TR.A.SEADEN HALL.* To say that a novel has nothing. stereotyped
about it, and that it gives the impression of being the genuine outcome of the author's brain and product of his own 'Internal consciousness, is no slight or ordinary recommendation, but is one that may be safely bestowed upon the clever, agreeable, healthy-toned work now under consideration. We think it should be criticised from two points of view,—first, as a sort of portrait gallery; and secondly, as a story. Beginning with the first of these two aspects, it is unusually meritorious. Each portrait is drawn by a skilful and careful hand ; there is no scaniped work or slovenli- ness of treatment ; no one is too insignificant to have his or her individuality marked by some distinguishing touch ; and the large number of characters introduced into the book and taking leading parts in its action, bring the reader into contact with a pleasing variety of new acquaintances. Especially worthy of notice are two delightful old-maids, the Misses Clowance, who are simple, unpretentious, and somewhat prim, but high- principled, full of proper pride, and always true to themselves and the traditions of their family. Misfortunes pursue them, and for a long time it appears as if they were hopelessly ex- cluded from an old hall to which they are romantically attached, and whence they have been wrongfully ousted ; but they are patient and uncomplaining in all their troubles, and when at last the marriage of their niece to the heir of the ball brings about their restoration, the reader is as heartily rejoiced at it as they were themselves, and finds that they have stolen in upon his affections in the fashion described by the author as follows :— "How these quiet, retiring peop'e manage on occasion to excite so much attention, in a world remarkable for its subservience to the forward and the bold, is a question for the curious. Perhaps the affections may be taken by sap, or rather gallery, like fortresses ; and the gentle beings, who seem never to have a design against them nor against anything else above-board, are perpetually burrowing away like moles beneath the surface, and making their lodgments in the heart."
They have a very much younger sister, whose love-affairs run anything but smoothly, who has to endure years of absence and apparent neglect on the part of her swain, and who proves her- self a model of rare and unswerving fidelity to the man to whom she had given her heart. The key to her character may be found in the words she addresses to her niece, when simi- larly circumstanced :—" You ought not to imagine that a person, of whom you had thought well could do anything you could blame him for. rsuoidd not." Such an entire trust as that is clearly impossible to a nature with any taint of what is mean or false, and her serene confidence supports her during the years of trial, and keeps her calmly strong and cheerful, till it is at last shown to have been not misplaced, and meets with its due re- ward. General Hamley seems to have a preference for the Griselda type of female excellence, which is apparent in one shape or other in most of his ladies ; the chief complaint to be made against these sweet, brave, patient, and loving women is that they are inclined to be rather too faultless to be altogether natural, but amongst General Hamley's women there is one very piquant individual who is certainly not to be included in that charge. She is a daring, brilliant, mysterious adventuress ; evil and unscrupulous, yet with a sort of kindliness, too ; flashing from place to place for occult purposes of her own, she is an enigma to every one, including the reader. Was she ever a spy or not ? did she carry information for Wellington or the French in the Penin- sula? what are the real motives of her actions P what dark and exciting secrets lie hidden in her past life ? The answer to these and similar questions is kept by the author locked in his own bosom, and the curiosity we feel about her is not gratified ; he has chosen to make her rather a sketch than a finished picture, which is a pity, as she could easily have been developed into an interesting study of a woman offering a complete contrast to all the others whom he paints.
To enumerate and comment upon all the characters in the book would take too long, but we must call special attention to Sir Wolsey Sainsbury, as a capital likeness of a heavy, slow-witted, stupid, honourable, and well-intentioned soldier, bamboozled, and induced to do what is dishonourable and quite contrary to his natural inclination, by the misrepre- sentations and mancenvring of his clever and scoundrelly brother. One feels sorry for poor Sir Wolsey ; with all his faults, he was too good to have had his last years spoilt by
Tr aseaden Hall. By W. G. Hamley. London : W. Blackwood and Bons.
Chesterfield, and really ought to have been allowed to have them made happy by marrying Dorothy Clowance. Then, too, there is a dare-devil young Irish officer, whose unaffected adoration for a fight, unconscious humour, and reckless bravery are comi- cal. The jeune premier is less interesting, being rather too much in the "walking gentleman" line.
And now let us consider our subject from the second point of view just now mentioned, i.e., that of a story. Regarded in this light, one or two defects become apparent. The space of time over which the story spreads tends to make it somewhat rambling and discursive ; from first to last it covers some twenty years or so, during which period several of those who appear onthe scene at first, and whose fortunes are followed with interest, have to retire, through death or old age, from the prominent positions they originally occupied; in the course of nature they fade out of the business of life and make way for the next generation, but this is unsatisfactory to the reader, who, having once fixed his interest on certain objects, dislikes having to part from them almost immediately, and transfer it to others. For instance, we commence by being introduced to a very superior and likeable lady, whose marriage had caused her a terrible disillusionment in respect of her husband, but who had borne up bravely against her disappointment, and been good to him and made the best of him notwithstanding. She fears the designs on her property of a selfish, heartless man (the scoundrel Chesterfield already mentioned), and does all she can to frustrate him; with these efforts the reader thoroughly sym- pathises, and is quite grieved that she should die half-way through the first volume, without having accomplished what she desired ; but she is not meant to be a principal performer in the story, and so is doomed to vanish early from its pages, and be scarcely remembered at all by the time the end is reached, although she had sufficient individuality and strength of char- acter to have fully entitled her to a more important position. The reader is inclined to resent this, and is also decidedly an- noyed to find how well the schemes succeed that she had striven to oppose. He looks forward hopefully, however, to some final, signal discomfiture of her successful enemy, and feels that that consolation, at least, he has a clear right to expect. Alas for his hopes l—nothing of the kind ever takes place. The interest is diverted into other channels ; the scoundrel grows old, and sinks into a minor position, so that his iniquities become gradu- ally forgotten ; and after being allowed to get all he wants, he at last dies, full of years and honours, just as though he had been the most exemplary of human beings. Surely this is, in a novel, an artistic mistake. Retributive justice gives a definite sense of satisfaction to all right-minded people (as long as it does not affect themselves), and even though it may not always be attainable in real life, yet it is obviously hard that they should be baulked of this gratification in a work of fiction which is wholly unfettered by hard facts. There is a considerable tary element in the book, and this, of course, gains greatly by coming from the pen of a military man who understands what he is writing about. The story is laid in the early part of the present century, "when George III. was King," as the title-page says, and contains descriptions of scenes in the Peninsular war, which are told with an air of reality suggesting the belief that General Hamley must have heard them from the lips of people who had themselves been actors in the events narrated ; the account of the siege of San Sebastian is particularly graphic and vigorous. In describing the advance of storming parties, the author tells how the men press slowly upwards in the midst of dense smoke, knowing nothing of what goes on around them, aware of whatever step onward they are able to make, but utterly ignorant as to whether it is a real gain of fresh ground, or merely an evidence that their comrades in front are making room for their advance by death ; we cannot resist drawing attention to this, as a forcible illustration of something that often strikes as in reading history, viz., how little conscious doers of great deeds are apt to be of what they are really effecting.
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