Chapter IX (4)

Here Byron is making the flat prose of the metre (so to speak), a source of humour in itself: but we cannot find that the author of these "Memories" intends anything of the kind. We agree with some of our brethren in finding the occasional lyrics good, and the opening lines of the seventh canto contain hints of genuine poetic quality. Altogether the book is a noticeable budget of gossip in verse, with not a few strong, pointed passages to relieve the effect of the flat or weak pages; which latter are, to speak the truth, too numerous. We should guess the author to be a very "clubable man."

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This is a very pleasant title, at all events, _A Nook in the Appennines, or a Summer Beneath the Chestnuts_, by Leader Scott, author of "The Painter's Ordeal," &c., &c. With twenty-seven Illustrations, chiefly from Original Sketches (C. Kegan Paul & Co.), and the book is pleasant too. Finding the heat at Florence, on the 11th of June--not _last_ June--too much for them, it being 96° in the shade, an English family flee to a nook in the mountains, where an old villa has been got ready for them; and there they sit, "at the receipt of coolness," like Lamb's "gentle giantess," till September. The villa on the Apennines is 2220 feet above the level of the sea, and the thermometer stands only at 70° in the open air. Now 70° is ordinary agreeable summer heat for England; though it is many degrees higher than anything we have seen (up to the middle of July) in England this dreadful year. The illustrations are helpful, and, without being obtrusively antiquarian, have most of them a retrospective or historical interest, as well as the more obvious one which is common to illustrations. The forty short chapters of which the book consists are filled with sketches of the life our English friends lived in the mountain nook, and of the manners and daily lives of the peasantry by whom they were surrounded--and these will be more instructive to a reader who knows a little about the Etruscans than to one who knows nothing of them. The interest of the narrative is never strong, but it is strong enough to carry the attention equably forward to the end, and there is no affectation; but it is a great mistake, and an unkindness to the reader, to omit, in a case of this sort, giving a sufficiently full, complete, and picturesque account of the travelling party themselves. We ought to be told how many there were, their ages, relationships, &c., and something of their previous travelling experience, if any.

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Of course it is a good thing when a first-rate French, German, or Scandinavian novel is translated into English, and this is pretty sure to happen, when it does happen, through the agency of high-class publishers. But it is a very different thing when translations of foreign novels are thrown at our heads by the score, by writers or publishers whose chief object is to pander to certain questionable tastes. We fear that this evil is upon us, or not far off. But a word of pleasant, if qualified, welcome is due to _A Distinguished Man: a Humorous Romance_, by A. Von Winterfeld, translated by W. Laird-Clowes, (C. Kegan Paul & Co. 3 vols.). The chief thing to _qualify_ the welcome is the fact that the author is too fond of hinting at the skeleton in the cupboard of what people call "modern thought." But apart from this, the book is amusing, and often more than amusing. It belongs to a type which is very rare in English literature--a sort of child-like farce, that is exceedingly difficult to describe; but it must be a very saturnine reader that can help a good laugh at some of the wild adventures of the German schoolmaster and German doctor upon English ground. These two men are rivals in love, and have both sought the hand of a German butcher's daughter. In the fulfilment of a certain ordeal, or test, which he imposes, they have to travel by way of Ostend to London, and thence to Edinburgh; the one who is first at certain marked points in a given route, to be the winner of the fair prize. Make up your mind that you are going to read some nonsense, and you will enjoy the book. The accuracy of the German in guide-book matters, in spelling, and in just those matters in which a French author always fails, is very striking. But we fear he is a little off the line once or twice. Is there in London any teacher of mathematics who keeps a man-servant, and covers his floor with carpets of velvet pile?