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have been more effectual for his purpose. This purpose is to find the real source of the Jordan. He not only succeeds in finding several real sources, but settles the fact incontrovertibly. We wish we had not the moral certainty that the next traveler thirsting for renown will exhaust the water of these fountains and smite the rocks for others—but we are used to new sources of rivers, and accept that inevitable portion of useless knowledge uncomplainingly; but when our author finds, also, a '*new mouth,'' we revolt: it is simply more than our limited intelligence can comprehend. Besides, this is an innovation which, if admitted, may lead to very disastrous results in regard to the authenticity of former travelers, until some one, more adventurous than the rest, shall declare that the Jordan is not the Jordan at all, and our associations be thus remorselessly swept away. It is difficult to say what is the real value of the accumulation of such facts as are here given. It does not, as far as we could ascertain, establish any new or interesting principle in Geology, or discovery in Geography. But in such a journey one naturally expects rather a sentimental than a scientific interest. And here it fails signally. The reflections are of the most commonplace orthodoxy, without the slightest tinge of individuality.

There is, however, a vein of marked individuality in the book, and this is the author's loyalty to the Commodore of the Canoe Club, His Royal Highness, and also his intense appreciation of his countrymen. He tells us that the Orientals, although they hate all other Europeans and especially the French, love every Englishman; and that the magic words 'I am an Englishman"? will cower a marauding band of Arabs. In fact, it is the only talisman needed for a safe and pleasant journey among these unscrupulous people.

There is, of course, the usual fling at traveling Americans, to which we only object because the picture is drawn too mildly. Can any American, acquainted with his species, imagine an unappreciative fellow-countryman, describing the Dead Sea with no stronger expression of disapprobation than merely, "It is only a dull-like place."' If any of that large class of English people — the uneducated masses—ever went beyond

the smell of their own peat-fires, they would, undoubtedly, use such an expression. The difference between American and English travelers is, perhaps, that there is only one class of English, while there are two classes of Americans, who travel. Let us hope that our uneducated traveling countrymen, if they have gained for us a reputation for being ignorant and unrefined, have gained for themselves a greater breadth of thought, and more freedom of ideas, than the corresponding class of the older and more enlightened countries have yet attained.

THE WRITINGS OF ANNE ISABELLA THACKERAY. New York: Harper & Brothers.

They who have already had the good fortune to meet an occasional story of Miss Thackeray's will welcome the pfesent volume of her complete works. It is even possible that they will find the enjoyment which they had promised themselves, for every story exceeds their anticipations. The stories are of such equal merit in regard to quality, and yet diverse in regard to kind, that, after the first impulsive criticism of considering the last one read as the very best, it will depend upon individual taste and sympathies to elect permanent favorites. For we believe that those who enjoy Miss Thackeray's writings at all will at once assign them a place in that miscellaneous class which Emerson calls "favorites," and which we regard not altogether critically, but with a sort of personal friendship and sympathy.

The most considerable story, in regard to length, is '' The Village on the Cliff."" This may be said to aspire to a plot, although the interest rather centres upon the development of the characters of the two "Catharines,"and is maintained by the quiet and continuous movement. The character of the impulsive Normandy woman, "Reine," relieves the somewhat colorless goodness of the English heroines. Not that we apprehend that this patient heroism is less heroic with a quiet sublimity and real pathos, but the dash of bright coloring adds a certain vivacity to the picture, like the gleaming of the red cloak of the peasant against the gray walls of some medieval town.

But it is the "Five Old Friends"—the old