.

With a Show through South Africa, and Personal Reminiscences of the Transom/ War. By C. Duval. Numerous Illustrations. 2 vole. (Tinsley.)—In this jaunty record of South-African experiences, the reader will find an amusing and not uninstructive picture of society at the Cape, in Natal, among the diamond diggers of Kimberley, the Dutch farmers of the colony, and the Boers of the Transvaal. The description of the Diamond Fields is particularly graphic .and interesting. It was in 1867 that the chance discovery of the precious stone by a wandering trader, who came across a little child playing with what seemed an ordinary pebble, but turned out to be a 22f, carat diamond, worth £500, "changed, as with a magician's wands general monetary depression and imminent bankruptcy into a still more general affluence and financial recovery." Since that day some twelve millions' worth of diamonds have been extracted from the dirty " blue ground" of the district, where a geological expert declared not a single diamond would be found. Bat the main interest of Mr. Duval's book lies in the picturesque, truthful, and fairminded account he gives of what be saw of the Transvaal war, to which almost the whole of the second volume is devoted. He was in Pretoria during the entire period of its investment, serving as a volunteer, and contrived amid his military duties to find time and energy for editing the News of the Camp under difficulties that would have daunted or disheartened most men. Of the Boers he has, on the whole, stood opinion; save in their relations to the natives, towards whose condition they approximate the more closely the further north their '" trekking " propensities carry them, but whom, nevertheless, they treat as cattle or as vermin, to be made use of or got out of the way. Their " earth-hunger " is of a tolerably pronounced character; a Boer is hardly satisfied with a farm of less than 6,000 acres. In fact, the Boers constitute a sort of rough aristocracy, with many of the virtues, if few of the graces of that form of society. How the terrible mistake of undervaluing their courage could have been perpetrated, Mr. Duval's record makes it harder than ever to understand. At Maritzburg, he became acquainted with Mr. Aylward, whom he describes as, a stout, full-bearded man, "with dark eyes of a not agreeable kind," rudely brusque, and animated by a fervent dislike of the Saxon, death to whom was his favourite toast. He heard also a sermon from Bishop Colenso, a short-sighted, gentle-mannered, diffident personage, thin-lipped, lantern-jawed, with white hair and heavy, black brows, bat an uncompromising and tireless champion of the native races. We can cordially recommend the book ; if a little over-jaunty at times, this is due to an excess of high spirits, and is mere than made up for by the good.sense and good-feeling that are prominent in its pages. Many of the illustrations are excellent, and the portraits of Kruger and donbert, at an interview with the

latter of whom the author was present, give the impression of being lifelike.

Poems : the Sorrow of Simona, and Lyrical Verses. By E. J. Newell. (Kogan Paul, Trench, and Co.)—This is a harmless little volume of feeble verse. There is no urgent reason why it should have been written, but, on the other hand, there is no particular reason why it should not, if the writer found a pleasant pastime in stringing together such lines as the following:—

"Bet that face, what art can tell ? For painter never thought it, Nor 'math slumber's witching spell Heth e'er the fancy sought it. Ali, my heart ! I love it well!"

All observations on productions of this kind are wasted ; nevertheless, we do just draw the writer's attention to the fact that painters are generally supposed to paint, not to think' faces.

Sandram/tus : a Drama in Five Acts. By W. Theodore Smith. (George Bedway, London and New York.)—Mr. W. Theodore Smith has chosen an ambitious mode by which to illustrate the truth that there is nothing new under the sun, for his Indian drama, 340 B.C., is full of familiar allusions, and winds up with a "silver wedding," for all the world as though Berlin or Broadway were in question. Unintentionally, Mr. W. Theodore Smith is a funny person. A passage in his preface sets forth with all the gravity due to the subject and its antiquity, how Chandra Gupta, named by the Greeks " Sandracoltus," reigned in India in the year 310 B.C. ; how Selencus, a successor of Alexander, invaded the country, and how Damaichne wrote an account of his embassy at that time, and peace was concluded by a treaty, by virtue of which Selencas gave his daughter in marriage to Chandra Gupta. The joke begins with the list of dramatis persona., in which we find Marian, the wife of Seleucus, Princilla, his daughter, " Douce, Maid of the Wife," and "Jaunty, Maid of the Daughter "—just like Goldsmith's " Garnet" and Sheridan's " Trip"—and also " Spearqnick," an officer of the Macedonian Army, whose appropriate name is, it is to be presumed, "all the same in the Greek." This is a faint surprise, however, in comparison with the blank verse in which the drama is written, and which is, apparently, an exercise in the art of verbal distortion by the separation of nouns from their articles and verbs from their particles. Examples of this peculiarity may be taken from any page at random. Here is one. The speakers are " Goodalla, Priest of the Pagoda of Buddha," and" Salaams, King of Macedonia." The latter has dropped in, it would seem, in the friendliest fashion, to besiege Seringham. Says Goodalla :

" I am glad you make a happy future For India, for she is now troubled with Warlike neighbours. When peace is proclaimed, she Will rise in commerce and art. As a priest

Of the pagoda, I have permission

To read the books of Vedas ; they are long And interesting, and were written nine Hundred and sixty years ago ; but I regret not being able to obtain Permission for you to read them. Schuette. Ton are very kind ; it is not in year Power to.do so. However, after I am introduced to the high pr:est, he Will give me the books to read. Goodalla. No, sir, you are wrong; no stranger can do So; our laws are strict, and the high priest would Suffer death. The books cannot be defiled

In any way; so precious are they, that

Watchers are over them every hour, day And night."

