LORD BR ACKENBURY.*

PROBABLY the author of this novel reflected that if it were good enough to be accepted by the publishers, it would be superfluous to strive after any higher standard of goodness, and that conse- quently there was no need for her to take the trouble to make her work as good as it was in her power to do. For this seems the natural explanation of a book of such unequal merit,—a book which is so scrappy and disjointed as to give the effect of the lines of thought of two or three different stories having been forcibly compressed into one groove ; which is overweighted with an amount of padding that would have certainly swamped the work of a less skilful writer, and which, nevertheless, contains so much of what is clever and pleasant as to make it a novel worth reading. It may be that a day will at last come when publishers will discover that the world in general infinitely prefers a well-told story in small compass, to the same article tediously spun out to last through three volumes ; and, until the arrival of that much-to-be-desired day, we suppose that padding must be one of the inevitable draw- backs to all literature. Yet, though the long-suffering public is prepared for a certain amount of this nuisance, we think they have a right to grumble when they find an author like Miss Edwards, who is able to write really well and amusingly when she chooses, filling her pages with long domestic letters, which are entirely unimportant and uninteresting; or with descriptions (like those in a guide-book) of art galleries in Munich, Italian villas, and family portraits at an old grange ; or with common- place conversations between stray people who have nothing to do with the story,—such as Theodolinda, and other totally irrelevant individuals, who are obviously introduced solely to increase the printer's copy. Were these unsatisfactory husks • Lord Brackenbury. By Amelia B. Edwards. London : Hurst and Blaakett.

all that is set before Miss Edwards's readers, they would be quickly choked off the book ; but from time to time she vouch- safes them ears of corn, which are too good to be lost, and for the sake of which they persevere. For instance, there is the witty suggestion that the life and recollections of an old lady who was once a great beauty and somewhat wicked, but who has since become devout, should be "divided, like the history of England, into the period of the Conquest and the period of the Reformation." Or, again, we have stories such as occur in the following extract. We would remark, by the way, that we do not think the comparison of a person " sitting at table " to a cherub is a happy simile, as—according to popular belief— these celestial beings are correctly described in the Ingoldsby Legends by the words, "They could never sit down, for they hadn't de qua :"—

" Mr. Marrables was a bright, chatty, little old man, with a cheer- ful voice, a pleasant smile, and scant, crisp, white hair, brushed up in a curly ridge along the top of his head, like a cock's comb. Bitting at the foot of the dinner-table that evening, so plump, so rosy, so trim, in tightly-battened frock-coat, high velvet collar, and ample shirt- frill, he looked like a dapper old cherub. Mr. Marrubles, however, was not a cherub. He was the Brackenburys' family lawyer, and the last surviving partner of that old firm which bad carried their cause through the famous lawsuit. Dullness,' he was saying, is a relative term. For myself, being neither painter nor sportsman, I should pro- bably die here of ennui. But then, you see, I am a lawyer; and lawyers are nothing if not gregarious. We should break our hearts in Utopia. You know why Lord Chief Justice Parnell said that lawyers might as well be rogues in this world ?—because they wouldn't care to go to a heaven where there was neither dying nor marrying, and consequently neither disputed wills nor breaches-of- promise. Profane, eh ? But Parnell's jokes were as profane as a parson's. He had a Socratic way of questioning witnesses on points of law when lie was at the Bar—what be called extracting pure equity from their inner consciousness. He got queer answers sometimes. ' Why is bigamy unlawful ?' be once asked a rustic at Singleton Assizes.—' Wall, master,' replied Chawbacon, because, accordin' to the Scriptures, a man cannot serve two masters.' "Gad ! this is something like port ! There's not such another glass of wine in the county. Your grandfather bought it, with old Slocombe's whole cellar, at my suggestion, Mr. Brackenbury—six dozen in all, and every bottle of the choicest ! He used to tell me I never did him a better turn. Regular old-fashioned three-bottle man, that Slocombe Kept this particular port for his own drinking. Never gave it to his guests, if he could help it. I used to ask for it, out of malice—pure malice ! He couldn't refuse, you know ; but grudged every drop. Drank himself across the Styx, poor devil ! Crosby warned him of it, —tried to cut him down to one bottle a day ; but 'twas of no use. "I don't ask you to drop it altogether, Mr. Slocombe," says Crosby. " but you must leave off drinking it in a great measure." Slocombe promised Crosby, however, timed his next visit after dinner, and found the patient -a ell into his third bottle.—" I've not broken my word, doctor,' says Slocombe ; "I promised I would leave off drink- ing it in a great measure ;"—and by Jove ! Sir, he was tippling it in liqueur glasses !' "

All this is light and entertaining, and so also is the sketch of the valet, Fronting, a further development of whose character would have been a welcome substitute for some of the tedious padding of which we complain. Here is our introduction to this person, whose scheme for spying out secrets by always arranging the furniture in his master's room at a hotel, so as to bring the chief points within range of the keyhole, strikes us as being delightfully original :—

" Now the one thing Mr. Fronting loathed was a mystery. A sealed letter, a conversation in a foreign tongue, a locked door, were his favourite aversions. Was it not his chartered right to hear every- thing, to see everything, to know my lord's business at least as well as my lord knew it himself, if not better ? Words are weak to ex- press Mr. Prouting's disgust when he found himself locked out on the present occasion. But a truly great soul is not easily daunted ; and the greatness of Mr. Prouting's soul led him, after a few minutes' consideration, to squat down upon his heels before the door of the salon, and apply his eye to the keyhole. For not only had experience taught him that a turned key leaves a sure field for observation, but foresight and the natural bent of an inquiring mind had led him to place the centre table of the salon, and the chair that his master usually occupied, well within range of the keyhole. So to arrange the furniture on arriving at a fresh hotel was Mr. Prouting's invariable custom ; and in some of his former situations, it had been the means of procuring him much legitimate entertainment."

