BOOKS.

BEARE'S CHRISTIE IOHNSTONE.* IN these days of literary gold-beating, when an ingot of matter is generally hammered out into that acreage of flimsy leaf which sub- sequently figures in a three-volume form on the shelves of the cir i - °elating library, it s refreshing to take up a novel in one volume, —all the more when, in the compass of 330 pages of large type, is compressed more of thought, pathos, humour, and character, than goes to the furnishing forth of many tons of ordinary fiction.

Mr. Reade, the writer of the story of Peg WO.ffington, already noticed in the Spectator, has done himself more justice in his pre- sent than in his earlier effort. But even in this his second novel, the promise goes far beyond the performance ; or rather, the evi- dence of power is clearly accompanied by marks of deficiency in that workmanly skill which uses materials with the best effect. With a faculty of condensed expression, which bespeaks the habit of concentrated thought; a rhythmical style, which is rarely ap- preciated nowadays, and therefore little sought after; quaint and original humour ; that passionate sympathy with his own crea- tions which must awaken corresponding emotion in genial readers ; a sure and telling touch in descriptive passages ; a keen eye for the dramatic in character ; and, crowning and mellowing all these, a genuine and kindly pathos,—Mr. Reade has written a book which will be thrown on one side by some readers, as a bundle of impertinent guaintnesses, but which, with those who do not eat their kernel in the husk, may become a book of predilection—a book often read in, cherished as much for what it suggests and sets working in the reader's mind as for what it contains of the writer's. In short, it is an odd book—and odd books are not for "the general " : but, on the other hand, it is this very quality which kindles that rare affection which some books excite—which makes certain volumes, as it were, personal friends, and begets for their author the feeling we have for the parents of those we love.

This oddness, when many readers feel the sympathy we have referred to, is called " originality "; when the circle of sym- pathizers is narrow, let that circle call it what they will, the crowd sets it down as "eccentricity." But even the eccentric writer often compels the world without to enter into his magic ring and to bow to his charm. Then his " eccentricity " becomes a fashion—a rage often, and acquires imitators, midis worked till the brains that gave vitality to the quaint body are quite out, and the body expires in contortions. This has been the history of Thomas Carlyle and his manner. The earnest face behind that German mask, which only the few saw at first, has made its under- iriAnence felt by thousands, and Carlylese is now one of the accre- dited dresses of unformed wits, in their progress towards a garb of their own.

Mr.. Reade's mannerism is not as startling as Mr. Carlyle's, but it is as much his own. There is no mistaking it. It rejeots expletiVes--; his an aversion to the ordinary hinges and hooks-and- eyes of phrase; proceeds by jerks and jolts; is antithetic, figura- tive, and a little oracular. But in. our progress over the ruts which make Mr. Reade's pages roughish reading, we come ever and anon on a pregnant thought, a terse definition, a subtile distinc- tion, a vivid picture, or a genuine touch of feeling, which recon- ciles us to the ruggedness of the ground we have traversed. The Weak point in Christie Johnstone is the story ; which is made up of good elements, but so put together that the effect of reality is not attained.

Viscount Ipsden, a blasé nobleman, "used up" for want of an emotion, and unhinged by a fair cousin's rejection of his snit, is despatched by Dr. Aberford, a peremptory physician of the Aber- nethy order, to yacht it off Granton Pier ; not for sea-air only, but with the recommendation-

" Make acquaintance with all the people of low estate, who have time to be bothered with you ; learn their ways, their minds, and above all their troubles.'

"'Won't all this bore me ?' suggested the writer. " ' You will see. Relieve one fellow creature every day, and let Mr. Saun- ders book the circumstances.'

"'I shall like this part,' said the patient, laying down his pen. 'How clever of you to think of such things 1.—may not I do two sometimes ? ' "'Certainly not ; one pill per day.—Write, Fish the herring ! (that beats deer-stalking.) Run your nose into adventures at sea ; live on tenpence, and earn it.' " Apropos of his Levi ship's railway ride to Edinburgh, Mr. Reade writes— Journeys of a few hundred miles are no longer described. You exchange a dead chair for a living chair; Saunders puts in your hand a new tale like this; you mourn the superstition of booksellers, which still inflicts uncut leaves upon humanity, though tailors do not send home coats with the sleeves stitched up, nor chambermaids put travellers into apple-pie beds as well as damp sheets. You rend and read, and are at Edinburgh, fatigued, more or less, but not by the journey."

