NOVELS.
REBECCA OF SIINNYBROOK FARM.* IF journalists—on both sides of the Atlantic—have been re- sponsible to a certain extent for impairing the maintenance
of the entente cordiale between America and Britain, it is
pleasant to think that, with very few exceptions, men and women of letters from the days of Washington Irving down- wards have consistently striven to confirm the solidarity of the two great branches of the English-speaking family. The choice of literary men as Ambassadors—Lowell and John Hay,to mention only two—has done much to promote this intel- lectual federation, but it would be unjust not to recognise the services rendered by the unofficial literary Ambassadors and Ambassadresses from over the water, who have, so to speak, rediscovered the Old Country, and brought home even to English readers neglected aspects of their native country. Of this beneficent tribe, whose affection for England involves no denationalised patriotism, but leaves them as good Americans as ever, none wields a more graceful and engaging
pen than Mrs. Wiggin, and it is thoroughly typical of her attitude that, as we gather from the dedication of her new book, this charming picture of New England life was mainly written under the "dear English roof" of a Cheshire squire.
No one but an American could have written Rebecca as it stands, and no reasonable person could wish to alter a syllable
of what makes it racy of the soil. The variations upon the familiar only lend the recital an element of freshness and sur- prise without ever transcending the limits of experience.
There is no need to have been to New England to enjoy the book, which by its gaiety, its tenderness, and its wit, as well as on the score of its subject, deserves a place on the shelf that holds Mrs. Ewing's Six to Sixteen.
Rebecca Randall, whose progress from childhood to woman- hood is traced in these pages, is one of the seven children of a straggling widow, a worthy, commonplace woman who married an amiable, blameless, but inefficient dancing-master. On his death Mrs. Randall's married sisters, Miranda and Jane, offer to take charge of one of their nieces, and the narrative opens with Rebecca's journey from her mother's roof to her new home in the care of the stage-driver, Mr.
Jeremiah Cobb. Rebecca's conquest of Mr. Cobb (and of the reader) by a conversation which is virtually a monologue renders it clear from the outset that a chequered career is in store for this "little gipsy with saucer eyes," in whom the dangerous heritage of an artistic temperament is supplemented and counteracted by industry, ambition, and a strong sense of loyalty. With her aunt Jane she establishes friendly relations from the outset, but, it is far otherwise with the dour, inflexible Aunt Miranda.
Miranda Sawyer, to quote one of the many acute pieces of 2hara,cterisation in which Mrs. Wiggin excels, "had a heart, of course, but she had never used it for any other purpose than the pumping and circulating of blood." Yet in the clash and conflict of wills—the inevitable result of Rebecca's sojourn under her aunt's roof—the child learns more than she suffers from her severe but just taskmistress. Besides, there is always a friend at Court in the other aunt, and by way of contrast to the
suppression of her individuality at home Rebecca enjoys the exhilarating consciousness of superiority amongst schoolmates and playmates alike. The story lends itself to quotation at every page, but we must content ourselves with one extract,— Rebecca's grammar lesson with Miss Dearborn, the mistress of the village school :— "` Rebecca, I am afraid I punished you more than I meant,' said Miss Dearborn, who was only eighteen herself, and in her year of teaching country schools had never encountered a child like Rebecca. 'I hadn't missed a question this whole day, nor whispered either,' quavered the culprit; `and I don't think I ought to be shamed just for drinking.'—' You started all the" others, or it seemed as if you did. Whatever you do, they all do, whether you laugh, or miss, or write notes, or ask leave to drink ; and it must be stopped.'—' Sam Simpson is a copycoat ! ' stormed Rebecca. 'I wouldn't have minded standing in the corner alone—that is, not so very much ; but I couldn't bear standing with him.'—' I saw that you couldn't, and that's the reason I told you to take your seat, and left him in the corner. Remember that you are a stranger in the place, and they take more notice of what you do, so you • Rebecca of Bunvybrook Farm. By Kate Done./ Wieein. London; Gay and Bird. Ls.]
must be careful. Now let's have our conjugations. Give me the verb "to be," potential mood, past perfect tense.'—` I might have been, thou mightst have been, he might have been, we might have been, you might have been, they might have been.'—` Give me an example, please.'—'1 might have been glad, thou mightst have been glad, he,she, or it might have been glad.' "lie," or "she" might have been glad because they are masculine and feminine, but could "it" have been glad P ' asked Miss Dearborn, who was very fond of splitting hairs.—' Why not ? ' asked Rebecca.—' Because "it" is neuter gender.'—' Couldn't we say "The kitten might have been glad if it had known it was
not going to be drowned" Ye—es,' Miss Dearborn answered hesitatingly, never very sure of herself under Rebecca's fire; but though we often speak of a baby, a chicken, or a kitten as "it," they are really masculine or feminine gender, not neuter.' Rebecca reflected a long moment and then asked, Is a hollyhock neuter ?'—' Oh yes, of course it is, Rebecca.'—' Well, couldn't we say, "The hollyhock might have been glad to see the rain, but there was a weak little hollyhock bud growing out of its stalk, and it was afraid that that might be hurt by the storm ; so the big hollyhock was kind of afraid, instead of being real glad" p' Miss Dearborn looked puzzled as she answered, Of course, Rebecca, hollyhocks could not be sorry, or glad, or afraid, really.'—' We can't tell, I s'pose,' replied the child; • but I think they are, anyway. Now what shall I say ?'—' The subjunctive mood, past perfect tense of the verb "to know." '= If I had known, if thou hadst known, if he had known, if we had known, if you had known, if they had known. Oh, it is the saddest tense!' sighed Rebecca, with a little break in her voice: • nothing but ifs, ifs, ifs ! And it makes you feel that if they only had known, things might have been better!' Miss Dearborn had not thought of it before, but on reflection she believed the subjunctive mood was a 'sad' one, and ' if ' rather a sorry 'part of speech." Give me some more examples of the sub- junctive, Rebecca, and that will do for this afternoon,' she said.— ' If I had not loved mackerel, I should not have been thirsty,' said. Rebecca with an April smile, as she closed her grammar. `If thou hadst loved me truly, thou wouldst not have stood me up in the corner. If Samuel had not loved wickedness, he would not have followed me to the water pail.'—' And if Rebecca had loved the rules of the school, she would have controlled her thirst,' finished. Miss Dearborn with a kiss, and the two parted friends."
Alike in her mutinous or sentimental moods, as the cham- pion of the distressed or the ringleader in the school games, Rebecca is a delightful elf, the development of whose character as she grows up happily involves no loss of her peculiar charm. The setting of the story, and the portraits of the various village worthies and detrimentals, serve as an admirable background and contrast to the central figure ; and lastly, we have to congratulate Mrs. Wiggin on the excellent discretion she displays in leaving Rebecca "fancy free" when we part company from her at seventeen, while at the same time indicating in what quarter her affections may be ulti- mately engaged.
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