THREE NOVELS"

THE late Mr. Fargus's last-published book, like that which lifted

him into popularity so sudden and immense, has a mystery at its core. But the mystery is slighter and more commonplace than that which forms the plot of any of his previous tales, except, perhaps, A Family Affair, and that aspires to be some- thing more than a mere sensation novel. The interest in this present ease is well sustained ; but we fancy that any one pos- sessing that penetration into plots which rewards a long course of novel-reading, will have solved the riddle, at any rate, early in the second volume. Thenceforth Mr. Mudie's devotees will read on rather to assure themselves of the correctness of their guess than to satisfy their curiosity. Living or Dead—by the way, does not the title want a note of interrogation P—strikes us as being the most even of its writer's stories. If it has no situation of such piled-up horror as that which thrills the reader in the earlier chapters of Called Back—that weird and terrible scene where the notes of Pauline's song change to a shriek, and the blind man falls upon the body of the just-murdered man—it lacks, too, such arid wastes of cheap second-hand description as form the long Siberian episode in the same book. The plot is thinner and poorer, but it is far better managed. Hugh Conway accustomed us to two lofty peaks, with dreary stretches of fen between. Here we tread upon a tableland—not a very elevated one—throughout the book. The writing in this present case is better. That style which we associate with the name of Hugh Conway—a style at once stilted and slipshod—gives way to diction unassuming, unattractive, and unobjectionable. This is the general quality of the writing, but there are not wanting passages as irritatingly pretentious and vulgar as any in Dark Days, or even in Slings and Arrows. One of the most dis- agreeable eccentricities of the author's method is the sudden transition from the past to the present tense. These changes are so awkward and meaningless, that one can hardly avoid the con- clusion either that these passages in the present tense are inter- polated afterthoughts, or else that the writer from time to time altered the plan of his narrative. There is nothing in the book to favour the belief that if Hugh Conway had lived he could have won his spurs in more natural and less melodramatic fields than those in which his first successes were achieved. A good many characters flit across these pages, but they are for the most part conventional, and without individuality. The only portrait worthy to stand beside that of the brothers Talbert in A Family Affair, is that of Mr. Grace, the superhumanly discreet and guarded lawyer. Even in this instance Hugh Conway hardly attempts more than to sketch the outward peculiarities of the man. There is a certain old Anglo-Indian General, into whose soul the curry has entered, who might, perhaps, have turned out well; but he is hardly charcoaled in. As it is, General Gore produces the most amusing page in the book. The hero's aspirations to the hand of Claudine, the General's too-too- beautiful ward, have been mercilessly snubbed. After answering a score of exceedingly direct questions, the young gentleman inquires :—

"'You are sure there is nothing else, General Gore P'—' Nothing else, sir.'—' If you would care to know my height, it is five feet ten, my weight, eleven stone six ; I have been vaccinated, and, I believe, baptized, and my health is remarkably good. Perhaps now you will give me your answer P' The General was bristling in his wrath. 'If I had you in the Army, I'd flog you as an answer—yes, Selina, I will be calm—I am calm. Now, air, listen before I ring for you to be shown out.'"

This is rather smart, if not very new.

As Hugh Conway relies almost exclusively upon a mystery for the interest of his book, it would be cruel to unfold it fully here. However, we may say that it is a very simple and well-worn device,—nothing more than the substitution of a maid for her mistress, and the production thereby in the mind of the lady's husband of a deep belief in her infidelity. This artless stratagem, as Hugh Conway himself is obliging enough to remind us, has

already served Shakespeare as the plot of Much Ado about Nothing, and Shakespeare, as we all know, adopted, and did

• Living or Dead. By Hugh Conway. London Macmillan and Co.—Martin Ffromilt. By John Bradshaw. London : Sam n Low and 00.—The Movies ; or, Two Widows. By Leslie Keith. London : ard and Downey.

not originate it. In the present story, it is only fair to say, a wing or two has been thrown out ; but the plan of the original structure remains unaltered. On the whole, this book will not detract from such reputation as the injudicious publication of so many posthumous volumes has left the author ; but certainly it will do nothing towards building up for him any enduring fame.

