NOTES ON TWO NEW BOOKS.

Press, Volume XLVI, Issue 7356, 8 July 1889, Page 2

NOTES ON TWO NEW BOOKS.

WeeJdy Press.

I have jtifet'been reading a charming little collection of efcoriea, '* Neighbours on the Green," by Mrs Oliphant. It la a book which ought to make anyone perfectly happy on a summer afternoon, when the: " green treefrwhiflper low and mild," whe n the fields of red clover undulate in the warm wind, and when there is a presents ment of strawberries and cream in the air. Or, failing these luxuries in the degenerate days of winter, it would make a delightful party with a roaring wood fire, a rocking chair, and a small squat, retrousse nosed, gipsy-brown tea-pot. Should a tea-pot of brown earthenware not be procurable, one of solid silver will do; but nothing between, no compromise in baser metals can be allowed for an instant, as Dr. Holmes so neatly and nearly puts it in his poem " Contentment" " fbre* SAvree eupo, in flowery row Will do for mc; I laugh at show." Most of these short stories were ap. parently written some years ago. At any rate Mrs Oliphant has in them ascended the stream back to her earlier and happier inspiration. They are all marked with insight, sympathy, and that perfect simplicity which only a finished artist can afford. To my mind these cabinet pictures of "The Green" are worthy of a niche beside "Our Village," and the immortal " Cranford," whien most of us know better than the streets of our own dwelling places. One merit 1 they also possess, rather an unusual one. They are mostly written in the interests of us older people, who ar c apt to get a little tired of the love afEfclrs and absurdities of the very young persons generally depicted in novels. Why should not the " sunny side of middle age " hav Q its torn sometimes f Yet I think the ** middle aged romance " in this collection, goes almost too far. It seems just a little near the? ridiculous -when a lady of fifty, six inspires such a violent love at first sight in her venerable admirer. No doubt; we have all seen Improbable' things in our own experience, and we know that truth Is often stranger than

fiction; bat even in the mellow autumnalafternoon atmosphere of " The Green" this incident seems to want a little more shading off than the author has bestowed upon It. &* the great French painter, Millet, says, '* Artists ought to paint the typical, and not the accidental." On the whole, how« ever, "The Green" recalls so pleasantly the memories of " The Perpetual Curate," and other friends in old numbers of "Blackwoods' Magazine," that one has no wieh. to point out small faults.

When on the recommendation of tha Spectator I ordered " Reuben Sachs" from my bookseller, I did not anticipate a great deal of pleasure in reading it. The name seemed to recal l the studies of Jewish lib in Danle* Dcronda (almost the only noticeable sketches of the chosen people in fiction which I know of), and these did not leave a very pleasing impression; most reader 8 considering them the only lifeless pages in a vivid and memorable book, to be politely ignored in the second and third readings! which all the faithful devote to their great writer.

I had previously read a short story la one of the American Magazines, signed " Amy Levy," which seemed not far from commonplace. Still, the appear, ance of the slim, large printed, coffee, coloured volume of MacMißan's Colonial Library had something promising about it" By tho bye, what an immense boon and comfort this latter institution has been to most country readers. Living at a diatance from libraries and reading-rooms. cut off from book shops, having begged; borrowed, or stolen every book from every friend and every enemy within twenty miles, how very forlorn we should be if we could not buy a happy evening by'spending half-a-crown on one of these neat pleasantly printed little volumes.

Before he has read many pages of "Reuben Sachs" the reader perceives that slight, fragmentary, unfinished as it is, there is a marked individuality in its t reatment, and a refreshing sense of novelty in its material. In the first place it was a relief to find that the story was not about) very poor people. It needs a real spark o* genius to put us in touch with the conditions of life and labour in what we caU poverty. An outsider seldom penetrate* into the inner nature, Intimate trials and consolations of that phase of our exist* ence. Sometimes a Burns, a Dickens, or a George Eliot takes up the torch, andrf turns to us with treasures of human feel, ing; but such finders cannot be expected every day. Neither is this little sketch a "dialect" novel; with grateful thanks, giving let it be said! After all theresou rces of phonetic spelling have been e_> exhausted, and all the printer's *}_ has been expended on distortion of words or letters, and innumerable apostrophes have been scattered like hailstones over the conversations—how very tiresome l& all appears to the old-fashioned reader' educated in the language of the bible and prayer book. Even a writer of tha powe* and originality and feeling of George Egbert Craddock (Miss Murfree) Is almost swamped with the flood of tkiaunriaad able language.

