QUIXSTAR.*
GENERALLY speaking, a novel in which the young people are born, brought up, fall in love in due, or undue, course, and marry, is tiresome. Only a very clever writer can be elaborate without being dull, and attention, kept fresh and keen for the purposes of an episode or two, flags over the lapses and the patchiness inevitable in the narrative of a life—even supposing it to end with the wedding day—compressed into three volumes. Quixstar is an exception to this general rule. It takes up the story of the Sinclairs in their early childhood, and it drops it when life has assumed a comparatively settled form for them all ; but it is not dull. The Author of Blindpits could hardly be quite dull—she approaches the danger of dullness only when she tries too hard and too persistently in the opposite direction ; for she does some- times make us feel an effort in het writing. Its neatness is occasionally a little too neat ; its incisiveness is occasionally a little too sharp. She seems to be afraid of the common-place with an overstrained fear, to be so determined to be original that all her people must be originals, and all her turns of phrase must he un- usual; hence the enjoyment of reading Quixstar—very real and rare enjoyment—becomes a little fatiguing. It cannot be read straight off, and it is rather unlucky that the slight stickiness makes itself felt in the first chapter, in our introduction to the little town of Quixstar, which, " if you could suppose a town guilty of affectation, you could easily think sometimes tried to make itself unusually interesting." The discussion upon the origin of the name is sticky, because we know the author invented it ; but we linger with pleasure about the old places, and under the
old trees, of which she says Really it would have been a pity to cut any of them down, the creatures were so beautiful, and had gladdened the eyes of many generations ; standing below them, you felt as you do when reading a work of genius that has lasted some hundreds of years."
The second chapter admits us to a portrait gallery, in which there are several pictures of very great excellence, drawn with the quaint, characteristic, humorous touch that rendered the small community of Blindpits so inexplicably attractive. The author has the same faculty which Mrs. Oliphant possesses of making a small circle engrossingly interesting, so that one does not mind
• Quirster. A Novel. By the Author of "Blindpits." Edinburgh: Edmonton and Douglas. the nearness and the definiteness of the horizon, but she does not resemble any other writer in her peculiar form of humour, and the neatness with which she puts a situation or a problem. She has a happy knack of proverbial phrase which may compare with George Eliot's, and in one instance she has drawn a character fit to range with some of the creations of that great novelist. The constructive skill of this story is remarkable ; nothing is intruded, everything is brought in naturally ; there is no resort to the devices of the conjuror who begs you to keep your eye on a particular watch or handkerchief, in order that you may not detect his tricks in another direction. There is no putting forward of any one who is to be the victim or the villain, or to play the pathetic part, or to achieve the triumph ; the story has all the naturalness, and yet the unexpectedness of life ; and we are not called upon for love or hatred, applause or hissing ; the silly people are sometimes right, and even sensible, the wise peoples sometimes make mistakes, and are never sententious. Mr. Gilbert, the sensitive schoolmaster, with a fixed idea that he is unappreciated and snubbed, is not worked out as George Eliot has worked out her Amos Barton ; but there is something like the fine skill and delicate perception which drew the immortal picture of Amos Barton's wife, in Mrs. Gilbert, not only in the descriptive passages concerning her, but in the whole of her share of the story, which glides so unexpectedly from the dry humour of a quiet, quaint narrative of the affairs of one family, and the jarring interests of a very small community, into a story of simple heroism, terrible disappointment, human agony, defeated hopes, told with masterly pathos, and irradiated, as all such stories should be, with the light of hope, fed by constancy, at the end. We see Mrs. Gilbert first in her garden, where she is talking with Peter Veitch, a gardener, who is enough in himself to make the fortune of the book :— " Time, and may be circumstances, were beginning to tell on her fair face ; but it was a noble face, not a face that you could tire of. Mr. Gilbert has been heard to say that it was not his wife's beauty that attracted him,—that it was some time, indeed, before he knew that she was good-looking, which blindness might be satisfactory to him, as indicating that he was above being taken by such an empty thing as beauty ; but made one regret very much that so very good a thing should have been thrown away It probably never crossed her mind that she was not in her right place ; but surely there must have been times when Mr. Gilbert could not help feeling us if he should put off his shoes, for the place where she stood was holy ground, at least one would think BO, but you can never tell. It can't be a pleasant thing for a man to be overshadowed by his wifo's superiority ; if they can, people are apt to shirk what is not pleasant; it must need a small mind or a great one to sit down contentedly under it, and if the mind is great enough to feel contented in such circumstances, that proves equality at least, so that your premiss is gone."
