Mrs. Oliphant has won such a position among our lady novelists—second only among living writers to that of George Eliot—that it is almost enough to announce a new story from her pen: certainly it is superfluous to speak of her characteristics as a writer; they are as well known as those of Anthony Trollope. Like other writers, however, her productions are not all of equal excellence, and although there are in 'Squire Arden' elements of literary skill and imaginative power which would arrest the attention and excite the interest of any critic, it cannot be designated one of her best works. The story is not a cheerful one. Its plot is very simple. Edgar Arden, a young man whom his father has hated and kept abroad, finds himself, soon after attaining his majority, the Lord of Arden, with an only sister, between whom and himself there exists a strong affection. Clare has the Arden blood in her; with much that is excellent derived from her mother, she has the imperious temper of her father. The redeeming feature of her character is her love for Edgar. The new experiences of the heir are described. A few of the village characters are introduced, notably Dr. Somers, the village doctor, a bon vivant, clever and good at heart, but somewhat cynical; his sister, Miss Somers, a very clever creation, a kind of pious Mrs. Nickleby; Mr. Fielding, the gentle, kindly rector, and some of the peasants. At the house of one of them a Scotchwoman, Mrs. Murray, and her granddaughter, Jeannie, come to lodge. The Pimpernels, Liverpool merchants, come on the stage, but little comes of it; so do the aristocratic neighbours, the Thornleighs. A cousin, Arthur Arden, a half worn-out and penniless man about town, turns up, and schemes to marry Clare, to the great distress of everybody who knows her.
The chief interest centres in Arden. Some letters are discovered in a bureau proving that Edgar is not an Arden, but an adopted child, the old Squire having been at enmity with his heir. Edgar at once makes known the discovery, and surrenders the estate to Arthur Arden, the true heir, whose coarse, servile selfishness comes out. Edgar proves to be the grandson of Mrs. Murray. The three volumes are occupied with the simple development of this. The fault of the story is its prolixity; it doesn't get on. Chapter after chapter is filled with analyses of everybody's feelings and reflections, and with details of everybody's movements, until the reader is really wearied. The burthen of three volumes lies heavily upon both writer and reader. Like every story that Mrs. Oliphant writes, the book is full of good sense and clever things, but she should either have put into it more subordinate and varied incidents, or have made it shorter. It is altogether melancholy. We pity the villagers who have Arthur Arden for their Squire; we pity Edgar, who goes forth almost penniless; but most of all we pity Clare, whose defects hardly deserved such a retribution as Arthur for a husband.
A Snapt Gold Ring. By Frederick Wedmore. Smith, Elder, and Co.
A story of ill-consorted marriage and of the evil that comes of it. The point of contrast is between gifts and goodness—the power of intellect and the greatness of love. Madeline, the simple, loving wife, is well delineated; so is her cousin Kate, the sempstress and actress. The writer has no great depth, but is well acquainted with places and people, and with artist-life, and he tells his story and points its moral fairly well.
Shoemakers' Village. By Henry Holbeach. Two vols. Strahan and Co.
Mr. Henry Holbeach cannot write without saying many clever things. He has an eye for the humours of men and the oddities of religious persuasion. From an outside standpoint he can see the incongruities of strongly marked religious profession with the common affairs of life and business. If Serene Highnesses or great ecclesiastics were represented with their feet in hot water, and with bowls of toddy at their side, and seen to be intent on expelling the results of superfluous rheum from their systems, or if Prime Ministers were honestly painted at their sport or personal business, the incongruities of their great professions and their positive actual doings would seem as laughable as the toy-shop and bill-discounting and mutton pies of 'cumbersome Christians.'
There are many scenes and bits of description in these volumes which are almost worthy of Robert Browning, or Mrs. Oliphant; but Mr. Holbeach seems often to be trying to produce a droll or a weird effect, in which he never quite succeeds. For our part, we laughed when he clearly meant us to weep, and we failed to see anything ludicrous in the incongruities and weaknesses which he so painfully depicts. As to plot or scheme in 'Shoemakers' Village,' there is scarcely the apology for one. A few mysteries, of no earthly interest, are supposed to be lying under our feet, or huddled up in dark corners, ready to break forth upon the hum-drum life of the principal characters, but they vanish away, without conferring any interest on the narrative. The character of Cherry White, alias Tomboy, is freshly and vividly drawn; and the simple sweetness of her life, just opening to the significance of love, and making her the confidante of everybody in 'Shoemakers' Village,' redeems the story from absolute insipidity; but why she should have been drowned in a horse-pond, in the attempt to save the life of a 'malignant epilept,' who was her only enemy, baffles our philosophy; and we feel that the ugly splash she must have made, when she was dragged into the muddy pool, disfigures the entire story with uncanny stains. However, the separate characterizations of the 'Shoemakers' Village' reveal a touch of real power. We would respectfully advise Henry Holbeach to keep to those higher walks of literature, where he has won for himself so just a reputation.
Historical Narratives. From the Russian. By H. C. Romanoff. Rivingtons.
Madame Romanoff has translated six Russian tales or sketches—three by S. N. Shoubinsky and three by V. Andrèeff. She has, she tells us, taken great liberties with Mr. Andrèeff's original narrative, which is extremely disorderly and rambling. She has curtailed it; and from its parts or chapters has compiled one continuous narrative. The result is not very satisfactory. The stories of Catherine the Great and the Emperor Paul are very timidly told—either from the cautiousness of the original or the courtliness of the translator. Strange romances are possible under a despotism, and few nations have more tragic or wonderful court tales to tell than the semi-oriental, semi-barbarous despotism of Russia; but whether it be autocrat or favourite, it is necessary that the story should be told fearlessly and fully. Neither concerning the venal favourites about whom Shoubinsky tells us, nor the scandalous monarchs upon whom Andrèeff employs his pen, do we get this. We have read the stories with a certain interest; but we have felt in doing so that 'the half was not told us.' Ugly facts are covered over with gentle euphuisms, and manifest barbarians are decently clothed. It is the shadow of history that falls upon the disc, not history itself.
Restored. By the Author of 'Son and Heir.' Hurst and Blackett.