A BELEAGUERED CITY.*

WHAT the people and mayor of Semur will say to this very bold interpolation of Mrs. Oliphant's in the records of their public life, we can hardly imagine. Probably they will resent it as a liberty, and ask why Mrs. Oliphant chose a real French town for the subject of her bold imagination, when she wa& thinking, no doubt, of English quite as much as French habits of thought and life, throughout her fiction. However, she was no doubt artistically right in the instinct which led her to place the. scenes of such a story, because intended for Englishmen, abroad, as she would have been right, had she intended it for French- men, in choosing any country but France for the theatre of the strange events she intended to depict. De Foe, indeed, would have acted differently. In that wonderful invention of his pre- fixed to Dreliucourt on, Death, concerning "the apparition of Mrs. Veale," he made the whole background of his story as homely and common-place as it was possible to make it. But then his object and Mrs. Oliphant's were by no means the same. His only object was to sell a dull book on Death by a ghost story as real and as likely to be believed as he could make it. Hers has- evidently been very different. She has wished, indeed, to make her little story most real and graphic, and has succeeded perfectly in so doing. But she has aimed at something much higher,—to make it evident how great is the difficulty of establishing any real intercourse between the seen and the unseen, except that which already exists in the spiritual faith and purified affec- tions of the highest human natures ; how vain would be the- attempt to break, by mere marvels, through the barrier which separates the mind that lives in sense and in the present from the world of higher things ; how little, beyond fear, the supernatural world would be able to inspire, even if permitted to invade us, in the hearts of those who live in to-day ; and, above all, how little advantage the best ministers of the organised religions would have over ordinary men of the world, in understanding that which is really above nature, nay, how completely religion itself is apt to encrust itself in the opaque and earthly habits which divide the life of the body from the life of the spirit. Perhaps, too, Mrs. Oliphant has wished to suggest something more,— that the spirits of those who have gone before are not yet raised above the same earthly mistakes as our own,—that even they may easily persuade themselves that if permitted to arrest our atten- tion by physical means, they could do more for our spiritual life than they really can, and that now and then they are per- mitted to make this attempt, if only to show them their own mistake. But whatever her purpose,—and we have merely tried to indicate what we believe her main drift to have been,— there is no manner of doubt that in this little book she has shown imaginative power of a high order, a complete command of the very original elements of her plot, and also a wonderful mastery of that borderland of the natural and supernatural in which a less vivid imagination would have been certain to go wrong by completely overdoing the element of marvel. We have long been admirers of Mrs. Oliphant's strange variety of power, though, no doubt, she often falls below the point she might easily reach if she were less prolific in literary creation. But of all the books of hers with which the present writer at least is. acquainted, he would select this as giving more unquestionable • A Beleaguered City. Being a Narrative of Certain Recent Events in the Depart- ment of the Haute Bourgogne. A Story of the Seen and the Unaeen. By Mrs. Oliphant. London : Macmillan and Co.

proofs of genius and originality than any other. To write a living and brilliant story suggested by the words, "If ye be- lieve not Moses and the Prophets, neither will ye be persuaded though one should rise from the dead," and to make it not only lively and brilliant, but as impressive to the spirit of man as it is striking to his literary sense, is no mean achievement. In a new field of imagination, which it took no inconsiderable audacity to enter at all, Mrs. Oliphant seems to us to have achieved not merely a decided success, but a success which no other novelist living could have reached. The only danger is that her success may suggest a most objectionable field of enterprise to bad imitators. We can imagine nothing more disagreeable than the results to be feared from any attempt to copy so singular a literary conception as this.