Things in general are almost as much mixed in this queer drama, wherein Buddha and Brahma stagger about indifferently, as the author's notions of the distinction between prose and verse, so that there is nothing surprising in finding Sandracoltue accusing himself in a love-trouble of having "sinned against Providence," and Prin. cilla, the cause of his anguish, bidding him " cheer np, and have a care." Only the lady's advice is very like Captain Cattle's to Florence Dombey, " Cheer up, and eat a deal !" so that one closes this foolish production with an association that makes one forgive it.

Early Poems. By Joseph Smith Fletcher. (William Poole.)—There are some pleasing verses in this little volume, and one poetic story, absurdly called " An Idyll," of a blind man and his dog is really worth the honours of print.

Frithjof and Ingebjorg, and Other Poems. By Douglas B. W. Sladen. (Kegan Paul, Trench, and Co.)—There is more merit in this collection of poetic efforts than is to be found in most books of this kind, though there is nothing to entitle the author to more than a'succas d'estime. The most important of the poems, "Frithjof and Ingebjorg," is the best ; the structure of the verse is good, and the strong and simple spirit of the old Scandinavian story is well conveyed. The same may be said for "The Last of the Vikings!' The social, sentimental, and accidental pieces are not above the commonplace order of each things.

Ten Years : an Old-World Story. By Henry Bose. (Nisbet and Co.)—The revival of an old fashion is indicated by the lengthy and elaborate, unhappily also dull, story, told in more or less correct rhymes, under the title of Ten Years. It is long since this particular form of "poetry book" found favour, for there is not a touch of the fleshly school about the forcedly-fanciful narrative, and it is chiefly

that school which has told long stories in redundant verse of late. The merits of the poem are less than its bulk, but it has some merit, and there is a pretty song to be met with occasionally, breaking into its too deadly-lively pages.

The Annexation of the Punjaub and the Maharajah DuImp Singh. By Major Evans Bell. (Triibner and Co.)—The Maharajah has not found a judicious advocate in Major Bell. It is really idle to go back upon the question of annexation. The thing is done, and its undoing does not come within the range of practical politics. The dilemma, —restore the de jure Sovereign, or treat him more liberally, is futile, because every one knows, no one better than the Maharajah himself, that to set up again the throne of the Punjaub is as impossible as to restore the Heptarchy. A statement, kept strictly clear of all this useless matter, and setting furth the Maharajah's claims, in respect, for instance, of the private property which is said to have been confiscated without due compensation, might do the Prince some good ; to mix up his claims with the anti-annexation policy (Scinde, Nagpore, Oude, and we know not what else, must go the way of the Punjaub), must do him harm.

Episodes in the Life of an Indian Chaplain. By a Retired Chaplain. (Sampson Low and Co.)—A scrappy book, gossipy in kind, not very grammatical in style, and hardly deserving publication at all, though it contains passages of some interest as to the characters, capabilities, and deep affectionateness of many of the natives.

