BOOKS.
VIRGINIA OF V 11-LGINLI..*
Jr Mr. Gosse reads this story,—and he ought to read it,—he will repent him of his sarcasm at the expense of Miss Amelie Rives. In his essay in the Forum on the question, "What constitutes a great poet?" he very justly quizzed some American who had said that in America they do not read John Dryden ; and he asked who it is, then, that they do read, suggesting that it might perhaps be answered, Miss Araelie Rives. Well, we can only say that if she will always write as she writes in Virginia of Virginia,—no doubt an immense advance on her former story,—they could hardly do better. It is a slight affair, no doubt, but it is pretty nearly perfect of its kind, and there can be no question but that it has the quality of true and very unquestionable genius of that indisputable order which we find in some of the finest idylls of Tourgueneff. The whole story must be read before its quality can be judged, for it is in the high and exquisite pathos of its closing scene that its genius really culminates. We do not mean that there is not plenty to admire before the closing scene is reached. If there were not, of course no kind of power there displayed could make the little tale the gem it is. But everything in the tale really leads up to the closing scene, and without having read that, the extraordinary harmony and mounting interest of the whole cannot be judged at all. That conscious straining after new effects of language which was to be noticed in former efforts of Miss Amelie Rives, has disappeared entirely in Virginia of Virginia. The story is told in language as simple as that of Mrs. Stowe, and with a feeling for the aspect of the scenery and surroundings, as well as the one character carefully studied in it, which is as full of Art as it is full of Nature. Virginia of Virginia, the daughter of a "mean white," and speaking in a mean dialect which is certainly about the least adapted to convey the higher notes of human purpose and passion, of all the languages of "articulately speaking men," contrives to leave an impression of herself upon the reader which, we venture to say, he should never again lose. Perhaps, indeed, so high is the art of the story, the meanness of the dialect in the end rather adds to, than detracts from, its beauty. We cannot help feeling, indeed, repelled all through by the sort of half-cockney, half-negro vernacular in which Virginia and her father talk,—a cross between the humorous, half-animal speech of the negro, and the astute vulgarity of a New York or a London street-arab. But as the significance of the character of Virginia slowly gains upon us, though the inadequacy of the speech to express the character is never for a moment forgotten, the sense of contrast between the poverty of the material and the grand effect of the delineation grows with the growing picture, and it is quite possible that in the end, the pathos is really enhanced instead of attenuated by the curious meanness of the medium in which a part of the effect is embodied,—for, of course, it is only when Virginia or her father speak, that the reader is aware of the contrast to which we refer, the author's own
• Virginia of Virginia, a Story. By Amaie Rives. London : George Rontlealto teed Bons.
English being as graceful and simple as any one could desire. We cannot give the least conception of the beauty of the story by extracts, but we may give just a specimen of the hybrid form of speech to which Virginia and her father are limited, and in spite of which Miss Rives mans ges to make her heroine one of the most effective figures in the range of modern English fiction. The young Englishman who has purchased a. stock-farm in Virginia, is beginning his acquaintance with his manager, Virginia's father, who rushes at once into the subject of his daughter after the following fashion :— " Howdy ? howdy ?' he remarked, genially. 'My darter Faginia's tole me 'bout you. Got all yo' clo'es ler in Washin'ton ? Hey ? Got 'em this mornin' ? You don' sesso ? Well ! My darter Faginia says as how you're goin' in fur horse-racin' ? That so ? You don' sesso ? Well, what d'you think or my darter Faginia, anyhow ? Darter, go 'n' bring me some water; I'm mortal thirsty.' Then, as the girl disappeared, 'Well, what d'you think er her?'—' She seems to be very—very charming,' ventured Roden.—' Well, sir, you 'ain't got no more idea of th' sweethearts that girl's had—I mean would 'a' had 'f I'd 'lowed it. The las' one was Jim Murdoch, a hoop-pole man. But, sir,'—here Mr. Herrick assumed a tone of the most pompous dignity—` but I will tole you, sir, as how my darter Faginia shall deceive no retentions, respecially from a hoop-pole man !'—' A hoop-pole man ? ' said Roden. That thar's hit, sir, an' I cert'n'y means what I says,' replied the overseer, relapsing again into his former slipshod easiness of speech and manner. Consequently were, the beauty of the question air my darter Faginia won't get married twel she gets a mighty good offer.'—' I should say you were perfectly right,' assented Roden.—' Well, yes, sir; I should sesso. I s'pose you ain't married, air you ?'—'No. Do I look very like a married man 9 said Roden, who continued to be amused. He thought the overseer almost as interesting as Virginia.—' Well, no,' assented old Herrick, manipulating his abundant beard with an air of deep thought. But the beauty of the question air, you kyarn't aruz tell. Them as looks the mostest married genly
ain't. An' contrarywise, them as don't, air Married ?' said Roden.—' Well, considerbul, mostly,' said the overseer."
That is the sort of provincial slang from the use of which we might have expected to get humorous effects, but certainly nothing like the singularly beautiful little tale contained in this volume. And yet we venture to say that if Miss Amelie Rives writes nothing more than this, she will not be quite forgotten in English literature. For slight as the story is, there is a perfection of detail, a harmony of colour, and a power of subordinating everything in it to the sculpturing of the chief figure, which fills the reader with satisfaction, and with that unique feeling that only a master- piece can produce. Love, despair, vindictiveness, remorse, repentance, the passion of gratitude for the opportunity of making some sort of reparation,—and all these passions of the order that spring up in a simple and untutored mind of great natural force,—have hardly been more powerfully delineated in the present generation than in this little tale ; though the design of the story is, of course, one conceived on a small scale.
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