The impossibility on which the story is based, is not like that of Gulliver's Travels, one which outrages the principles of physical nature as we know it, but only one which supposes a wonderful de- viation from the relations which exist between the dead and the living. Whereas, the mostthat even those who believe in occasional manifestations of the dead to the living have ever asserted, has been a rare and brief communication now and then, or here and there, under exceptional circumstances, Mrs. Oliphant's story assumes that a collective attempt was made by former in- habitants of Semur, in the Haute Bourgogne, who had been gathered to their fathers, to bring home to the existing inhabitants of that place, in the summer of 1875, the real life of the spiritual world, the supreme force of the affections of those who live in it, and the grief the inhabitants of that world feel when they see their succes- aors forgetting those who have gone, forgetting that they must follow them, forgetting the truth that pure spiritual love is the one thing which is worth living for, and forgetting the worship of the heart by which alone it can be gained. But when we write in this style, our readers may suppose, and almost must suppose, that the story is sermonic. Nothing could be less true. It is a story founded on an impossible hypothesis, im- possible, we mean, in the sense that the experience of the world has certainly nothing in any degree like it to record ; but, never- theless, the art of the writer is shown in this, that the incredible

hypothesis is made so real and living by the circumstance in which it is clothed, that nothing obtrudes itself less on the reader than

the spiritual aims which we have, perhaps mistakenly, at- tributed to the author. For anything that appears, the story may simply have impressed itself indelibly on the author's imagination in the form in which we find it, and the spiritual lessons suggested to us may be mere inferences, which would be

legitimate if the facts of life corresponded to the story, but not justified on any other hypothesis.

Suddenly, in July, 1875, at a time when a great deal of worldliness and love of the world appears to have been grow- ing up in Semur, a thick darkness falls on the little city, which lasts for several days. This darkness is accompanied by a great sense of dread, and the mayor of Semur, a worthy but pompous French dignitary, who despises superstition, though, as mayor, he thinks it his duty to put no scorn on religion, and who is the chief narrator of the marvels which take place, on Tenturing outside the gates, in company with a visionary and enthusiast, by name Lecamus, who is generally looked down upon for his dreamy notions, meets with the following experi- ence :—

" I followed Lecamus, who stood waiting for me holding the door a little ajar. He went on strangely, like—I can use no other words to express it—a man making his way in the face of a crowd, a thing very surprising to me. I followed him close ; but the moment I emerged from the doorway something caught my breath. The same feeling seized me also. I gasped ; a sense of suffocation came upon me ; I put out my hand to lay hold upon my guide. The solid grasp I got of his arm reassured me a little, and he did not hesitate, but pushed his way on. We got out clear of the gate and the shadow of the wall, keeping close to -the little watch-tower on the west side. Then he made a pause, and so did I. We stood against the tower and looked out before us. There was nothing there. The darkness was great, yet through the gloom of the night I could see the division of the road from the broken ground on either side ; there was no- thing there. I gasped, and drew myself up close against the wall, as Lecamus had also done. There was in the air, in the night, a sensa- tion the most strange I have ever experienced. I have felt the same thing indeed at other times, in face of a great crowd, when thousands of people were moving, rustling, struggling, breathing around me, thronging all the vacant space, filling up every spot. This was the sensation that overwhelmed me here—a crowd : yet nothing to be seen but the darkness, the indistinct line of the road. We could not move for them, so close were they round us. What do I say ? There was nobody—nothing—not a form to be seen, not a face but his and mine. gam obliged to confess that the moment was to me an awful moment.

I could not speak. My heart beat wildly as if trying to escape from my breast—every breath I drew was with an effort. I clung to Lecamus with deadly and helpless terror, and forced myself back upon the wall, crouching against it; I did not turn and fly, as would have been natural. What say I? did not ! I could not ! they pressed round us so. Ab, you would think I must be mad to use such words, for there was nobody near me—not a shadow even upon the road. Lecamus would have gone farther on; he would have pressed his way boldly into the midst ; but my courage was not equal to this. I clutched and clung to him, dragging myself along against the wall, my whole mind intent upon getting back. I was stronger than he, and he had no power to resist me. I turned back, stumbling blindly, keeping my face to that crowd (there was no one), but struggling back again, tearing the akin off my hands as I groped my way along the wall. Oh, the agony of seeing the door closed ! I have buffeted my way through a crowd before now, but I may say that I never before knew what terror was. When I fell upon the door, dragging Lecamus with me, it opened, thank God ! I stumbled in, clutching at Rion with my disengaged hand, and fell upon the floor of the octroi, where they thought I had fainted. But this was not the case. A man of resolution may give way to the overpowering sensations of the moment. His bodily faculties may fail him ; but his mind will not fail. As in every really superior intelligence, my forces collected for the emergency. While the officers ran to bring me water, to search for the eau-de-vie which they bad in a cupboard, I astonished them all by rising up, pale, but with full command of myself. It is enough,' I said, raising my hand. I thank you, Messieurs, but nothing more is necessary;' and I would not take any of their resto- ratives. They were impressed, as was only natural, by the sight of my perfect self-possession—it helped them to acquire for themselves a demeanour befitting the occasion ; and I felt, though still in great physical weakness and agitation, the consoling consciousness of having fulfilled my functions as head of the community."

