FOR TIIE WHITE ROSE.•
JUDGED by statistics, there can be little doubt as to the superior attractiveness of the '45 to the '15 in providing novelists with the raw materials of romance. Mr. Wymond. Carey has done what in him lies to redress the balance, and he has done it with an enthusiasm which even the staunchest Hanoverian will find it hard to resist. Strictly speaking, it is not with the events of the year 1715 that he is concerned; it is the legacy of disaffection left by that abortive attempt, and cultivated assiduously by Alberoni and other interested intriguers, that furnishes the mainspring of his picturesque and full-blooded romance of the New Forest With most writers of fiction one hero and one heroine suffice ; but Mr. Carey, with a lavishness that is characteristic of his method, provides us with two of each. First of all, there is Harry Wylie, the Whig landlord and Magistrate, and Bess Weston, daughter of a Tory squire,—neighbours and playmates in the Forest. But the rival claims of love and political allegiance are- still further complicated by the intervention of Lord James and Lady Kate Gordon, of whom the former has been driven into exile to shield his sister, and, in the disguise of a highway- man, engages the affections of Bess. To make matters equal Lady Kate, disguised as a gipsy and a serving-maid,. bewitches Harry Wylie before he learns her true rank. Against the fascinations of this mysterious siren Harry struggles manfully. His chivalrous instincts forbid him to abuse her confidence, even when it involves the harbouring of the highwayman whom he believes to be her lover. But when at last he learns their true relations, and the sacrifices which the brother has made and the danger which the sister has willingly incurred to repay his devotion, his doubts are swept away, and his adhesion to the cause of the White Rose is only a matter of time. Besides, matters have been greatly simplified by Lord James's falling in love with Bess, and Bess with him. To say more of the further results of this exchange of partners, and whether it makes for happiness or the reverse, would be to forestall the pleasure which a majority of readers are sure to derive from Mr. Carey's noveL We say " a majority " advisedly, because r. certain number of readers may find the exuberance of Mr. Carey a little fatiguing. He is not a master of the art of omission ; his style is oratorical rather than literary ; and in regard to the charms, the coquetry, and, let us add, the agility, of his female characters he is not troubled by any excessive regard for verisimilitude. This lack of reserve, however, is eminently of the old-fashioned hearty type, reminding one of the physi- cal hero-worship of some of the mid-Victorian novelists, and is only part of the writer's frank enthusiasm about his theme. In any case, the improbabilities of the narrative are
largely redeemed by the unflagging energy of the recital, and, above all, by the charm and fervour of the descriptive passages.
We quote the following, not that it is not excelled in faithful- ness of observation by others, but because it insists on a quality already referred to by writers in our own pages,—the peculiar stillness of the New Forest:—
" Picture to yourself the head of a secluded valley enclosed in heathery slopes. The valley itself is rich pasture-land, and through it rambles a broad brook overhung with beech and poplar and alder. Just where the stream crosses the valley road, place a long low-storied house, with attics dotted amongst the gables, a manor built of the warm red brick loved by the men who had grown to enjoy the peace of good Queen Bess, and mark everywhere the latticed windows with the Tudor mullions and copings. The oak door, with the date 1571, faces up the valley across a noble expanse of lawn dominated by the mighty cedar planted to commemorate the restoration of King Charles the Second. Away on the right lie the two fish-ponds, shimmering now a purple brown in the westering sun, and fringed with nodding sedge, bulrush, and irises in a framework of spreading hazel; and beyond is the screened pleasannce of the bowling- green. To the back are the gardens, terrace on terrace, end- ing in the orchards, which gave the place its name,—such orchards as float in a rainbow of melting colour across a poet's dream of the Hesperides. Through the trees runs the stream, chattering over its golden bed to the forget-me-note, the rats, the ferns, and the brambles. Here in spring-time the lush grass reaches to the knee and the mossy trees emboss their blossoms on the cloth of gold, now of daffodil, now of butter- cup ; and here in autumn the apples gleam at the amethyst of the dying heather, while the bronze of the turning bracken bids the trees don their russet, for October is at hand. Most im- pressive of all is the perfect peace. The stillness of this spot, wholly apart from the turmoil of the world on a summer after- noon,—a stillness made more still by the cooing of the wood- pigeons and the cawing of the rooks,—is a thing to awe as it fills the spirit. Is it not English, this peace, as the Manor and its setting are wholly English? But it is the England of the south, steeped in the pure clear colour of the rich rural comfort of a country into whose genius has blended something of the pastoral austerity of the welds on the one side and the mellow fatness of the cider-land beyond,—a genius born of the glamour and romance, the sylvan Wryness forlorn, which is the dower of the Forest alone."
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