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A GOSSIP ABOUT NEW BOOKS.

THERE are readers of books in Autumn as well as in Spring. Indeed the autumnal season, when grave business is often thrown to the winds, is provocative of much reading, especially of light reading, and, whether at the open window of the sea-side house, in the shooting-box, in the travelling carriage, on the rail-road or in the steam-boat, our contemporary literature plays no insignificant part in the strenuous idleness of the months of September and October.

Of Historical and Biographical works there is no very abundant growth. Miss Costello's Memoirs of Mary of Burgundy, however, may be classed in either category. It is one of those works partly historical, partly biographical, which combine the solid importance of the one with the vivid interest of the other. It is pleasantly and conscientiously written by one full of the subject. Miss Costello knows well the people, the places, and the times of which she writes. Such a book, too, could only be written by a woman. It is altogether a touching story, one of which the simple historical truth is as interesting and affecting as the skill of the romancer can make it. Miss Costello's authentic narrative is as absorbing as Mr. Grattan's romance.

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In Mr. Browne's "History of Roman Classical Literature" + we have a work of a very different class. In his previous dissertation on the "Classic Literature of the Greeks" there is sufficient guarantee for the excellence of this companion volunie. It is capital vacation reading. We do not know a better book for those who are studying, or pretending to study, who are being coached, or pretending to be coached, in Devonshire, in Wales, in the Channel Islands, or any other of those enchanting spots which are so much frequented by studious undergraduates in the autumn, to take down to their scholastic retreats. A vast deal about Latin literature may here be learnt in a very short time. Scholarship is made easy in this volume. Mr. Browne is a ripe scholar, and he is a very pleasant writer. If we have anything to complain of, it is, that he has curtailed overmuch the critical portion of his work. We should have liked a few more illustrative extracts, characteristic of the style of the principal Latin writers, with such discerning remarks upon them, as Mr. Browne is capable of making. But in these days of over-expansiveness and prolixity such conciseness is a fault on the right side.

It was natural that a work of fiction from the pen of so eminent a man as the Marquis Azeglio, an historical romance by one who

"Memoirs of Mary, the Young Duchess of Burgundy, and her Cotemporaries." By Louisa Stuart Costello, Author of a "Summer among the Bocages and the Vines." 1853.

"A History of Roman Classical Literature." By R. W. Browne, M.A., Professor of Classical Literature, in King's College, London. 1853.

is himself an historical character, should excite unusual attention. We confess, however, to some prejudices of our own. We seldom address ourselves with much eagerness to the perusal of translated stories, and even in the translation of Azeglio's "Niccolo de Lapi," we expected to find more historical research than human interest. We have hardly yet recovered our taste for the historical romance, surfeited as we once were by the works of Scott, James, Ainsworth, and other smaller writers of the same class. The cravings of the public are now for highly-wrought fictions of domestic interest. We like the plain coat and trowsers, the round hat and the walking-stick, better than the coat of mail, the jerkins, the casque, the halbert and the arquebus. But, if anything could lure us back to the premiers amours of our younger days, it is such a story as the "Maid of Florence." We have here, thanks to Mr. Felgate, an admirable translation of a charming work. is an historical romance, but with only just enough of history in it to give colouring to the romance. The history enhances, it does not overlay, the human interest of the story. Of the plot itself we shall not speak. It is ingeniously constructed, and there is a certain dramatic unity in it, in spite of its ramifications. Often, as it branches off into new fields of adventure, now to follow the fortunes of one actor, now of another, the author keeps the several threads of the narrative skilfully in hand, and all are made to converge to one common centre of action. The dif ferent personages of the story are admirably individualized. There is a force and distinctness about the portraiture which shows the hand of the master scarcely less than the admirable grouping, the vivid contrasts, in some places, and the graduated resemblances in another, indicate the master mind of the designer. How grandly the central figure of the group-the fine old Niccolo de Lapistands out sturdy and bold, in all his rugged truthfulness beside the silken courtier, Troilus, the beautiful traitor, the charming villain, whose mission it is to seduce women and to betray men. Scarcely less excellent than these is the portrait of the good old trooper, Fanfulla, in whom the simplicity of the child is united with the courage of the hero and the strength of the giant, who cuts off the head of an enemy with a single blow, and sells his charger to buy food for a baby.