Before long, the bodiless crowd outside resolve on expelling the embodied crowd inside from their homes, in order apparently to compel them to recognise and listen to their unseen visitors; and the exodus is described with the same force and vivacity as M. le Alaire's own experience. Mrs. Oliphant never forgets the smaller dramatic touches which, in such a story as this, could alone save it from the charge of incoherence. Let us observe M. le Maire under the first excitement of this wild exodus :—

" As we looked in each other's faces we saw our own trouble. Many of the women sat down and wept ; some upon the stones in the road, some on the grass. The children took fright from them, and began to cry too. What was to become of us ? I looked round upon this crowd with despair in my heart. It was I to whom every one would look—for lodging, for direction—every- thing that human creatures want. It was my business to forget myself, though I also had been driven from my home and my city. Happily there was one thing I had left. In the pocket of my over- coat was my scarf of office. I stepped aside behind a tree, and took it out, and tied it upon me. That was something. There was thus a representative of_order and law in the midst of the exiles, whatever might happen. This action, which a great number of the crowd saw, restored confidence. Many of the poor people gathered round me, and placed themselves near me, especially those women who had no natural support. When M. le Cure saw this, it seemed to make a great impression upon him. He changed colour, he who was usually so calm. Hitherto he had appeared bewildered, amazed to find himself as others. This, I must add, though you may per- haps think it superstitions, surprised me very much too. But now be regained his self-possession. He stepped upon a piece of wood that lay in front of the gate. 'My children,' he said. But just then the Cathedral bells, which had gone on tolling, suddenly burst into a wild peal. I do not know what it sounded like. It was a clamour of notes all run together, tone upon tone, without time or measure, as though a multitude had seized upon the bells, and pulled all the ropes at once. If it was joy, what strange and terrible joy ! It froze the very blood in our veins. M. le Cure became quite pale. He stepped down hurriedly from the piece of wood. We all made a hurried movement farther off from the gate."

And when the towers of Semur first reappear from the cloud which settles on them, and M. le Maire consults his colleagues whether or not the signal of their return may not have been given by the unseen host which expelled them and took their places, the following is his characteristic reflection on the passive role assigned to the women, who hold that they know, better than the incredulous and hard-hearted men, to what cause these

marvels are due, and yet are not permitted to take any active part in the deliberations :—

" Oh, heaven, what did I see ! Above the cloud that wrapped Semur there was a separation, a rent in the darkness, and in mid- heaven the Cathedral towers, pointing to the sky. I paid no more attention to M. le Cure. I sent forth a shout that roused all, even the weary line of the patrol that was marching slowly with bowed heads round the walls; and there went up such a cry of joy as shook the earth. The towers, the towers !' I cried. These were the towers that could be seen leagues off, the first sign of Semur ; our towers, which we had been born to love like our father's name. I have had joys in my life, deep and great. I have loved, I have won honours, I have conquered difficulty ; but never had I felt as now. It was as if one had been born again. When we had gazed upon them, blessing them and thanking God, I gave orders that all our company should be called to the tent, that we might consider whether any new step could now be taken : Agnes with the other women sitting

apart on one side and waiting. I recognised even in the excitement of such a time that theirs was no easy part. To sit there silent, to wait till we had spoken, to be bound by what we decided, and to have no voice—yes, that was hard. They thought they knew better than we did ; but they were silent, devouring us with their eager eyes. I love one woman more than all the world ; I count her the best thing that God has made ; yet would I not be as Agnes for all that life could give me. It was her part to be silent, and she was so, like the angel she is, while even Jacques Richard had the right to speak. Mon Dieu ! but it is hard, I allow it ; they have need to be angels. This thought passed through my mind even at the crisis which had now arrived. For at such moments one sees everything, one thinks of everything, though it is only after that one remembers what one has seen and thought."

