CARTOLICHE.* PERHAPS little better can be said of a novel

than that there is nothing to say about it. Where there is an absence of any- thing to find fault with on the one hand, and on the other,

where all is so equal that there is not even a salient point of excellence to attract any special notice, what can a reviewer say, but that there is nothing to say ? But though this may be true enough theoretically, it would scarcely be fair that stories should purchase only neglect by their excellence ; and at any- rate, we are too grateful to the author of the Rose Garden for much past enjoyment—if the enjoyment of books is ever past— to inaugurate so cold and depressing a system of praise on occa- sion of a new work from her hand. We say her hand, but we have no authority for deciding upon the sex of this charming writer. We wish we had. It would greatly increase the pleasure of reading and the fairness of criticism, if we knew something of the writer. If we could associate the book with individuality in the author, and know not only the sex, but the antecedents ; know whether the writer's childhood had been happy, had been passed in town or country, in village or city, on moor or shore, in farm-yard, inland lane, or forest-side, in hall or vicarage, whether it had been solitary, or rich in the com- panionship of brothers and sisters ; or again, whether the books to be criticised were the amusement of leisure-hours or the business of life, or the result of a necessity to eke out small gains by literary work. When lives of authors have at last been written, with what added interest and increased intelli- gence we re-read their books ; how much more vivid they ap- pear, and how pleasant it is to watch for traces of their own lives in those of their creations, and note the influence and effect of their own surroundings; and if it is so with authors who are dead, it would be not less so with those who are living, and whom we might hope some day to meet and know. How much one would like to know of modern authors of fiction,—whether Mr. Black- More fished in the Doone Valley himself, and swam his horse across the Lynns in a flood, or dug out the sheep from the snow- drifts of Exmoor ; or whether Mr. Hardy ever shared the night- watch over the ewes and lambs on the high Dorsetshire Downs, under the starry winter night, and only knew how the slow hours were passing by following the constellations as they moved to- wards their setting ; or ever really warmed himself by the malt- house furnace, and joined in that wonderful talk of the peasants over their extra allowance of cider when the great fire amongst the ricks was extinguished, and the dense blackness of the night was once more only illumined by the level rays from the furnace- mouth; or whether Mr. Black watched in the far north, through the gleaming midsummer nights, from the shores of Lewis, those marvellous sunsets and sunrises which he describes ; or, shrouded in the mists of winter, listened to the booming, far below him, of the Atlantic rollers, as they met their conquerors at last, on the rocks or in the caves of the Hebrides.

And in the same way, we should like to be able to think, with some definiteness, of the impersonal author who writes these simple, delicate, and picturesque tales of France and Italy. Is the knowledge of quaint, out-of-the-way French country towns, or of beautiful Florence, or kingly Rome, that of one to whom they are as familiar as home, or of a traveller only ? At any rate, it is knowledge that cannot be gained from books of travel or verbal descriptions. The eye must have looked down upon Florence in the early morning and in the cool of the evening, and the foot must have wandered in the vineyards above the Arno, and by the side of Tiber in its peaceful and turbulent moods, before the hand could have drawn for us the pictures that are evidently sketched from nature. The descriptions are neither long nor elaborate, nor are they very striking or original ; but they reveal the scene in a few simple words, and make us feel that the author has entered into their beauty and grandeur; and they are not lugged in, but are scattered all over the story, wherever they explain or influence the thought and feeling of the actors,—as, for instance :—

" He left the old man standing in the road, and turned off into the steep and stony track which had been pointed out to him as his path. No one was visible when he got among the vines, but following Andrea's advice, he kept the unwilling Cartouche close by his side, and walked quickly, for it was growing late, though a bright moon made the blue sky clear. The air was light and fresh. A few olive-trees , twisted and gnarled, bordered the path, their grey leaves catching the light like silver ; then the Arno came into sight, flooded with radiance ; presently the twinkling lights of Florence gleamed out from dark masses of building, and cupola, and tower, and one larger • Cartouche. By the Author of "The Bose Garden," ie. In 2 vole. Loudon: Smith, Elder, and Co.

blot, which marked the Dnomo of Our Lady of Flowers. All over the plain these lights glittered, faintly bright, here far apart, hero tremulously disclosing themselves to the eye, as shyly as the stars of heaven itself. When Ibbetson reached the city streets, he felt as if he had left enchantment behind him. The thoughts which had troubled him the evening before, now did not once intrude. Hetherton might never have been, and the charm of Italy was at work."

Or this :— " But it was not until they had turned a shoulder of the hill where, on a sort of stony terrace, a few old olives stood grey and shadowy in the midst of a flood of colour, that Ibbetson knew what she had brought him to see. For below, and stretched before him, spread that wonderful plain of Valdarno, which is beyond the power of pen or pencil; and now, as it lay bathed in the radiance of the setting sun, he felt as if he had never before known its beauty. A haze, not of mist, but of colour, seemed to rest upon it, so delicate and so varied that its intensity was scarcely felt, and the villas and farms with which the plain is thickly studded gleamed like jewels in the midst of this wonderful setting. On the opposite hill rose Bellosgnardo, with its cypresses, those trees which throughout Italy give point and force to softer beauties; and below, the domes and towers of Florence lay in the full glory of the sunset lights."