This is the picture he saw from the Firth side— "It was the .afternoon of the day succeeding his arrival. The Fifeshire hills, seen across the Firth from Ins windows, were beginning to take their charming violet tinge ; a light breeze ruffled the blue water into a smile; the shore was tranquil, and the sea full of noiseless life, with the craft of all sizes gliding and dancing and curtseying on their trackless roads. "The air was tepid, pure, and sweet as heaven: this bright afternoon, Nature had grudged nothing thatcould give fresh life and hope to such dwell- ers hi dust and smoke and vice as were there, to look awhile on her clean face and drink her honeyed breath. "This young gentleman was not insensible to the beauty of the scene. He was a little lazy by nature, and made lazier by the misfOrtune of wealth ; but he had sensibilities: he was an artist of great natural talent; had he *Christie Johnstone : ANovel. ByCharlettIkenle, Anthorof " Peg W.:Ong/on.* Publiphed by Bentley. • only been without a penny, how he would have handled the brush! And then, he was a mighty sailor ; if he bad sailed for biscuit a few years, how he would have handled ship! "As he was, he had the eye of a hawk for Nature's beauties, and the sea always Caine back to him like a friend after an absence.

" This scene, then, curled reund his heart a little ; and he felt the good physician was wiser than the tribe that go by that name, and strive to build health on the sandy foundation a drugs."

Here, while looking for the " lower classes," he encounters the heroine of the story, Christie Johnstone, a Newhaven fisher lass; who with her companion, Jean Carnie, is thus ushered in to the reader and Lord Ipsden:,

"On their heads they wore caps of Dutch or Flemish origin, with a broad lace border, stiffened and arched over the forehead, about three inches high, leaving the brow and cheeks unenoumbered.

"They had cotton jackets, bright red and yellow, mixed in patterns, con- fined at the waist by the apron-strings, but bobtailed below the waist; short woollen petticoats, with broad vertical stripes, red and white, most vivid in colour ; white worsted stockings, and neat though high-quartered shoes. Under their jackets they wore a thick spotted cotton handkerchief, about one inch of which was visible round the lower part of the throat.

"Of their petticoats, the outer one was kilted, or gathered up towards the front, and the second, of the same colour, hung in the usual way. I "Of these young women, one had an olive complexion, with the red blood i mantling under it, and black hair, and glorious black eyebrows.

I"The other was fair, with a massive but shapely throat, as white as milk ; glossy brown hair, the loose threads of which glittered like gold, and a blue eye, which being contrasted with dark eyebrows and lashes, took the lu- minous effect peculiar to that rare beauty. "Their short petticoats revealed a neat ankle and a leg with a noble swell; for Nature, when she is in earnest, builds beauty on the ideas of ancient sculptors and poets, not of modern poetasters, who, with their airy-like sylphs and their smoke-like verses, fight for want of flesh in woman and want of fact in poetry as parallel beauties. "These women had a grand corporeal trait; they had never known a cos. set, so they were straight as javelins : they could lift their hands above their heads !—actually ! Their supple persons moved as Nature intended; every gesture was ease, grace, and freedom. "What with their own radiance, and the snowy cleanliness and bright- ness of their costume, they came like meteors into the apartment."

Christie Johnstone is, we must be allowed to think—pace Mr. Reade—such a phenomenon as the gude folk of Edinburgh Will find it difficult to believe in. Still, though to prosaic minds per- haps a fanciful creation, she is a very charming one ; and the au- thor has combined, in her imagination and worldliness, romance and shrewd sense, masculine energy and feminine tenderness, into so graceful and loveable a whole, that we should not be surprised if he sent half the youngsters of the long vacation to Newhaven in search of Christie Johnstones, among the stout-limbed, free- tongued, many-coloured, Rubens-hued creel-carriers of the " anld thou."

Lord Ipsden relieves poverty, saves ships in distress fishes "the herrin'," and becomes the providence of a young painter, Charles Getty, Christie Johnstone's lover, and a type of the Preraphaelite school, with its passion for the truth of nature, and its belietin accurate renderings as the groundwork of art. In this gallant style he flings down his glove, the champion of the art against the artifice of painting. " ' The world will not always put up with the humbugs of the brush, who, to imitate Nature, turn their back on her. Paint an out o' door scene in- doors ! I swear by the sun .it's a lie !—the one stupid, impudent lie, that glitters amongst the lies of! vulgar art, like Satan amongst Belial, Mammon, and all those beggars.' "'Now look here ; the barren outlines of a scene must be looked at, to be done; hence the sketching system slop-sellers of the Academy ! but the million delicacies of light, shade, and colour, can be trusted to memory, eau they? It's a lie big enough to shake the earth out of her course : if any part of the work could be trusted to memory or imagination, it happens to be the bare outlines, and they can't. The million subtilties of light and colour, learn them by heart, and say them off on canvass !—the highest angel in the skyr must have his eye upon them, and look devilish sharp too, or he shan't paint them : I give him Merles (betty's word for that.'