Nothing is better in the whole story than the part assigned to the noble-born wife of the mayor, whose more spiritual nature lives truly in the unseen, and who yet cannot accept the superstitions theories of the nuns and some of the devotees con- cerning the events that are passing. The only man who is able to resist the impulse to leave Semur, and who remains there when the inhabitants are expelled, is the visionary Lecamus, and his narrative of what he experiences when the unseen visitors arrive, is written with extraordinary power of imagination and of poetical feeling. Alike as regards his apprehensions and the limits of his apprehensions, all is calculated to impress the reader by its wonderfully close analogy to the little we do know of what is called spiritual insight. Nor have we ever read a passage of more rare and eloquent prose than the following, in which poor Lecamns, finding the bodiless visitors grieved that they cannot deliver their message to their earthly kinsmen, and convinced that they were mistaken in trying an experiment for which, though God had given them permission, they had received no higher sanction than bare permission, makes this offer to be their ambassador :—

"Once, following a crowd, I entered your house, M. le Maire, and went up, though I scarcely could drag myself along. There many were assembled as in council. Year father was at the head of all. He was the one, he only, who knew me. Again he looked at me, and I saw him, and in the light of his face an assembly such as I have seen in pictures. One moment it glimmered before me, and then it was gone. There were the captains of all the bands waiting to speak—men and women. I heard them repeating from one to the other the same tale. One voice was small and soft like a child's ; it spoke of you. "We went to him," it said ; and your father, M. le Maire, he too joined in, and said, "We went to him—but he could not hear us." And some said it was enough—that they had no commission from on high, that they were but permitted ; that it was their own will to do it, and that the time had come to forbear. Now, while I listened, my heart was grieved that they should fail. This gave me a wound for myself, who had trusted in them, and also for them. But I, who am I, a poor man without credit among my neighbours, a dreamer, one whom many despise, that I should come to their aid ? Yet I could not listen and take no part. I cried out, "Send me ! I will tell them in words they understand !" The sound of my voice was like a roar in that atmosphere. It sent a tremble into the air. It seemed to rend me as it came forth from me, and made me giddy, so that I would have fallen had not there been a support afforded me. As the light was going out of my eyes, I saw again the faces looking at each other, questioning, benign, beautiful heads, one over another, eyes that were clear as the heavens, but sad. I trembled while I gazed. There was the bliss of heaven in their faces, yet they were sad. Then everything faded. I was led away, I know not how, and brought to the door and pat forth. I was not worthy to see the blessed grieve. That is a sight upon which the angels look with awe, and which brings those tears which are salvation into the eyes of God.'"

We know few passages in English that would surpass that in pure beauty, and not one in Mrs. Oliphant's own writings. Certainly the variety of power which she evinces is singular, without even making any allowance for the heavy strain she puts on it.

We cannot help regarding this little book as a rare literary gem of its kind. No doubt, the marvel of which it professes to give the history is impossible. But then it is not an impossibility which traverses spiritual or even physical law, so far as we know, but only passes far beyond any experience recorded in history. And it is so told as not to caricature or travestie human nature, in its relation to the supernatural, but rather to make it more visible and transparent to us, in all its weakness and all its strength. It is a singular literary feat, but one of the most happy, if not quite the most happy, of the bold enterprises at- tempted by authors who have succeeded in reading men truly as they are, with the view of throwing upon them some new and imaginary light, and judging, by the mingled aid of experience and fancy, what they would be transformed into under the magic of that light. Coleridge's Ancient Mariner is such an attempt, in poetry of a high order. Mrs. Oliphant's Beleaguered City is

partly romance, partly poem. But the poetic element in it is very considerable, and in our judgment, entirely successful.