Another fresh and pleasant character is Mrs. Pennefeather, the wife of a poor clergyman, who endeavours to increase her hus- band's scanty income by novel-writing :-

" A tender mother, a good wife, a careful housekeeper ; as skilful with her needle as with her pen ; and an adept in the art and mystery of cooking, Mrs. Pennefeather was the very reverse of that helpless, slatternly, unattractive phenomenon, the typical lady-novelist of the nineteenth century. She was her children's only governess, and she made their clothes and her own."

And her own opinion of herself is,- " I am not witty, you know—I am only sharp. I have had no education to speak of. I know I am shallow ; and I don't expect to

be read by any but those who are as shallow as myself. Thank Heaven ! however, their name is legion. What would become of the circulating libraries, if the British public was not providentially blessed with an instinctive craving for rubbish ?"

Her trouble when her husband refuses to allow her to earn E5 by writing a ghost story for a periodical, because he disapproves of ghosts, and her friend Winifred's ingenious plan for obviat- ing his objection and securing the £5, seem amusing enough to be worth quoting at length :-

"' I had a letter yesterday from the editor of Gog and Magog— anal anice letter !—offering me five pounds for a ghost-story for the

Christmas number. You may imagine how pleased I was! Well, I went into the fields after breakfast, and it all came into my head—a thrilling suicide and a delicious apparition. Just the very thing ! And now Derwent won't let me write it !'—' Why not ?'—' You may well ask ! He doesn't approve of ghost-stories—says it is a sacri- legious levity to write such things !'—' Then Mr. Pennefeather believes in ghosts ?'—' He neither believes nor disbelieves. He says we know nothing about disembodied spirits under the present Dispensation, and that one has at all events no business to tamper with such subjects. It is useless to argue with him. You have no idea how resolute Derwent can be, when it comes to a question of conscience. But isn't it mortifying? Five pounds, my dear—five pounds de- liberately thrown away, and Christmas coming, and the children wanting warm things for the winter . . . .' Here Mrs. Penne- feather's voice broke into an involuntary sob. declare,' she said, it's heartbreaking !' Winifred's arms were instantly round her.—' No, no!' she said ; disappointing—perplexing—not heartbreaking. Don't fret about it, dear ; pray, don't fret !' Mrs. Pennefeather laughed nervously, and brushed away a tear.—' This is too ridiculous,' she

said, 'I, who never break down I am horribly ashamed.'— 'There must be a way out of the difficulty,' mused Winifred.—' A very short and a very straight way. I shall write a civil note, regretting that my numerous literary engagements compel me to decline ; and then I shall never again be invited to contribute to Gog and Magog.'—` You must of course give up your delicious apparition.'

That is giving up the story. How can I write a ghost-story 'without a ghost ?'—' You are not obliged to have the ghost of a human being.'—' Eli ?'—' Why not invent an inoffensive ghost—say, the ghost of an animal ?'—' The ghost of an animal !' echoed Mrs. Pennefeather, breathlessly. 'Oh, Winifred, what a great idea!'- ' Mr. Pennefeather would not object to that ?'—' Of course not ! The ghost of an animal—What animal ? A dog !—yes, of course, a dog! A faithful bloodhound, who appears in order to identify his master's murderer 1'—' Isn't that rather too—too obvious ?'—' I dare- say it is, dear,' replied Mrs. Pennefeather, meekly. That's my fault, you know—obviousness. All my ideas are just what anybody else's ideas would be. I'm not a bit original.'—' That is not what I mean,' said

Winifred, quickly. What do I know of originality—I who have never read any novels but yours and Scott's ? No—I only thought that the story should be as uncanny as possible.'—' Of course it should be uncanny.'—' Unlike the generality of ghost-stories.'—' Ah, there's the rub ! It is so hard to think of anything new.'—' We can but try. Suppose wo tried by contraries ?'—' Contraries, my dear child ! What do you mean F'—' Well, ghosts, you know, are always

seen—in ghost-stories,' said Winifred, hesitatingly. Suppose you had a ghost that was felt. Ghosts always glide—have a ghost that springs. Fancy what it would be to feel a cat spring upon your .shoulder—a ghostly eat—intangible—invisible— !' Mrs. Penne-

feather clasped her hands ecstatically. Oh, you darling !' she exclaimed. The children may well say there are no fairy-tales like those you tell them ! You ought to he an author.' Winifred shook her head. ' I an author ?' she said, laughing. Absurd I could not put a story together to save my life. No ; I am but a truffle-dog in your service—good for nothing but to urub up material which I don't know how to cook.'"

The author has a very good description of the eruption of Vesuvius in 1872, of which she says that she was an eye-witness. Her book gives abundant evidence that she has lived a good Zeal abroad, and contains many capital descriptions of foreign scenes and places, which will recall them to those who have been there with a vividness which will be delightful to all, except that minority of John Bulls who are of the same mind

as a gentleman of whom we heard lately, who, after spending some time on the Continent, and being asked how he liked it,

concisely expressed his sentiments in the three words, " I loathe abroad !"

Upon the plot of the story we have not touched, believing that the public will thank us for referring them for that to the book itself, which is worth reading, in spite of the scrappiness and padding of which we have spoken.