RECENT NOVELS!
A Tory Loroffing is a political novel, the general tone of which may be inferred from the fact that it is dedicated to Lord Randolph Churchill, of whom the author is presumably an admirer. He is certainly an admirer of Mr. Disraeli, who is introduced as one of the characters ; and in the matter of literary unscrupulousness, though not of literary brilliance, he pays the deceased statesman that tribute of imitation which the proverb tells us is the sincerest form of flattery. The book consists of a prolonged hysterical attack upon Radicalism, which the author insists upon identifying first with atheism, and then, through atheism, with the grossest immorality, giving spice to his attack by introducing more or less recognisable portraits of well-known living persons. Of these portraits, the most disgracefnl is that of John Aspland, who is evidently intended for Mr. Bradlangh ; indeed, the author takes pains to insure his identification by making Aspland, after he has entered Parliament, administer the oath to himself on the floor of the House of Commons. This Aspland is represented as undermining the virtue of a clergyman's wife, as deliberately inciting to criminal outrage, and as finally meeting his death at the hands of a man who, by his personal influence, has been transformed from an honest, respectable young agriculturalist into a seducer and a murderer. As we remarked some weeks ago, in reviewing Miss Bayle's Romance, this personal fiction is, at its best, an offence against good taste ; when, as in this book, it is at its worst, it is an offence against the most elementary morality. Readers of the Spectator know that we are no admirers of Mr. Bradlaugh's career, but every respectable journalist has an interest in defending publics men at large from the danger of literary assassination from behind a hedge of pseudonymity. Apart from its attack upon Radicalism, whose other apostles seem to be in the author's opinion, Professor Jewett and the under-masters at Rugby, the purpose of the book is not very clearly discernible. The author is evidently very angry with the Radicals—whom he apparently confounds with the Socialists—for their hostility to the aristocracy; but an aristocracy represented by a shameless profligate like the young Duke of Countryholm, or even by the spendthrift Lord Henry Bolingbroke, would certainly be worthy of no one's respect. Next to the Radicals, the author hates the Conservatives—he himself is a "Tory "—and hurls at them some of his choicest tpithets. The "modern milk-and- water Conservative" is a "mutton-head," a "sham," a " hum- bug," a "common brute," a man who "exceeds all other political persons in infamy." " Blinkhoolie " certainly exceeds most writers in his use of what some old ladies call "language;" but the meaning of most of it is perhaps mercifully hidden from us. Concerning the story itself, there is very little to be said, for it is evidently made to fit the political moral,—whatever that moral may be. It has certainly one virtue, the virtue of vivacity ; but even vivacity may be bought too dear.
Though in almost every respect a very different book from that just noticed, Frederick Hazzleden may also be described as a political novel, inasmuch as it deals largely with political char- acters and affairs, though, unlike A Tory Lordling, it bears no evidence of having been written with a polemical intention. His obviously a first book, and if, as we have heard, "Hugh West- bury" be the pseudonym of a young provincial journalist who has determined to devote himself henceforward to pure literature, it is pleasant to be able to say that we see in the new venture some auguries of fair success in the future. The mere style of the book is undoubtedly good, for though it possesses no special dis- tinction or charm, it is always bright, lucid, and direct, with here and there a fanciful, epigrammatic touch, and very few of those affectations and attempts at fine-writing which are the besetting sins of young novelists. It is in a certain crudity and awkwardness of construction that the handling of the beginner betrays itself; and we should say that "Hugh Westbury" has made the one mistake which, above all others, the inexperienced writer should carefully avoid,—the mistake of beginning his story before he had well thought it out to the end. It is quite clear, for example, to any reader of ordinary shrewdness, that Mr. Arnitte, the mysterious thought-reader, who is introduced • (L) A Tory Lortliag. By" Blinkboolie." 3 so'. London: Wardand Downey. —(2.) Frederick Ilossleden. By ilugh Westbury. 2 vols. London: MeemMan and Ce.—p.) Jacobi' s Wife. By Adeline Sergeant. 3 vols. London Horst and Bleckett.—(4.).4 Choice of Chance. By Wilimm Dodson. 2 vols. London: T. Fisher Unnin.—(5.)Miss Jumbssa'sChancs. By Mrs. Campbell-Freed. Loudon Richard Bentley and Soo.—(6.) /n the King's Os-sin. By Mrs. Ribbert-Ware. Zeal.. London F. V. White and Co.--(7.) The Thorooliffee. By II. Sc. Unviek. vols. London Bann Sonneasohein and Co.
with such pomp and circumstance in the second chapter, was originally intended to be a moving force in the evolution of the plot, and the elaborate description quite prepares us to recognise in him the evil genius of the story; but as the novel pro- gresses, these promises remain altogether unfulfilled, for Mr. Amide's marvellous and somewhat incredible gift is altogether unutilised, and he himself plays the part of a very un- remarkable and somewhat ineffective guardian angeL Then, too, the hero's love-story presents the appearance of having got a little beyond the writer's control, while by making two of his characters the perpetrators of the dynamite outrage in West- minster Hall the writer involves himself in difficulties from which artistic extrication is impossible,—to say nothing of the risk of being accused of plagiarism from one of Mr. Robert Buchanan's poorest novels. These things are serious defects; but they are just the defects which come of inexperience and of the careless temerity which inexperience is wont to engender, and we see nothing in them to discourage hopes for "Hugh West- bury's " future as a novelist. They do not even destroy the interest of his present book, for such interest is maintained by variety of matter and animation of manner. Some of the conversations are specially brisk and natural, and even when the story itself is most awkward, it is told with a certain gusto which carries us along. If, in gaining constructive aptitude, "Hugh Westbury" does not lose this freshness, he may work his way up to a good place among novelists of the second rank.