But if there be a bold vigorous handling in these masculine portraits, there is, on the other hand, the utmost delicacy of touch and refinement of treatment discernible in the womanly impersonations. We must speak of these somewhat more in detail, for the beauty of the group-at least, as it appears in our eyes-is not to be set forth without some minuteness of explanation. What we wish to say is this. In the "Maid of Florence" there are three principal female characters, who seem to represent the gradations of feminine chastity and corruption. We speak merely of outward purity and impurity-the contamination of the body. It appears

"The Maid of Florence; or, Niccolo de Lapi." By the Marquis Massimo D'Azeglio, Ex-Prime Minister of Sardinia. Translated from the Italian by W. Felgate, A. M. 3 vols.

to have been the design of the author to show how circumstances, more than natural disposition, make the difference between the extremes of womanly purity and degradation-how the same instincts of womanly love, existing in different breasts, one may, under the force of circumstances, become a virtuous wife, and the other a polluted courtesan. Laodamia-the Maid of Florencedaughter of Niccolo de Lapi, is the incarnation of feminine chastity; Selvaggia, daughter of Barlaam, the Jew, the impersonation of feminine pollution. The one has a noble-spirited, loving father, who protects her; the other, a sordid, unloving father, who betrays her. Selvaggia, whilst yet almost a child, is sold to a wealthy profligate. She passes from one protector to another until she becomes the follower of the camp. There, in the midst of a life of riotous excitement, she becomes acquainted with a young soldier, as virtuous as he is brave, and, for the first time, the sealed waters of pure womanly love are unloosed within her, and she regards with instinctive loathings all the impure environments of her life. She would give up everything for one kind word from him; she would willingly die for his sake. This youth-this Lambert-is betrothed to one of the daughters of Niccolo de Lapi -he is beloved by the other, Laodamia. This Laodamia is, as we have said, in all the outward circumstances of her life, the very antithesis of poor Selvaggia. She is exposed to outward danger— at one moment, indeed, she is on the extremest verge of ruin; but circumstances favour her, and she escapes.

Now, midway between these two extremes-between the chaste Laodamia and the degraded Selvaggia-is Laodamia's sister, Lisa. Lisa is enamoured of a gay young gallant-the worthless Troilus, of whom we have spoken-who deludes her into a secret and a false marriage, deserts her, returns again that he may betray her father, and then endeavours to seduce her sister. This poor Lisa, then, is not, after all, a wife, though she is the mother of Troilus' child. Outwardly, she is contaminated, polluted, degraded. The world would speak of her as unchaste. She was no more than the mistress of Troilus. The mistress is the link between the wife and the courtesan. Here, then, we have the three gradations of the womanly state. All had equally loving hearts. The vile courtesan, Selvaggia, under favouring circumstances, would have been as good and as faithful a wife as the chaste Laodamia. She would have lived and she would have died for her lord.

Now, this is a great truth-a great lesson. It is one, too, to which, it appears to us, there is a growing inclination to listen. No two works in respect of machinery and costume, of incident and of character, can be more unlike than the Marquis Azeglio's "Maid of Florence," and Mrs. Gaskell's "Ruth." And yet they breathe much the same spirit. The same great lesson of charity and toleration is to be learnt from them both. The world has been much too prone to think more of the corruption of the body than of the corruption of the heart-to believe that the former necessarily indicates the latter, and to take no account of circumstances. It is to be hoped that ere long we shall think more

wisely and more truthfully of these things-not attaching to them only the gross material significance which appeals to the outward eye. The poor outcast Selvaggia, in the Marquis Azeglio's noble fiction, has no less claim to the womanly sympathy and affection of the chastest of her sex, than if she had never been foully wronged, and thrown, in her helplessness, upon the world. This picture is one to be dwelt upon with all tenderness and humility. It is as beautiful as it is true-as interesting as it is instructive.

