“No one can be more sensible than is the author that the present is
an overgrown book of a nondescript class, neither the ‘tale’ for the
young, nor the novel for their elders, but a mixture of both.
“Begun as a series of conversational sketches, the story outran both
the original intention and the limits of the periodical in which it
was commenced; and, such as it has become, it is here presented to
those who have already made acquaintance with the May family, and may
be willing to see more of them. It would beg to be considered merely
as what it calls itself, a Family Chronicle--a domestic record of home
events, large and small, during those years of early life when the
character is chiefly formed, and as an endeavour to trace the effects
of those aspirations which are a part of every youthful nature. That
the young should take the hint, to think whether their hopes and
upward breathings are truly upwards, and founded in lowliness, may be
called the moral of the tale.
“For those who may deem the story too long, and the characters too
numerous, the author can only beg their pardon for any tedium that
they may have undergone before giving it up.
“Feb. 22nd, 1856.”
As it happens, this passage contains several points which serve to
elucidate the special characteristics of its author’s work. We see at
once the serious moral purpose, and its direct aim. We may notice,
again, that she at least recognises, and admits, what may be called
disparagingly the chief function of women novelists--the narration of
“Family Chronicles,” the domesticity, the emphasis on “home” life.
And, finally, we have a confession of her tendency to overcrowd the
characters; her devotion for persons to whom the reader has been
already introduced, now reappearing--for further development--in
another tale.
Miss Yonge, in fact, had a weakness for genealogy. One novel often
describes the children of persons figuring in another. We may
recognise old friends in every chapter. No doubt the habit may become
wearisome, and it was carried to excess. But, on the other hand, we
must be conscious of exceptional familiarity with “the May family,”
for example; and the process, when restrained with discretion, is a
perfectly legitimate application of the realistic ideal. In real life
the plots are not rounded off in one volume. Reunions that are utterly
unexpected, if not unwelcome, are constantly surprising us, and the
children of friends or relatives have a natural bias towards each other.
Moreover, in this matter Miss Yonge reveals extraordinary skill.
Technically, we could name the heroine of _The Daisy Chain_. She has
several peculiarities, recalling Maggie Tulliver. But we are nearly
as intimate with the two Margarets; the “worldly” sister is drawn
with subtle command of detail; the innumerable brothers are perfectly
differentiated; Dr. May stands out clear in every mood; the “heiress”
is absolutely alive; and there is no hesitation about the minor
characters. Miss Yonge can “manage” as many people as you please. There
is no faltering or hesitation about her touch anywhere.
To-day, probably, we do not quite willingly accept so much religiosity.
We certainly cannot “assume” the Church. Our “aspirations” may not
expend themselves upon a steeple or a Sunday school. But there can be
no question about this good lady’s understanding of young people. The
family picture is sound and wholesome. No member of the group offends
us by his or her sanctimonious perfection. All are perfectly human,
youthfully impulsive, and wholesomely eager. And the Early Victorians
_were_ sentimental.
As in _John Halifax, Gentleman_, the atmosphere belongs to the dawn of
life. The love-stories--of which, needless to say, we have several--are
whole-hearted, without complexity. There is no juggling with right and
wrong, no “questioning,” no element of sordidness.
Though we should alter a good deal, perhaps, in detail--of manner,
thought, and ideal--it is difficult to see how work could be done
better for the particular class of readers appealed to; who would,
undoubtedly, actually prefer a crowd.
Once more, Miss Yonge is frankly feminine. She has established one
more special function for women novelists, a legitimate offspring of
the domestic realism which they followed from the first; a work almost
impossible to man.