Readers who love melodrama, and have no strong objection to the absurdities and impossibilities of character and incident without which melodrama can hardly exist, will find in Jacobi's Wife something to suit them. It begins to be incredible very early in the first volume, and maintains its character, without any lapses into lifelikeness, to the end of the third ; but mere incredibility is quite insufficient to daunt the novel-devourers who only want what they call "a good story." By this they simply mean a story with plenty of life and action, and plotting and counterplotting, and a villain of the good old-fashioned type who is generally a foreigner—Spanish or Italian preferred—and who bears his rascality so plainly written upon his countenance that one would think it quite impossible for him to deceive any one not quite an imbecile. Such a villain is provided for us in Constantine Jacobi; but though he is a person of scoundrelism all compact, the like of whom was never seen off the boards of a minor theatre, he is not one whit more absurd than some of the more virtuous characters. Geoffrey Vanborongh, for example, implicitly admits the truth of an accusation of forgery of the very meanest kind, and submits to be exiled, disinherited, and disgraced, in order to save a worthless brother, whom he knows to be guilty, and whose guilt half.a.dozen words from him would suffice to prove. The author would probably admit that this course of action is altogether absurd and un- natural; but she clearly fails to perceive that it is also flagrantly immoral, apparently holding the theory, dear to so many feminine novelists, that romantic disinterestedness will glorify and—if we may coin a word—decriminate any crime. In the matter of incident the book is, if possible, wilder than in the matter of character ; but if we were to attempt detailed criticism, we should soon overrun the boundaries of our space. A book of this kind suggests the curious and apparently unanswerable question how it is that a novelist who can write with the vigour observable in many portions of Jacobi's Wife, can be so ignorant or so heedless of the essentials of her art as she elsewhere shows herself. Mrs., or Miss, Sergeant is not a new writer ; she has had experience enough to enable her to gauge the discrimination of the ordinary novel-reader ; and if she gauges it correctly, we cannot congratulate ourselves upon the condition of the public taste.
A Choice of Chance is a book which a conscientious critic finds it difficult to criticise in a way that is satisfactory even to him- self. It is exceedingly well written ; its character portraiture is natal-al without being in the least tame ; its faults of construc- tion, though obvious enough, are few and unimportant ; and yet, as Sir Joshua said when he snapped his fingers before a vaguely and perplexingly disappointing picture, "It wants that f" Now, as we have said, Mr. Dodaon's novel is in many ways a good book, but it wants the captivating something which the great painter could only indicate by a gesture and an emphatic monosyllable; and as readers are hardly likely to be content with a repetition of Sir Joshua's symbolical criticism, we must endeavour to define the " that " in which A Choice of Chance is deficient. Perhaps the briefest, and certainly the easiest way of performing our task, is to say that the story does not interest us as we feel that it ought to interest us,—that it fails to compel our belief just at the very time when such com- pulsion is essential to full enjoyment. The first part of the story is quiet and uneventful, and here we are not conscious of any lack; but when complicated situations present them- selves which ought to excite us, we are not in the least ex- cited, but are unpleasantly conscious of unstirred pulses. The girl who has been brought up in ignorance of her true parentage, discovers her brother in a village lad whom she has long known as the lover of her humble companion and dearest friend, and who has just been arrested on a charge of murder. This is surely a fresh and moving situation, but yet it fails to move us ; and even when the poor lad's fate is most doubtful, we can close the book with perfect composure. We cannot but think that our failure in imaginative sympathy is due to a failure on Mr. Dodson's part in imaginative expression,—that be is writing a story which he has constructed rather than conceived. Indeed, the inequality in the comparative effectiveness of various portions of the book induces the belief that Mr. Doclaon's true sphere is the sphere of comedy, not of tragedy. Though there is nothing in the book that is at all ambitions, some of the lighter passages are so good in their way that they could not well be better without being altogether different; and perhaps, if Mr. Dodson will take the hint involved in our hypothesis, he may produce some unequivocal success. At any rate, the attempt is worth making.