Mr. John Bradshaw, the author of Martin Ffrench, is apparently a gentleman of cultivated and catholic tastes. From Shakespeare to the musical glasses, from archmology to agri- culture, he strays, discoursing with great facility. On every subject he has opinions, and strong ones, and he expresses them at length. Mr. Bradshaw can write, too, very fluent English, which really is better than that which a good many writers now-a-days achieve. But when Mr. Bradshaw determined to write a novel—and did—he committed the error of his life. There are many public libraries which contain less dullness than these three volumes. Our personal knowledge, indeed, extends only to one volume and a half, but we have every reason for believing that the ponderosity of the first half of the book is sustained with equal spirit to the end. If we ever do resume the thread, or hawser, of Mr. Bradshaw's narrative, it will be at the point of the bayonet. We really could not name any philanthropic object or sum of money that would induce us to cut those remain- ing five hundred pages,—or, rather, not to cut them. As a novel, therefore, we hold that Mr. Bradshaw's work is hardly successful.

There is one amusing thing in this weighty book, and the author shall have the credit, and our readers the benefit, of it. It is a letter from a gamekeeper's boy, whom the young master at school has persuaded to smuggle smoking materials into a hamper :—

" ONuan Sua,—ive obajd yur onttrd comands an yer'll find the bacca an pipes an vesuviands lien at bottum of baskit. °fiord sur, juno's gotten a litter of sevn pupps, all of wich is doin well. Tyman pears a bit mangy, but ive putt a peece of sulfer in is water, and hes bean adoin better ever sin. Onurd ear, the faisanta is goin on fyne. "L. REDMAN. "Sur, i got the bacca from the shop on tic."

We were for some time a little doubtful as to whether The Chilcoles ought to be ascribed to masculine or feminine author- ship. We have, however, arrived, with moderate certainty, at the conclusion that a lady must have the credit of a very pleasant, wholesome, and natural book. The name, "Leslie Keith," tells us nothing, and may perhaps have been chosen for that very purpose ; nor is there anything about the general character of the writing that quite finally denotes the sex of the author. There is, at any rate, a plentiful lack of that marvellous ignorance of the ways of men, if not of politics, sports, and other masculine pursuits, which usually discloses the high-heeled boot. If we come to the decision—as we have already said that we do—that the author of this book belongs to the better half of humanity, it is not on account of failure to delineate men, bat on account of the singular success ith which all things feminine

are handled. No man, we think, could possibly "talk frocks," or discuss the small conventionalities of society, quite as Leslie Keith does ; and we have never yet met with one who can treat female character with such steady impartiality,—with 80 entire

an absence of cynicism on the one hand, or caressing tenderness on the other. Mrs. Tom Chilcote and Mrs. Edward Chilcote — the "two widows " of the title—are a pair of pictures almost worthy to take their places beside the Celia and Dorothea of Middlemarch. Anthony Trollope's best female characters are hardly superior to lay figures in comparison with the vital and typical truthfulness of these admirably conceived and admirably contrasted sisters-in-law. Trollope may, perhaps, have carried his women almost as successfully through the superficialities of an "at home." But we feel that his knowledge is only that of a careful observer, and we dare not trust him beyond the limits of his observation. If his characters were to be placed in tragic circumstances—if he had to deal with the passions, and not the convenances—we should fear lest his hold upon them might fail. Whereas Leslie Keith is at the very heart of her women, describes them from within ; and we can predict the action of her two widows under any special stress of circumstance as certainly as that of our most intimate friend.

