Carlino. By the Author of "Doctor Antonio," "Lorenzo Benoni" Etc

Philadelphia : J. B. Lippincott & Co.

THIS is nothing but the story of how a simple and affectionate young Italian, in the quality of servant subdues the ferocious pride of an aristocratic master, and becomes, in the Baron’s despite, his sole support and most loved and valued friend. There ought to be some kindlier and fairer word than servile for a character which is so nicely and truthfully sketched here : “ Carlino was born a servant, by which we mean that nature had intended and constituted him for one. All the instincts, energies, and bent of his being lay in that direction, and once having reached it found full scope and satisfaction in that condition. J Ie could conceive nothing within his range which he should prefer. To be dependent on some one in a position above his own, to have some one to please, to make comfortable, to look up to, to attach himself to, was a constitutional want with Carlino. Was his new master likely to satisfy this need ? ” His new master -was the Baron dc Kerdiat, exsoldier, with theories of military strictness added to the instincts of the aristocrat. He “ belonged to the same school as that lady of the old régime, who dressed in the presence of her footman, on the assumption that a valet was not a man. Servants, in this gentleman’s eyes, were not men, but useful flesh-and-blood machines to be paid for hire, and so long as he paid them that hire, he considered himself quits with them. " Such being the Baron, the reader will imagine the life he leads Carlino, and will not be surprised that, abhorring zeal above all things, he should discharge the excellent fellow for the impudence of clandestinely watching beside him during a sickness. When the Baron is thrown from his horse and made a cripple for life, he remembers with meekness and longing this despised friend, and for the rest the story is the account of their affectionate association. But it is full of charming sketches of French and Italian characters and manners ; and though it is very brief, yet if it is really the business of an author to make his reader happier and desirous of being better, — which, in defiance of much imbecile wickedness about the sufficiency of art in and for itself, we suspect to be the case, —-then Mr. Ruffini has here achieved success not surpassed by that of any other of his very delightful books.

We do not mean to hint that the little story is artistically defective ; on the contrary it is the best literature, and of a kind of fiction,— simple, direct, and confident, like that of Auerbach, Björson, and ErckmannChatrian,—which no one born to speak English has yet had the courage to attempt, though it is evident that nothing pleases English readers better.