NEW NOVELS. * TH:ERE is not much of story in Arthur

Brandon ; there is incon- sistency in what there is, and it is badly put together. Some of the scenes are exaggerated, and one or two are of a questionable kind for exhibition though probably written with a moral aim, and certainly pointing a moral purpose. The writer possesses skill in conceiving and much power in delineating character ; he has a knowledge of Italian and artist life at Rome, as well as an . acquaintance with both English and Italian society. There is also freshness in the writer's mind, which gives independence if not originality to his style and treatment ; but this very inde- pendence contributes to mar the effect of the book as a novel, through a disregard of the requirements of fiction. There is a great difference between a servile adherence to routine and con- ventionalism, and a neglect of those rules which are not only founded in art but in the nature from which art is derived. Characters must be consistent in themselves, and their conduct should have reference to common social usage, however peculiar the persons may be drawn. The incidents of a story should be continuously connected, and work together towards the conclu- sion ; for although much of apparent jumble is met in life, those actions which are fitted for fiction will -be found to have a thread of unity running through them. This unity it is the business of art to develop by eliminating the secondary and accidental. This, too, is done in the telling of a real story, by persons who do not pretend to any art at all. Arthur Brandon is the natural son of a baronet, who is painted as very vile and wicked, and indeed something like a swindler, inas- much as he used his influence over Arthur's mother to deprive his son of a provision which his own: father insisted on being made. Having struggled with poverty, subsisted on a pittance flung to him by his father, and wrestled with the difficulties of a scanty and irregular education, Arthur Brandon at the opening of the book is found still struggling as an artist at Rome. Singular, sensitive, aspiring, and high-principled, he looks to home affec- tions as the means of happiness in life, and has formed an attach- ment for an Italian girl of bad character. Although the fact seems clear enough, Arthur cannot for a while be convinced either by the remonstrances of his friends or his own observations, but still " doats, yet doubts—suspects, yet fondly loves." To break off this connexion, to excite his affection for a young lady where dif- ference of station, the lover's birth, and an attachment though a hopeless one on the part of the lady, are the obstacles, and to conduct the whole to a termination, form what should be the story. This is badly managed. It is also continually overlaid by other scenes, incidents, or episodes, some of which are merely sketches of English or Americans in Italy, limned with an exaggeration reaching caricature, while others have a species of relation to the principal characters, though they have no necessary connexion with the main narrative.

This want of unity, together with a roundabout way of telling the story, reduces Arthur .Brandon to little more than a bundle of " situations " and sketches : but the book certainly exhibits great power in presenting scenes, as well as dramatic truth of charac- ter. The following interview between Arthur and Lelia, when he becomes convinced of her worthlessness and goes to her to ter- minate the connexion, is almost repulsive from the moral de- dation it displays ; but it is very striking, from its force, its knowledge of the nature of Roman profligacy, and its easy exhi- bition of Italian character.

" She walked in from her bedchamber the next moment, and, with a. somewhat grave modesty% saluted Brandon : but the quick-witted girl had hardly caught sight of his face, when she knew that all was over—that her deco' had recovered the use of his sight, that her scioccho ' had recovered the use of his brains. She stopped short—Brandon went up to her, and took her by the hand. He spoke out at once, with his usual abruptness, yet with a certain dignity that truth and a good purpose are sure to give. " Lalla ' said he gently, look here, my poor girl. I was in the gardens of the Villa Medici this morning about ten o'clock, and I saw you go into that Frenchman's studio. You see, therefore, that all is quite finished be- • Arthur Brandon: a Novel. In two volumes. Published by Hurst and Blackett.

The Hills of the .Shatemue. By the Author of " The Wide, Wide World." Pub- lished by Low and Co., London ; and Constable, Edinburgh.

tween us : but I came here once more, because I thought I might persuade you to forsake this bad way of life. You are so young that you don t know, but I do, and so does your mother—God forgive her !—to what you must come at last. Think of that blear-eyed Tote, who begs baiocchi at street- corners, croaking like a frog. I remember Tote still young and pretty, and with a sweet voice, like you ; and like you she went wrong—Poveretta, be warned in time. I will help you, and befriend you, all I can.'