" ' That's very eloquent, I call it,' said Jones. " Yes ' said poor old Grove, the lad will never make a painter.' " ' Yes, I shall, Grove ; at least I hope so ; but it must be a long time first.' " never knew a painter who could talk and paint both,' explained Mr. Grove.

"'Very well,' said Gatty. Then I'll say but one word more, and it is this. The artifice of painting is old enough to die ; it is time the art was born. Whenever it does come into the world, you will see no more dead corpses of trees, grass, and water, robbed of their life the sun-light, and flung upon canvass in a studio, by the light of a cigar, and a lie—and —' , "'How much do you expect for your picture ? ' interrupted Jones. I

"What is that to do with . ? With these little swords,' (waving his I brush,) we'll fight for nature-light, truth-light, and sun-light, against a I world in arms,—no, worse, in swaddling-clothes.'

I

"'With these little swerrds,' replied poor old Grove, 'we shall cut our , own throats, if we go against people is prejudices.'

I "The young artist laughed the old daubster a merry defiance, and then ' separated from the party, for his lodgings were down the street."

Gatty's love for Christie is frowned on by his mother; and it is not till the lad has been -saved from drowning by Christie John- stone, and exchanged pistol-shots with Lord Ipsden, in a duel arising out of groundless jealousy of his lordship, that the course of true love floats the artist and his fisher-bride into smooth water. But the story is of little importance in this volume, in comparison with the delicate observation and pregnant thought which may be found throughout. The last pages aline like a strain of solemn music. Especially admirable are the scenes of Newhaven life; which have a vividness of reality hardly inferior to Scott's picture of a similar subject in The Antiquary. Our space will only allow us to give one example. GatV, swimming in the Firth, is drifting out to sea by the turn of the tide. Christie, with her young brother Flucker and another 's*, have put out to save him. " Christie's boat was now seen standing out from the pier. Sandy Liston,

casting a contemptuous look on all the rest, lifted himself lazily into the herring-boat, and looked seaward. His manner changed in a moment. " The deevil !' cried he ; the tide's turned ! You wf your glass, could you no see you man's drifting cot to sea ? ' " Hech ! • cried the women, 'he'll be drooned—he'll be drooned !' " Yes ; he'll be drooned I' cried Sandy, 'if yen lassie does na come alongside him deevelish quick—he's Bair spent, I doot.' "Two spectators were now added to the scene, Mrs. Getty and Lord Ipsden. Mrs. Getty inquired what was the matter. " It's a mon drooning, was the reply. "The poor fellow whom Sandy, by aid of his glass, now discovered to be in a worn-out condition, was about half a mile east of Newhaven pier-head, and unfortunately the wind was nearly due east. Christie was standing north-north-east, her boat-hook jammed against the sail, which stood as flat as a knife.

"The natives of the Old Town were now seen pouring down to the pier and the beach, and strangers were collecting like bees. " ' After wit is everybody's wit! '—Old Proverb.

"The affair was in the Johnstones' hands.

" ' That boat is not going to the poor man,' said Mrs. Getty; it is turning its back upon him.'

"'She canna lie in the wind's. eye, for as clever as she is,' answered a fish- wife.

" I ken wha it is,' suddenly squeaked a little fishwife ; 'it's Christie Johnstone's lad—it'ayon daft painter fr' England. Ilech ! ' cried she, suddenly, observing Mrs. Getty, it's your son, woman.'

"The unfortunate woman gave a fearful scream, and flying like a tiger on Liston, commanded him to go straight out to sea, and save her son.'

" Jean Carnie seized her arm: 'Div ye see you boat ?' cried she; 'and div ye mind Christie, the lass wha's hairt ye has broken ?—a wed, woman, it's just a race between Dealt and Cirsty Johnstone for Pour son.'

"The poor old woman swooned dead away : they carried her into Christie Johnstone's house, and laid her down, then hurried back,—the greater terror absorbed the less.

"Lady Barbara Sinclair was there from Leith, and, seeing Lord Ipsden standing in the boat with a fisherman, she asked him to tell her what it was. Neither he nor any one answered her.

"'Why doesn't she come about, Liston ? ' cried Lord Ipsden, stamping with anxiety and impatience. "'She'll no be lang,' said Sandy ; 'but they'll mak a mess o't wr ne'er a mon f the boat.'

" 'Ye're sure o' thaat ? ' put in a woman. "'AL about she comes,' said Liston, as the sail came down on the first tack. He was mistaken; they dipped the lug as cleverly as any man in the town could.