Mrs. Tom Chilcote is a person who has walked out of real life, and has, somehow or other, got shut up between the covers of a book. Every reader will identify her in his own circle of acquaintances ; for she is a recurrent person, and no society would be complete without her. Her admirable breeding, her unruffled temper, her absolute impeccability in all the conven- tionalities, her deep-rooted consciousness of always doing exactly the right thing, her calm inflexibility, her polite impatience of all peculiarities and individualities, her gently insistent manage- ment of everybody's business, make Mrs. Tom the worst of all social terrors. She means so well, and within her mill-horse round really does so well, that one feels that the hatred with which one regards her is unreasonable and unchristian ; and yet society groans and travails under Mrs. Tom. Janet, the second of the two widows, impulsive, earnest, full of aspirations, is ad- mirably contrasted with her conventional sister-in-law. Indeed, every member of the dramatis personce—from those who play the title-role down to the merest supernumeraries—is a creature of real flesh and blood. Mrs. McLean, the crushed and apologetic lady's companion, and Miss Isabella Blake, the often dis- appointed, yet not despairing, marriageable young woman, are as good as outlines as are Janet or Mrs. Tom in the way of finished pictures. The men, if not quite so admirable, are yet excellent. Stephen, the unheroic hero, is a perfectly genuine and familiar person. Who does not know the bright, winning, selfish young fellow who claims, and obtains, the best of life all through ; for whom everybody makes sacrifices, under- standing, and accepting, his frank and fascinating egotism with a half-sad, half-cynical affection P The relations between such charming young fellows and their worthier and less winning friends are exceedingly well put :—" We thrust our words at them, trying to reach and sting the obscure moral part of them, and they turn round and forgive us so gracefully and charmingly, that it is we who do all the repenting after all."

Sandy Pringle, the rough artist, son of a Highland shepherd, with his stern, unflinching self-discipline, his proud inde- pendence, his intense feelings, his severe code of honour, is placed in sharpest contrast beside this self-indulgent, cheery young fellow, his friend and fellow-lodger. As far as these two well-drawn characters are concerned, Leslie Keith is more or less indebted—not quite without recognition, we think—to Pendennis and George Warrington. We could wish that our author had strengthened the plot of her book a little. As it stands, it amounts to no more than this :—Stephen Prior—who has made a charming little girl, Georgette, think that he cares for her—falls in love with Janet, the beautiful widow of his old pro- tector, Edward Chilcote, an Oxford don ; and being rejected with scorn by her, finally falls back upon Georgette, while Janet marries Sandy Pringle. This is really too slight a thing to form the plot of three volumes. However, one is so pleased and amused as one goes along, that it is not till the end has been reached that the exceeding poverty of the plot is forced upon one's recog- nition. If hereafter our author will give us a story in which there is stronger and deeper passion, we have little doubt that it will make its mark.

The book is so full of good thoughts and clever bits of dialogue, that it is hard to deny oneself the privilege of copious selection. We must, however, limit ourselves to two very brief extracts. This is what Stephen says of the old masters :—

"'Yes,' chimed in Stephen, grimly, 'we have seen the holy fathers boiling merrily, each in his own particular pot, or grilling on his grid- iron, and the Venuses who try to look like the Madonnas, and the Madonnas who are manifest and flagrant Venuses.'—' Stephen,' said Mrs. Tom, rebnkefully, you must not talk like that. It is very bad taste.' "

The following passage describes an experience common to most

of us. It is a propos to Stephen's sudden discovery of his love for Janet :— " Under all these conflicting emotions, he sat staring at the fire, the unlit cigar forgotten between his fingers. Between the morning and the evening there was for him, too, a wide chasm ; life had taken one of those spasmodic leaps that carry one unconsciously a long way ahead, and leave a good deal of waste ground behind. It was, perhaps, natural that when Stephen appeared at breakfast next morning he shonld feel a little surprised that Janet looked just the same as she had done when be parted with her the night before. He had him- self journeyed such a long way ahead, that it seemed odd to find her still stationary at the old emotional level."