CURRENT LITERATURE.
Living London, being Echoes Re-echoed. By George Augustus Sala. (Remington and Co.)—Mr. Sala, it is needless to say, is a journalist by profession. He is proud of his occupation, although he sees its weak points, and observes that "your appreciation of a grand Court show is not enhanced by the consciousness that when the pomps and vanities are over, you have to hurry up to London and make three columns and a half of printed matter out of that which could very fitly be narrated in fifty lines." There can be no doubt that Mr. Sala's journalistic work would be more interesting, were it more compressed. For a well-known illustrated journal he is in the habit of writing weekly three columns of gossip and about a column of theatrical criticism. The bulky volume entitled Living London is a reprint of this criticism and gossip for 1882. The book is an ex- traordinary production, when thus viewed as a whole, and it is a pity that, amidst the frank utterances of the " introductory " chapter, Mr. Sala did not tell his readers how this olla podrida should be tasted. To read it consecutively is, of course, impossible. On any topic of the day or on any subject that occurs to him, the writer jots down opinions, and facts carefully garnered up in common-place books. He is weak in literature, and rarely intrudes purely literary topics ; he is strong, though, perhaps, a little prejudiced, when be writes of the drama ; and he turns with evident pleasure to the derivation of words, illustrations of folk-lore, and the noble art of cookery. From the first page to the last, as readers of his weekly causeries well know, Mr. Sala is distinctly, but not unpleasantly, egotistical. He tells us about himself and about his friends, about his correspondence and about his dinners ; bow much he dislikes Bank Holidays, how little he has travelled in Eng. land and how much upon the Continent ; and how on Friday, May 26th, he went to the Oaks on the top of a coach, and made the drive down in less than two hours. "I know," he says, "that I put my money (it was very little) on a four-legged something, and lost it,—I mean my money. I always do. Nor think me insincere in saying that I know nothing about the race itself. I was looking at the lobster-salad." No incident, indeed, that concerns the writer is too trifling to be chronicled in these Echoes ; and he is good enough to inform us that though he has been writing for the Press ever since the days of his youth, be has "never had time to master even the rudiments of English grammar." Judging from his writings and confessions, the author is not, as we have hinted, already, a man of letters. His judgment on cookery or heraldry carries weight, his opinion of a great poem or history is of no special significance, yet his vocation is one demanding a large library, and Mr. Sala seems to have innumerable dictionaries, cookery books, medical books, illustrated catalogues, and a collection of works on tithes, and confesses to buying "upper-shelf books," namely, books which are purchased in order to fill up shelves. He does not profess, he tells us, to know anything of English poetry, and when his "esteemed friend" Mr. Locker sent him the last edition of "London Lyrics," he had the little volume sumptuously bound, with the intention of reading it all,—when he can find time. Not the least remarkable feature of the volume are the curious illustrations with which its pages abound.
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