And again :— " No one who has not seen Tuscany in its golden autumn can have any idea of its deepest, its most enchanting beauty. For, whatever men say, autumn in these colder northern lands carries, in every gor- geous tint and flaming leaf, a profound melancholy. A shiver of coming winter creeps over you, in spite of yourself ; it is a farewell, a dirge which comes sighing through the crimson and yellow woods where the leaves are dropping to decay. In Italy there is no such sadness. Winter there is, to be sure,—wind and snow, and sharpness of frost ; but through it all the sun is laughing oat, wonderful colours glow ; spring, hope, youth, are never lost, or even for a moment for- gotten. And therefore autumn brings no dread, only its own rich fruition and the joy of fulfilled toil. As they drove down from the villa into Florence on the Sunday morning, the beauty of the time seemed at its height. The road, after descending between the high walls over which here and there the roses thrust themselves, branched off and ran gaily down to the Arno and to Florence, through bordering vineyards, where the purple and yellow grapes hung in luminous clusters between the intense, fresh green of their leaves, as they tossed themselves from one tall tree to another, against a clear brightness of sky. All round lay the soft and delicate glory of the mountains, and below them the town glowed white in the sunshine, even the cool shadows on the towers and walls gleaming with a strange, translu- cent golden pink. There are no words for such colours; they burn and blend, everything is touched with an enchanter's wand ; it is only when you try to hold them fast, or come away to our cold greens and greys, that you learn something of their power."

But we must come to Cartouche himself, for though we have noticed none of his more dignified fellow-creatures, is he not elected by the author to be the hero of the story P And a dog .so spirited, so faithful, and of so high an intellectual organisa- tion, deserves the honour. We are not smiling, and we do not mean to imply that his courage, fidelity, and intelligence are over- drawn. They are described with a loving, but we venture to say, not a partial hand, and we wish he had really taken a more promi- nent place in the story, and not retired so modestly in favour of his lord and master, though the latter is a pleasant young fellow enough. But Cartouche is too often conspicuous by his absence, only introducing our hero and heroine to each other, appearing as a sincere mourner at the death-bed of a great-aunt—for in the present writer's family, dogs take their place as children of their owners—and once more, alas ! at his own sad funeral, on the banks of the mighty Tiber. That he thus appears at the be- ginning and end of the story—first, as initiating the proceedings that create the necessary misunderstandings, and last, as heightening by his death the tenderness that leads to a right understanding and reconciliation—is our author's only justifi- cation for honouring it with his name ; for we feel bitterly that we are much deceived. We read on the title-page that the story is about " only a dog," and yet the dog only appears thrice. Nevertheless these appearances are characteristic. He makes his d6but from the first-floor window—at the imminent risk of concluding this history at the first page—incited thereto by the voice of his master, just arrived in Florence from England. He was " a great black poodle," and rushed wildly round and round in his joy, " his black hair streaming in the wind." No wonder, after such a jump, that his master addresses him seriously, " Let me advise you not to try that too often, my friend. It is just as well for you that the house is not a trifle higher, as I presume you would not have taken the difference into your cal- culations." But it is when Miss Cartwright dies that the beauty of Cartouche's character shines most. She sends for him, from his post at her door, to give him a farewell pat :—

"Phillis brought him, a little anxious lest he might show any wild demonstrations of delight. She need not have feared. He came -eagerly in, put his paws upon the bed, and licked his mistress's hand. Then he dropped down, looked wistfully at the faces round, as if he

wanted reassurance from them, and finding none, he turned quickly, ran to the door, pushed it open, and settled himself in his old position of intent watchfulness."

After her death, his master

"Called Cartonche, and the dog, after a little hesitation, went with him, though without any of his usual excitement. He kept close at Ibbetson's heels, from which nothing drew him, and walked along with his tail depressed, and his whole appearance spiritless. Jack's own heart was very heavy. The kind, gentle woman had been like a mother to him, and a hundred remembrances of her unselfishness came thronging. He was vexed with himself for having left her, for having neglected to write as often as she liked—for many things of which he knew very well she had kept no record, nor so much as blamed him in her heart. Those tender cancellings are the sharpest reproaches of

all, when Death has laid his finger on the page Jack walked slowly back, and Cartouche followed sadly behind him. There was something in the dog's mute sympathy very grateful to the man,

piteous though it was to see the wistful questioning of his eyes As for Cartouche, who could tell what was passing in his mind ? How much did he know ? This much they all noticed, that having watched patiently for so many hours in the ante-room, he would not now go near it. He buried himself in a corner of the kitchen, and only came out or took food when Jack went there and coaxed him."

We do not meet with him again till the scene in which his faithful love costs him his life. But why should we have been distressed by his death ? Why not have made him share in the triumph of his master's beneficence P And though the author

has every reason—at any rate, every right—to wash his body on shore, and make some spot in beautiful Florence sacred as his resting-place, even this is not done. It is true his effigy is carved above a cottage-door, but no grave marks the spot where he lies, and no stone records the gratitude of the master whose life the courageous presence and devoted affection of Cartouche helped so much to save.

The human characters are all nicely done and fairly equal, though Phillis and Bid are the only ones—except the aunt, Miss Cartwright—who interest us. Oliver Trent alone seems

to us to be overdrawn. That circumstances should betray a man of no principles into more villainy than he purposed, when lie sees unexpected means of obtaining his object thereby, and does not see any likelihood of his rascality being discovered, is likely enough ; nevertheless, an English barrister, with ambition for the future and a character in the past, would scarcely risk the criminal charge of having stolen fifty pounds when he did not

want the money. Phillis is very lovable, faithful, and brave. Bich is all this, too, and very beautiful and fascinating besides ; but Bic is an impulsive Italian girl, and Phillis a high-princi- pled Englishwoman. We will not tell which wins Jack ; he is a thoroughly good fellow, and our readers must not think him a shuttlecock. The interest of the tale lies in the various hopes and fears of these two attractive girls, and we recommend it to all who love a refined and beautiful story.