"For one moment, Lalla turned upon Brandon, 'her face unrecognizable and distorted with bitter rage. It convulsed her mouth, and blazed from her eyes as she tore herself away, and sprang at the old woman like a young tigress, as Brandon had called her.

,

" Beast of a mother !' she screamed, clutching her shoulder. ' It is truth that he says ! I am a piece of filth—yes ! I shall be like the blear- eyed Tota—yes! But who made me what I am ? One, two, three ! Three of us, your own children, you sold us all, all, all. Think of my sister Quiche ! Dead, dead in a hospital, at sixteen ! Where is my beautiful sister Giovanna ? Dead dead and damned for killing her baby ! Who helped her to kill it ? Who sold me, the last, before I was fourteen ? Sold me for—'

" With a yell, that was hardly human, her mother struck her on the mouth, and flung her off. Lalla staggered back, panting, to the side of the

" The hag's yellow face had become lead-coloured. She could not artku- Jot:I:but stood howling and grinning at the girl, like an old hyaena. Lalla, straightened against the wall, stared at her with dry fierce eyes, burning in a dead white face, her beautiful mouth all bloody, a long lock of her heavy hair uncoiled on her shoulder. Neither of them took the least notice of Brandon.

" For his part, he had listened to Lalla's atrocious revelations, and now continued to look at her, half bewildered as well as horror-stricken.

"He had a confused artistic sense of the girl's fearfully expressive beauty, and of the wonderful study her face was, and noted the lines that evil pas- sions were tracing on it : but that strong instinct of the artist did not save him from the disgust and revulsion of feeling produced by Lalla's sudden metamorphosis before his eyes into a rampant fury, by the hideous quarrel he was now witnessing, and by the thought of that abyss of shame and horror to the very brink of which he had blindly rushed, over which he had absolutely advanced his foot!—His wife ! That ! He turned sick, and -sitting down covered his eyes with his hand. But let me say that, in his heart of hearts, the rescued Brandon thanked God, who had cared for him while he dwelled carelessly.' "The old woman soon recovered her speech i and then between mother and daughter raged an appalling duet of recrimination, such as my pen may hardly record. Lalla's great sweet voice crashed out mad discords, its clear crystal shattered into sharp fragmentary screams, the hag's hoarse bass roar- ing below. But worse than the deafening uproar of this battle raging loud and long' was the language used by the two women, compared to which that of Billingsgate is almost polite and clergymanly ! and worse than the language were the horrible dead and buried secrets they got up and exposed naked and ghastly to the day !

"Two or three times Brandon tried in vain to pacify them; and he would gladly have left the shocking scene, but that he really feared murder might be committed if these women, mad with fury, were left alone. "At last, from sheer exhaustion they seemed to agree to a truce, and sat down silently glaring at each other. Brandon seized the opportunity, and made a last effort to save the unhappy young girl.

" ' Just listen to me for a moment, Lalla,' said he, and then answer me. Do you really abhor the vile life you lead ? and will you let me help you to earn your bread in some honest way ? ' " ' Hold your tongue, cursed animal of an Englishman!' bellowed the old woman, breaking out again. My daughter is mine; I will do as I will with her. Let her alone, if she does not suit your taste ! It suits me to keep her with me, and that things remain as they are. Do you hear what I say ? then get out of my house, piece of English dirt that you are ! ' " Answer me, Leila ' said Brandon firmly. "The girl did not turn towards him her fixed sullen eyes, but spoke with savage bitterness. 'She has answered you. Are you stupid.? What ! when I tell you that hell-mother there is a child-murderess ! When I tell you a priest found it out—a our of a priest—and she flung me to him for his silence ! Are you a fool ! Or how far do you think they would let me go with their secrets before they killed me too ! that hell-mother and that cur of a priest she flung me to when I was thirteen years old ! And I was worth something then : I—yes, insolent Englishman ! you who despise me now—I was beautiful then ! bells come la primavem—bellissima! I tell you ; and with an innocent face, and a colour, a little colour, like an English miss. 0, Dio mio--Dio mio ! '

" The poor passionate profligate Italian girl, vain as a peacock, gave a loud piteous sob to her deteriorated beauty, which no thought of her lost honour had wrung from her. Brandon looked at her with a strange mixed feeling of compassion, wonder, and disgust, and then rose to leave the

room.

