Gleams of Memory, with Some Reflections. By James Payn. (Smith,
Elder, and Co.)—This is a pleasant, easy-flowing book, which may be regarded as in a measure a sequel to the author's "Some Literary Recollections." But it is not so important, for it does not contain very much that is likely to be of permanent value, either from the historical or from the literary point of view. Still, it illustrates most agreeably the thoroughly uncon- ventional nature of the author, who can tell good stories, to say the least, as readily as he can write good novels. "I am quite ashamed of myself," he says, "when I think of the very liberal education '—or the education which at all events was liberally paid for—I received, and the very little that came of it. It cost my dear mother, from first to last I believe, more than two thousand pounds ; but if 'payment by results' had been the principle on which it had been conducted, it would have been—well I don't like to mention the sum, but—something in two figures." This tone of humorous—but not simply humorous—rebellion against commonplace views of life is sustained through the volume, which contains fragments—we had almost said spasms—of autobiography, and gives anecdotes of Mr. Payn's undergraduate and early literary, as well as school, days. He has no objection to relate a story against himself, as when, referring to the debates at the Oxford Union, he tells how he once heard himself described as "a funny fool." Of the many good anecdotes which appear in this volume, one especially deserves quotation, reflecting though it does upon the memory of the late Mr. Hepworth Dixon, who, Mr. Payn says, "was greatly feared by the small fry of literature, and not much liked by the young fry." It runs thus,—" I was sitting next to a great Eastern scholar who had told me quite as much as I wanted to hear of Assyria, and was still going on, when he was suddenly interrupted by the host, who, in a tone of conciliatory reproof, observed, 'Professor So-and-So, silence, if you please ; Mr. Hepworth Dixon is about to say something.'" Enough has been done here, by means of quotations, to show that this latest volume by Mr. Papa is a very pleasant one, that it is chatty without being weak, and personal without being egotistic, that it contains many shrewd but no ill-natured comments on men and things, and that it is written in the spirit of the sound, sunny, Sydney-Smithian philosophy of "short views." To the literary aspirant, perhaps, the whole book is summed up in this sad con- fession,—" I have been exceptionally fortunate in receiving such small prizes as literature has to offer, in the way of editorships and readerships, but the total income I have made by my pen has been but an average of £1,500 a year for thirty-five working years."
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