"Reuben Sachs*' occupies itself with the wealthy middle-class Jewish farnlUei 1 of London at the present hoar. It convey* to us, with a strong sense of truth, to*) smoky, worldly, clever, entrancing London atmosphere, to which all the intellectual life of our nation must of necessity tain i and without pointing out the obvious moral it shows as vividly the dangers,, of its materialism, the poverty-stricken aims of its society, and the iron influence of its impalpable conventions. One need a no sign-post to the effects of money worship and social ambition as exemplified | Q the Sachs family; and its various members are outlined with a firm hand, though thty do not play very varied parts.

We moderns like our cakes hot from th% oven. We love to catch the stir/ and smoke of the present day, and to feel osjt own particular problems moving, ia;tfra world of fiction around us. I should not* wonder indeed, if it turns out that readers always had this same taste; that In t|a old historic ages men used to afk each other if they had heard that 1*«& chant of Homer's —" So new and original,** —or in later Puritan days, neighbour, would talk of that striking and sensational narrative, " The Pilgrim's Progress," and hide it under the sofa cashieas to be out of the way of the who ought to be minding their lessons.

The love-story of Reuben Sachs IsA simple, in fact hackneyed one. Judith,* handsome, (but portionless Jewish girl/is in love with Reuben, who is a rising and ambitious young politician. JQs loves Judith, and leads her on to believe in hja love; then suddenly and completely drops her, for- the chance of making 'an alliance with a well placed family which would strengthen his; position. Had Judith been a girl of spiritiihe would surely have despised him for his unmanly conduct. Had she been mada 6i harder fibre she might have waited on» and made herself Reuben's indispensable friend and adviser; but as tiro manner*©* most novels is, she gives way to a H(s6e pressure, and for the sake of her famll* marries a wealthy and amiable young Englishman, with whom we are left C° suppose she leads a spiritless and hearties 8 existence for years, till her children #v» her a fresh Interest in life. '■;. -

That is all I have to say about Mi* Levy's book, but I must really go moment and enter a protest foolish fate which so many of our htjesb girl-heroines seemed determined to ineafc Why should a girl, because "'.'jfta cannot marry the man /she lotes, immediately make some worthy man miserable by marrying him for his money 1 I have just seen the review of a seemingly, very objectionable novel by Mr* Mfpa Caird. In this the heroine, as usual, is persuaded into a mercenary Inajariage, |o? the good of her family. The mercenftry husband showing signs of a violeht temper, and making himself otherwise obnoxlpna Ms gentle wife first console%*Jt*re-_S vma the conversation of a former lover, and finally stabs the husband one day before dinner, by the aid of a bowle kntr-t which she usually carries in Mr back-hair. She then prepares, to fly wit D the lover No. 2, but he, crisis in his rival's domestic aflatfc. prudently retreats alone. And from this rubbish we are asked to pronounce that marriage is a failure; and the ,rayto** assures us that this will be one of «-• principal topics of the year andelead|ftg subject at London dinner parties. - Wto, we must all ieel sorry for the dinner parties, and should think the eonvtyes would be very ill indeed after them, v. The reader of such stories will readily observe that marriage is certainlf • failure to the wealthy husband, and toy protest is entirely in the interests of tb« eligible men in novels. I often long to assure them ot my sincerest sympfttbyfnd esteem, and to let them know that many or us are entirely on their side, and that, we deplore their fate In being married to giris who hate the sight of them, who spends" their money, and who finally pose '°t*e world as victims of social tyranny, w*p in fact they have simply destroyed *«a honest man's home for the sake of 81™* assistance to their tiresome and weak ap/l generally disagreeable relations. AUSTBAL.