The writer of Arthur Brandon seems to be struggling with some purpose in which the moral of natural children should be the leading feature. If he has any such purpose, he has failed to impress it; nor indeed are the elements of his book adapted to the object, being all of too exceptional a nature.

The matter and idea of The .71ills of the Shatemue are better than the execution. Apart from the usual novel love-story, and from some religious discussions which contain more of sentiment than of knowledge, the tale exhibits the domestic life of a supe- rior-minded and attached farmer's family in the Northern States of America, struggling with narrow circumstances, rendered still narrower by the aspirations of the two elder sons. William Landholm, the elder son, though not devoid of family affection, has a touch of selfishness, which makes him yield grudgingly to the delays that the family necessities place m his path. His younger brother, Winthrop, though less ostensibly brilliant than William, has greater abilities, firmness, and perseverance, with a nobler moral character, always ready to sacrifice his dearest hopes for the sake of his family.

It is not, however, as a mere picture of life, characters, and manners, that the early part of the story is interesting ; it seems the type of a large class of persona in the older States North of Pennsylvania. The origin and career of Daniel Webster, as well as of other successful though less famous men, is embodied in the struggles of Winthrop and his brother. There is no imitation of the orator and statesman, either in character or in the greatness of his later position before the world ; but Webster's youthful labours on his father's farm, his zeal for education, and the family priva- tions to send him to the university, are all typified so far as the necessities of novel-writing permit. The pictures are curious in another sense. Unless there is exaggeration in the narrow cir- cumstances of Mr. Landholm, a career would seem to be as open and quite as easy in England as in America, bating the difference caused by the universal notions of the equality of White men, and the consequent absence of acknowledged ranks. In one point of view, a learned education seems more readily attainable here than in the States, through the numerous grammar-schools scattered over the country; while the foundations, under whatever names, and the fellowships, give a student without family means a better chance of support at the university and during his first con- test with the world. The abilities, the perseverance, and the ri "cl parsimony of Winthrop, joined to the exertions of his family, must anywhere, indeed, have advanced him to the position where the novel leaves him—that of a rising young lawyer. To English readers some of the privations will wear a sordid look, though customary enough in this country many years ago when money was less plentiful, and perhaps still to be met with in remote parts. If the Landholms are a type, and not an extreme case adopted for effect, the sorry profits of the farmer and the cupidity of the " usurer " are as much a grievance in America as they were in Italy in the days of Horace. If the picture is general, mort- gages will in time sweep away the yeomen of the older States ; though, like old Mr. Landholm, they have the West to go to.

The reputation of the writer's previous work, The Wide, Wide World, and the serious matter which is often turning up, may give The Hills of the Shatemuc a certain popularity. The fresh- ness of the subject-matter, the truthful painting of character and manners, and the tenderness of feeling, sometimes attaining pa- thos, render a large portion of the book interesting. As a novel.it is inferior. The story at the best of times moves but slowly, and sometimes scarcely moves at all. The incidents, or rather their materials, are often so slight as to be unworthy of the space they fill and the minuteness of the treatment. Neither is the author equal to scenes of passion or strong emotion ; the habit of over- detailing fritters away the effect. The best parts are those which exhibit the family affections and admit of being heightened by still-life painting. The following is the close of a scene when Winthrop avows his ambitious hopes—his wish to be something more than a farmer, on the day his brother has left home to pre- pare for college.