There is a novel before us, named "Charles Delmer," which, like the "Maid of Florence," seems to have been written by one who has mixed largely in the great affairs of the world. It is a political novel, and is the work of one thoroughly acquainted with the parties and the men who have fought on the political arena during the last quarter of a century-a quarter of a century laden with great events. We do not know who is the author of this clever book, but it is impossible to question his ability. "Charles Delmer" is rather a gallery of political portraits, than a narrative of fictitious adventure. There is life and animation in it, and it is not wanting in incident; but its merits will be best appreciated by those who can discern the remarkable fidelity of its portraiture. These portraits are struck off with great breadth and vigour; they are truthful without malice-racy without bitterness. The hand that drew them has not been guided by the animosity of Party. The most conspicuous feature in the gallery is that of Jacobi, in whom the reader will have no difficulty in tracing the lineaments of the late Chancellor of the Exchequer. The likeness is a kindly one-but unmistakeable. Peel and Lord John appear without any disguise. The present First Lord of the Admiralty is there also, sketched by no friendly hand. The hero of the story, Charles Delmer, appears to be partly a fictitious-partly a real personage. The reality appears to be derived from the character and career of Charles Buller. Indeed Charles Delmer may not unfairly be presumed to be a fancy portrait of that lamented statesman. The embellishments are considerable; but there is beneath them a solid substratum of truth. The book is one that has already been much talked of, and, doubtless, it will find its way to many a shootingbox, or be stowed away in many a travelling-carriage, during this idle month of September, for the amusement of those who, whilst Parliament was sitting, had little leisure for the perusal even of the political novel of the year. And, in truth, there is much to be learnt from "Charles Delmer." It is as good reading as any Blue-book; quite as instructive, and a hundred times more amusing. "Politics, count on it, demand a large spice of the devil," said Jacobi to Charles Delmer. And a political novel is worth little that has not some of this spice. It appears to us, that in these volumes there is just enough of it, and no more. There is nothing that is not "within the limits of becoming devilry." But there is spice in almost every page.

Very different from this work is Mr. Reade's new story, "Charles Delmer-a Story of the Day." 2 vols. 1853.

"Christie Johnstone."* It is a book, indeed, sui generis. Mr. Reade describes it as "a faulty but genuine piece of work." That it is a genuine piece of work, we see plainly enough, but we do not very clearly recognize its faults. If we were to judge it by a standard with which it was never intended that it should conform, it would, doubtless, be very easy to say what the story is not, because it is very easy to see what it was never intended to be. It is in all respects thoroughly unconventional. It is a novel not in three volumes, but in one, with incident and character sufficient for a novel of the recognized trade dimensions, and heart enough for half a dozen such works. Christie Johnstone, the heroine of the story which bears her name, is the orphan daughter of a Newhaven fisherman. She is one of Nature's own nobility, though she catches and she cries" caller herrin'," and has a rich Doric brogue past all denial. We do not know whether there are many such young fish-wives in Newhaven, but if there are, we should like vastly to live among them. Some may, perhaps, say, that there are not many, and that there is not one; but, as Lord Ipsden, or perhaps the author through Lord Ipsden, says, "art is not imitation, but illusion ;" and the illusion, in this instance, is assuredly a beautiful one.

As a piece of homely pathos going straight to the heart, we know nothing more exquisitely touching than this story of "Christie Johnstone." Many of the incidents, as that which tells how one of these Newhaven fishermen and his son are drowned in the Firth, and how, when the tidings are brought in, none of his comrades have the heart to communicate the doleful news to the wife and mother, who are waiting their return; or that which shows us Christie Johnstone arresting the progress of the fierce drunkard, Sandy Liston, on the way to the whiskey-shop, and daring him to strike her father's daughter; or, more than all, that in which is brought so vividly before us Christie, with her young brother, putting out to sea to save a drowning man, a bather, who is being carried out by the tide are described with a power and a truthfulness rarely excelled in modern fiction. The manly courage blended with the maidenly modesty, educed by such a circumstance as this, beautifully exhibit both the true heroine and the true woman. And whilst in this the skill of the painter of character is strikingly developed, there is a minute objectiveness in the manner in which all the outer adjuncts of this exciting scene are described, which shows that Mr. Reade possesses other artistic qualities than these. Indeed, it appears to us that there is in "Christie Johnstone" a rare union of the descriptive and the dramatic. Nothing of its kind could be much better than the description of the great take of herrings in the thirteenth chapter. It is impossible to read it without partaking of the excitement of the sport-without almost thinking that one has one's hand upon the bursting net. Altogether, indeed, the work is entirely what the author says of it, a "genuine piece of work," and we are much * "Christie Johnstone." A Novel. By Charles Reade, Esq., Author of "Peg Woffington."