Some of Mrs. Campbell-Praed's stories have contained much that is unpleasant—not to say unwholesome—and we have, therefore, special pleasure in saying that Miss jacobsen's Chance is as healthy as it is clever and interesting. Some readers may complain that Mr. Jacobsen's habits of intemperance are brought a little too much to the front ; but it seems to us that such a complaint would be unduly squeamish, as a presentation of the full extent of his degraded sensualism is essential to enable us to realise fully his daughter's lonely helplessness. The scene of the story is laid in Australia, and in the opening chapter we make the acquaintance of the undesirable person just mentioned, a political adventurer who has been for some years a Member of the Legislative Council of Leichardt's Land, and who on the coming into power of his party, has just received a portfolio an Postmaster-GeneraL The Hon. Ratcliffe Jacobsen has been left a widower with one young and pretty daughter, who, while her father has politically been in the shade, has been utterly neglected, and has seen nothing of society. When,. however, Mr. Jacobsen passes from the shade into the sun- shine, he determines to give his daughter what he calls "a chance," by which be means a chance of appearing to advantage among the fashionables of Leichardt's Land, and finding a husband who will relieve him of the paternal responsi- bilities of which he is heartily tired. The central figures of the story are, therefore, Sara Jacobsen and her lovers; the fascinating but unprincipled Dr. Fraill; the awkward but chivalrous squatter. Mr. Shapcott ; the vain and pompous valetudinarian Governor, Sir Edney Bramborough; and Arnold Chepstowe, the gentle and loyal private secretary, who is made to play John Alden to his chief's Miles Standish, with the old result. As a story, Miss .Tacobsen's Chance is singularly fresh and bright. With the exception of Dr. Frail], whose scoundrelism seems rather motive. less and incomprehensible, all the characters really live for us ; the incidents, too, are very pleasantly conceived and vivaciously narrated, and as a picture of the sunny side of Colonial political life, the book is an excellent work of art. Sara Jacobsen has a peculiarly difficult rile ; but she plays her part with such sweet, winning simplicity, that she never loses our sympathy. In addition to its other good qualities, the book is not wanting in quiet, unforced humour, and is certainly one of the best things Mrs. Campbell-Praed has yet done.
At the close of In the King's Service, Mrs. Hibbert-Ware quotes some rather graceful verses, in which the epithet, " old- fashioned " occurs very frequently. Curiously enough, long before we came to the verses, we had fixed upon this very epithet as the one by which to describe the novel which precedes them. Not only the heroine, but everything about the book is old- fashioned, and so little trace is there of recent literary in- fluences that, with the exception of a couple of apparently unprovoked attacks open her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools, there is not a sentence in the book that might not have been written in the year the Queen ascended the throne. As will be gathered from the title, In the IGng's Service is a novel dealing with military life, the period chosen being that of the Peninsular War, several of the engagements in which are described in a really spirited manner, the book winding up with an account of the Battle of Waterloo, in which the hero is killed ; the reason for his untimely despatch apparently being that Mrs. Hibbert-Ware, having reached the end of the third volume, has no further use for him. We cannot say that we feel a very warm interest either in him or in any other of the numerous persons who are introduced to us ; but the author makes little attempt at delineation of character, caring rather to attract by a swift succession of more or less lively incidents, choosing in this respect to follow the example of such writers of a past generation as James Grant and Charles Lever in his first period. To make a book of this kind enjoyable to readers who have passed their first youth, it is necessary that it should be rich either in humour or in excitement, and as Mrs. Hibbert-Ware lacks the power either to make us laugh or to curdle our blood, we must confess that we have found In the Zing's Service the reverse of exhilarating. The best things in it are the recruiting scenes, which have real liveliness ; the poorest are the more serious conversations, some of which are almost ludicrously formal and artificial.
The Thorncliffes, though published in the orthodox three. volume form, can hardly be called a novel in the sense in which that word is generally understood. It is really a story with a strong religions tone, which has the appearance of having been written for young people of the more serious sort, the general plan and treatment of the book reminding us very forcibly of The Daisy Chain and similar tales from the pen of Miss Yonge, whom the author has probably taken as her model. Miss Yonge, however, is unmistakably and inflexibly High Church ; while the exact ecclesiastical position of her follower is somewhat doubtful. The Thorncliffes at Ardernmoor Vicarage are, with one exception, mildly Ritualistic, and their portraits are painted very sympathetically; but there is the same sympathetic touch in the picture of Dorothea Lloyd, who is strongly Evan- gelical, and even in that of the Rev. David Williams, the minister of the Dissenting chapel, who falls in love with Agnes Thorn. chile the first time he sees her, and is not blamed for his pre- sumption. The probability is, therefore, that Miss Urwick holds those "moderate views" which figure so largely in clerical advertisements, though hers is clearly a moderation which is consistent with much earnestness, and is not an outcome of any- thing like latitudinarianism ; for, to say nothing of more important matters, she takes care that only Dissenters shall be unmannerly to their betters, and that the Rev. David Williams shall have grace to refuse the use of his schoolroom to the Liberation Society. The story, as a whole, possesses both the virtues and the weaknesses of the class to which it belongs. It is not only refined and graceful, but it will be found thoroughly interesting as well, by those who do not demand strong excitements, but can find satisfaction in a healthy and homely domestic chronicle. It is not devoid of a suspicion of priggishness, and perhaps more than a suspicion of senti- mentality, for the young people do their duty a little too con- sciously, and fall in love a little too readily ; but it would need greater faults than these to spoil a very pleasant picture of cultivated and useful home life in an English vicarage.
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