"Mrs. Landholm's eye wandered round the room ; the very walls in their liitugbdlecnosetsstoanredarrogehnm essanreintidintil antwtioefmthe labour that was now ex- pended in keeping the inside warm. Every brown team and little window- sash could witness the story of privation and struggle, if she would let her mind go back to it ; the associations were on every hand• neither was the struggle over. She turned her back upon the room, and sitting down in Winthrop's chair, bent her look as he had done into the decaying bed of coals.

" He was standing in the shadow of the mantelpiece, and, looking down in his turn, scanned her face and countenance as a little while before she had scanned his. Hers was a fine face, in some of the finest indications. It had not, probably it never had, the extreme physical beauty of her first- born, nor the mark of intellect that was upon the features of the second. But there was the unmistakeable writing of calm good sense, a patient and possessed mind, a strong power for the right whether doing or suffering, a pure spirit, and that nameless beauty, earthly and unearthly, which looks out of the eyes of a mother—a beauty like which there is none. But more; toil's work, and care's, were there, very plain, on the figure and on th face, and on the countenance too ; he could not overlook it ; work that years had not had time to do, nor sorrow permission. His heart smote him.

" Mamma,' he said, you have left out the hardest difficulty of all. How can I go and leave you and papa without me ? '

" How can you ? My child, I can bear to do without you in this world, if it is to be for your good or happiness. There is only one thing, Win- throp, I cannot bear.'

"He was silent.

" I could bear anything—it would make my life a garden of roses—if I were sure of having you with me in the next world.'

"'Mamma—you know I would—'

" I know you would, I believe, give your life to serve me, my boy. But till you love God as well as that—you may be my child, but you are not His.'

"He was silent still ; and, heaving a sigh, a weary one, that came from very far down in her heart, she turned away again, and sat looking towards the fireplace. But not at it, nor at anything else that mortal eyes could see. It was a look that left the things around her, and, passing present wants and future contingencies, went beyond, to the issues, and to the secret springs that move them. An earnest and painful look ; a look of pa- tient care and meek reliance the so earnest, so intent, so distant in its gaze, that told well it was a path the mind often travelled and often in such wise, and with the selfsame burden. Winthrop watched the gentle grave face, so very grave then in its gentleness, until he could not bear it : her cheek was growing pale, and whether with cold or with thinking he did not care to know.

" He came forward, and gently touched his cheek to the pale one. Mam- ma, do not look so for me !' he whispered. " She pulled him down beside her on the hearth, and nestled her face on his shoulder, and wrapped her arms round him. And they strained him close : but he could not speak to her then.

" For whom should I look ? or for what do I live ? My boy ! I would die to know that you loved Christ ; that my dear Master was yours too ! '

" The gently-spoken words tied his tongue. He was mute ; till she had unloosed her arms from about him and sat with her face in her hands. Then his head sought her shoulder.

" Mamma, I know you are right. I will do anything to please you—any- thing that I can,' he said with a great force upon himself. " What can you do, Winthrop ?' " He did not answer again, and she looked up and looked into his face. " Can you take God for your God ? and give your heart and your life— all the knowledge you will ever get, and all the power it will ever give you —to be used for Him ?'

"'For Him, mamma? 4" In doing His work—in doing His pleasure ?'

Mamma, I am not a Christiau,' he said hesitatingly, and his eye falling.

'"And now you know what a Christian is. Till you can do this, you do nothing. Till you are Christ's after this whole-hearted fashion, you are not mine as I wish to see you—you are not mine for ever—my boy—my dear Winthrop ! she said, again putting her arm round him and bowing her face to his breast. "Did he ever forget the moment her head lay there ? the moment when his arms held the dearest earthly thing life ever had for him ? It was a quiet moment : she was not crying ; no tears had been dropped at all throughout the conversation; and when she raised her face it was to kiss him quietly— but twice, on his lips and on his cheek—and bid him good night. But his soul was full of one meaning, as he shut his little bedroom-door—that that face should never be paler or more careworn for anything of his doing ; that he would give up anything, he would never go from home, sooner than grieve her heart in a feather's weight ; nay, that rather than grieve her, he would become a Christian."