All through the story Mrs. Gilbert is an undertone, clear, sweet, but subdued, and one feels that the author is going to afflict her heavily, though the course of it is very deceptive, and the tragedy of the third volume comes on without any inartistic violence, with only such little indications as sagacious readers of signs decipher. The cloud is no bigger than a man's hand, and its components are a man's self-will and a girl's coquetry. The action of this very skilful story is divided among the people intro- duced with quite unusual evenness ; there are no makeweights, there is no padding. The plot, if it may be so called—certainly none but the most conventional application of the term is admis- sible—is so simple, that anything but the barest reference to it would be unfair, because a revelation, and the humour which per- vades it is of so quaint and characteristic a sort, that it does not accommodate itself either to analysis or to extract. Peter Veitch, the gardener, " not restricted to any particular spot, but having a fatherly eye on many of the Quixstar gardens," is a great creature. " In the spring be was a man of consequence, and like most people, he could enjoy that," says the author, after her general- ising fashion, and then draws the one little picture we have space for :— " His services were in great demand. Not but that there were other gardeners in the place who would undertake to do your work quicker, cheaper, and even better than Peter, and have your little share of the earth's circumference looking beautifully tidy and ship-shape, till time revealed that only the surface had been scratched, the weeds refused decent burial, the manure omitted, and rubbish sown instead of seed. It was then that you humbled yourself before Peter Veitch, and that that just man showed the magnanimity of his nature by not crowing over you to your face,—merely laughing in his sleeve. But Peter had his drawbacks; he liked and took his way rather than yours, he worked diligently and conscientiously, and raised good crops, though he lacked the touch, the final distinctive touch which all great artists give their work. ' Peter,' said Mrs. Gilbert, ' do you know anything of the people who have bought the cottage ? It is said they are rich.'—' Oh ay,' said Peter," he's a man wi' a mint o' siller.'—' A retired merchant? '- ' He made it in the snuff and tobacco line in Ironbergh, they tell me. It mans be a better job than delving, I am thinking.'—' More lucrative, Peter, but not so honourable or pleasant, snrely.You'll be expecting
to be at work in the cottage garden immediately ? '—' Weal, like enench, but, odd, there's little pleasure working to time retired bodies ; they are extraordinary maggoty, and they aye think they ken a thing.'—'Well, I hope this Mr. Sinclair will be a good neighbour.'—'It is a question time '11 tell, but I hae nae notion o' time retired bodies wi' naething to do. Of course, the likes o' me working in a yard is here the day and away the morn, but I whiles pity their women folk, they've a heap to
pit up But Peter, I understand this man is a bachelor, so his women folk won't be afflicted ?'—' Ah, is he ?' said Pete; with the sudden interest begotten by a new fact, Weel, he's no like to be the easier dune wi' for that, unless he's a sleepy-headed, dreamy kind o' body, and that's no likely, as he's rich, and it tak's a' folk's senses to keep miller in this world, forby to mak' it,' and Peter began to use his spade again, for though a ' crack' was one of his prime luxuries, he had a conscience."
Next to Peter Veitch, we have had the greatest pleasure in making the acquaintance of Maddy, a servant imported into Quixstar by Mr. Sinclair's sister. She is a delightful combination of wit and wisdom. The whole book is a treat, but it is one to be taken in small bits, like plum-cake, not all at once.
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