NOVELS.—Ebb and Flow. By G. Lloyd. 2 vols. (Smith and Elder.)— We feel disposed to give this story a brief but emphatic commendation to our readers, rather than to criticise it. It offers, in fact, very few points for criticism. The story is slight, without surprises or complexity of plot, and with but few incidents. There is nothing ambitious in the drawing of character, or in the style. But there are proofs of true and earnest feeling, of a knowledge of men and things, and of genuine culture, on every page. There is humour, especially in the description of Gervase Attiwell, the a3sthete, and pathos, which is very powerfully developed in the history of the so-called Lewis, once an Italian monk, and afterwards a struggling painter in London ; while the central figure of the tale, the bright and genial artist, Frank Ellerton, is one which the reader always sees with pleasure, and will not easily forget. We must not forget to give a word of praise to the female characters,—good, all of them, in their way, and showing in their variety, as well as in their truth to nature, much real power in the author. There is, in short, some admirable material here. A little dramatic force in making it up would have raised Ebb and Flow into a high class of fiction. Portia ; or, " By Passions Rocked." By the Author of "Phyllis," &c. 3 vols. (Smith and Elder.)—This book is a strange mixture of melodrama and low comedy. The hero is suspected of forgery ; the heroine loves him, yet believes him to be guilty. The scene in which they discover their love is very strange. She finds him asleep on the grass, after a ball ; the time, about " the dawning day ;" the month, as far as we can make out, September. Still prudent, though " by passions rocked," she satisfies herself that there is no dew upon the grass, and then sits down beside him, " taking her knees into her embrace,"—a phrase as happy as it is graphic. He wakes ; " he draws her hand nearer to him—still nearer--until her bare, soft arm (chilled by the early day) is lying upon his lips. There he lets it rest, as though he would fain drink into his thirsty heart all the tender sweetness of it." And so it goes on, till she remembers the forgery. At last the mystery is cleared. An old man, happily named Slyme, confesses his guilt. "But," says the hero, "deliverance has come too late." Then comes in the use of the ocean, which has been mysteriously roaring, in calm and storm, throughout the three volumes. There is a wreck ; the lifeboat goes out ; he is killed ; the heroine dies of a broken heart. Then there is an under-plot. Two lovers, betrothed by a family arrangement, quarrel furiously, part, and are reconciled. Then, by way of chorus, there is a lowcomedy man, who talks more nonsense than we have ever seen in print before, stumbling once in a way, as such people will, on something funny. And there are some supernumeraries, who serve no purpose whatever. There are traces of literary skill here and there, making us think, together with what we remember of an earlier venture, that the author is capable of better things ; but in Portia we find nothing to commend.—Miss Cheyne, of Essilmon& By James Grant. 3 vols. (Herat and Blackett.)—Mr. Grant mixes again, for the delectation of his readers, the familiar ingredients of love and war. The war is the Ashantee Expedition, which has certainly the merit of not having yet been used up by writers of fiction. This does not occupy much of the three volumes, but the narrative is as well done as we may expect work of this kind by Mr. Grant's pen to be. There are three lovestories ; three gallant officers are made happy, Providence interfering, when it is necessary to smooth away pecuniary difficulties. Nothing is more natural than that an impecunious captain should have a wealthy uncle in India, and nothing easier than to kill him. It is less according to the nature of things that the heir of an embarrassed property should fall in love with the daughter of the family lawyer, who happens to hold all the mortgages. The third love-story, in which a man proposes to his own wife, offers a pleasing variety. Mr. Grant never loses the opportunity of holding up to execration low-born vice, and it is to be hoped that unhappy people who have the misfortune to be without a grandfather will at least learn to be moral, from the terrible picture which he draws of Lord Cadbury. It may be doubted, perhaps, whether the longdescended Sir Ronald Cheyne, of Essihnont, is one whit better than the vulgarian peer. The story is diffuse in style and conventional in tone, but still fairly readable.—A. Lincolnshire Heroine. By Edwin Whelpton. 3 vols. (Chapman and Hall.)— Mr. Whelpton does not seem to possess the gifts that are necessary for success in writing a novel of this kind. It is meant, in the first place, we suppose, for a study of rural life, and we have accordingly much talk of rustic folk, given, for all that we know, in irreproachable "Lincolnshire." But then there is no humour in the talk, except when we come across an occasional proverb, and that is a capital defect. Then, again, the novel is a study of character, yet there is not a character that interests us. The heroine herself is a colourless creature, beyond a vague impression of sweetness and goodness, commendable enough, as far as it goes. Far on in the three volumes the author seems to think it time to introduce some incident, but the book ie not improved by it ; the story fails to arrest the attention, and it wants clearness of development. Neither Mr Whelpton's English nor his Latin are as good as his Lincolnshire. " Metropolises " and " consolidateds" are queer-looking plurals, and " solitariness " is not a pleasing word ; while " cor humane," plunging "in media res," and "an uncultured strata of society," are expressions not countenanced by the grammars. An April Day. By Philippa Prittie Jephson. 2 vols. (F. V. White and Co.)—This is a harmless little love-story, which fills, though not with very good measure, two volumes of the ordinary size, but might have been compressed, both with ease and advantage, into considerably less than the space of one. Obstacles, not too difficult or obstinate, are put in the course of true love. The stern father proves admirably amenable to reason, and the Irish gentlemen who appear upon the scene do not shoot with their accustomed accuracy at the hero. There is something pleasing, however, about the book. It is correctly written, and wholly free from offence of any kind.

We have received a Synopsis of the Classification of the. Animal Kingdom. By Henry Alleyne Nicholson. (Blackwood and Sons.)— Professor Nicholson enumerates in these tables the sub-kingdoms, classes, orders, and sub-orders, and, for the most part, the families of the Animal Kingdom. Sub-Kingdom 1, the Protozoa, for instance,. is briefly described ; then comes Class 1, with its four orders ; Class 2, with four orders ; also, the third of these (Foraminifera) have two sub-orders, containing five and seven families respectively, &c. Illustrations of the more important objects mentioned accompany the text, and references are given to the most recent zoological authorities.. —Of mathematical books, we have to acknowledge A. Treatise on Elementary Trigonometry, by the Rev. J. B. Lock, M.A. (Macmillan. and Co.), dealing with "that part of the subject which can be conveniently explained without the use of infinite series ;" Geometrical Exercises for Beginners, by Samuel Constable (Macmillan) ; and Conic Sections Treated Geometrically, by S. Holker Haslam, B.A., and Joseph Edwards, B.A. (Longmans.)