" • Heoh ! look at her hauling on the rope like a mon,' cried a woman. The sail flew up on the other tack. "'She's an awfu' lasay,' whined another. " 'He's awe,' groaned Liston ; he's doon!' "'No! he's up again,' cried Lord Ipsden; 'but I fear he can't live till the boat comes to him.'

"The fisherman and the viscount held on by each other. "'He does na see her, or may be he'd task

" I'd give ten thousand pounds if only he could Bee her. My God! the inan-will be drowned under our eyes ! If he but saw her!'

"The words had hardly left Lord Ipsden's lips, when the sound of a woman's voice came like an .7/Colian note across the water.

" Hurraih!' roared Liston and every creature joined the cheer.

"'She'll no let him dee. A! she's in the bow, hailing him, an' waving the lad's bonnet cower her head to gie him coorage. Gude bless ye, lass; Gude bless ye!' "Christie knew it was no use hailing him against the wind, but the mo- ment she got the wind, she darted into the bows, and pitched in its highest key her full and brilliant voice : after a moment of suspense she received proof that she must be heard by him, for on the pier now hung men and women, clustered like bees, breathless with anxiety ; and the moment after she hailed the drowning man, she saw and heard a wild yell of applause burst from the pier, and the pier was more distant than the man. She snatched Fluckees cap, planted her foot on the gunwale, held on by a rope, hailed the poor fellow again, and waved the cap round and round her head, to give him courage ; and in a moment, at the sight of this, thousands of voices thundered back their cheers to her across the water. Blow, wind,— spring; -boaf,—and. you, Christie, still ring life towards those despairing ears, and wave hope to those sinking eyes ; cheer the boat on, you thousands that look upon this action : Hurrah ! from the pier : Hurrah ! from the town : Hurrah! from the shore : Hurrah ! now, from the very ships in the roads ; whose crews are swarming on the yards to look ; five minutes ago they laughed at you ; three thousand eyes and hearts hang upon you now,—ay, these are the moments we live for !

. "And now dead silence. The boat is within fifty yards; they are all three consulting together round the mast : an error now is death !—his forehead only seems above water. "'If If they miss him on that tack ? ' said Lord Ipsden, significantly to Liston.

" ' He'll never see London Brigg again,' was the whispered reply.

"They carried on till all on shore thought they would run over him, or wt him : but no, at ten yards distant they were all at the sail, and had it down like lightning ; and then Flucker sprang to the bows, the other boy to the helm.

"Unfortunately, there were but two Johnstones in the boat ; and this boy, in his hurry, actually put the helm to port, instead of to starboard. Christie, who stood amidships, saw the error; she sprang aft, flung the boy from the helm, and ,jammed it hard-a-starboard with her foot. The boat answered the helm but too late for Flucker; the man was four yards from him as the boat drifted by.

" He's a deed mon !' cried Liston, on shore.

"The boat's length gave one more little chance ; the after-part must drift nearer him—thanks to Christie. Flucker flew aft ; flung himself on his back, and seized his sister's petticoats. "'Fling course' ower the gunwale!' screamed he.'Ye'll no hurt; I'se hand ye.' • "She flung herself boldly over the gunwale ! the man was sinking ; her nails touched his hair, her fingers entangled themselves in it, she gave him a powerful wrench and brought him alongside ; the boys pinned him like wild-cats.

"Christie darted away forward to the mast, passed a rope round it, threw it the boys ; in a moment it was under his shoulders, Christie hauled on it from the fore thwart ; the boys lifted him' and tumbled him, gasping and gurgling like a dying salmon, into the bottom of the boat, and flung net and jacketa, and Bail over him, to keep the life in him. " Ah draw your breath all hands at sea and ashore ; and don't try it again, young gentleman, for there was nothing to spare : when you were missed at the bow two stout hearts quivered for you : Lord Ipsden hid his face in his two hands; Sandy Liston gave a groan, and when you were grab- bed astern, jumped out of his boat and cried,

"'A jill o' whisky, for ony favour ; for it's turned me as seta as a doeg.' He added, He may bless yon lassie's fowr banes, for she's then him oot Death's maw, as sure as Gude's in heaven !' "

There is a description of fishing "the herrin'," which makes one's pulse beat faster and sets one's blood dancing. A.thousand to one, Mr. Reade has enjoyed the sport, which he describes so well. We should recommend our young sportsmen who sigh for Gordon Cumming's or Captain Harris's lion and elephant battues, to try a season at the herring-fishery—not to speak of the chances of a Christie Johnstone.