which, although it never obtained the same popularity, fully maintains
the position won by its precursor. In it Miss Mulock breaks new ground
both as to plot and the manner in which she relates the story, which is
told by the hero and heroine in the form of a journal kept by each, so
that we have alternate chapters of _his_ story and _her_ story. This
form of construction is peculiar and occasionally presents to the reader
some difficulties, but as a medium to convey opinions and convictions
which the author desires to demonstrate it is happily conceived. The
motive of the book is tragedy, the keynote murder--that is murder
according to the exigencies of the story-teller. Max Urquhart, the
hero--who at the time the tale opens is a staid, serious man of
forty--is the perpetrator of this crime, committed at the age of
nineteen in a fit of intoxication on a man named Johnston. Journeying
from London to join a brother who is dying of consumption at Pau,
Urquhart, through a mistake, finds that instead of being at Southampton
he is at Salisbury. On the way he has made the acquaintance of the
pseudo-driver of the coach, a flashy, dissipated fellow, who by a
tissue of lies induces the raw Scotch lad to remain for some hours at
the inn and then be driven on by him to where they will overtake the
right coach. By this man young Urquhart is made drunk, and when as a
butt he no longer amuses the sottish company they brutally turn him into
the street. Later on he is aroused by the cut of a whip. It is his coach
companion who pacifies him with the assurance that if he gets into the
gig he will be speedily taken by him to Southampton. The lad consents,
he is helped up and soon falls fast asleep to be awakened in the middle
of Salisbury plain by his savage tormentor, who pushes him out and tells
him to take up his lodging at Stonehenge. The poor youth, with just
sufficient sense left in him to feel that he is being kept from his
dying brother, implores the ruffian to take him on his way. "To the
devil with your brother," is the answer, and in spite of all entreaties,
Johnston whips up his horse, and is on the point of starting, when
Urquhart, maddened by rage, catches him unawares, drags him from the
gig, and, flings him violently on the ground, where his head strikes
against one of the great stones, and he is killed.
How Urquhart manages to reach Southampton, and to get to Pau, he never
knows; but when he does arrive at his destination, it is to find his
brother dead and buried, and the fit of mania which follows is set down
to the shock this gives him. At the end of a year, hearing that
Johnston's death is attributed to accident, and being under the
conviction that if the truth were told he would be hanged, he resolves
to lock the secret in his own breast until the hour of his death draws
near, and, in the meanwhile, to expiate his offence by living for
others, and for the good he can do to them. He becomes an army doctor,
goes through the Crimean War, and, when we are introduced to him, is
doing duty at Aldershot, near where, at a ball, he meets the inevitable
she, Theodora Johnston. If the hero is drawn dark, thin, with a spare,
wiry figure, and a formal, serious air, the portrait of the heroine,
with her undeniably ordinary figure, and a face neither pretty nor
young, forms a fitting pendant to it. These two are irresistibly drawn
towards each other, and, notwithstanding that the lady bears the fatal
name of Johnston, they soon become engaged. Dr. Urquhart's tender
conscience then demands that the tragic misdeed of his life shall be
confessed to the woman he is about to make his wife, and, in a letter,
he confides to her the sad history, adding, as postscript, some few days
later: "I have found his grave at last." Here follows the inscription,
which proves the dead man to have been the son of Theodora's father,
her own half-brother, Henry Johnston. "Farewell, Theodora!"
It is impossible here to give more than this crude outline of the plot
of a book in which, far beyond the story she means to tell, the author
has her own individual opinions and convictions to impress on us. The
temptation to earnest writers to try, through their writings, to make
converts of their readers, is often very strong, and in this instance
Miss Mulock undoubtedly gave way to it. She had not only a vehement
abhorrence of capital punishment, but, to quote from her book, she
maintained "that any sin, however great, being repented of and forsaken,
is, by God, and ought to be by man, altogether pardoned, blotted out,
and done away."
As was at the time said, "Her argument demands a stronger case than she
has dared to put;" but so ably are the incidents strung together, so
touchingly are the relative positions of these suffering souls
described, that their sorrows, affection, and fidelity become
convincing; and, full of the pathetic tragedy of the situation, we are
oblivious of the fact that what is called a crime is nothing greater
than an accident, a misfortune, and that for murder we must substitute
manslaughter.
* * * * *
From the date of the appearance of "John Halifax," Miss Mulock's pen
was never long idle. Composition was not a labour to her; and friends
who knew her at that time, describe her as walking about the room, or
bending over on a low stool, rapidly setting down her thoughts in that
small delicate writing which gave no trouble to read. She had beautiful
hands; a tall, slim, graceful figure; and, with the exception of her
mouth, which was too small, and not well shaped, delicate and regular
features. These attractions, heightened by a charming frankness of
manner, made her very popular. Her poetic vein was strong. She published
several volumes of poems, and many of her verses, when set to music,
became much admired as songs.
Following "A Life for a Life," came, in somewhat quick succession,
"Studies from Life," "Mistress and Maid," "Christian's Mistake," "A
Noble Life," "Two Marriages." These in a period of ten years.
As may be supposed, they are not all of equal merit; neither does any
one of them touch the higher level of the author's earlier books. Still,
there is good honest work in each, and the same exalted purity of tone,
while much of the sentimentality complained of before is wholly omitted
or greatly toned down.
"Mistress and Maid" is one of those good, quiet stories, full of homely
truths and pleasant teaching, in which is shown the writer's quick
sympathy with the working class. The maid, Elizabeth, is as full of
character and of refined feelings as is Hilary Leaf, the mistress, and
her one romance of love, although not so fortunate, has quite as much
interest. The opening scenes, in which these two first meet, are
excellent, giving us, all through their early association, touches of
humour--a quality which, in Miss Mulock's writings, is very rare.
The picture of the rather tall, awkward, strongly built girl of fifteen,
hanging behind her anxious-eyed, sad-voiced mother, who pushes her into
notice with "I've brought my daughter, ma'am, as you sent word you'd
take on trial. 'Tis her first place, and her'll be awk'ard like at
first. Hold up your head, Elizabeth," is drawn with that graphic
fidelity which gives interest to the most commonplace things in life.
The awkward girl proves to be a rough diamond, capable of much polish,
and by the kindly teaching of Hilary Leaf she is turned into an
admirable, praiseworthy woman. One has to resist the temptation to say
more about Hilary Leaf, an energetic, intelligent girl who, when she
cannot make a living for herself and her sister by school-keeping,
tries, and succeeds, by shop-keeping. The description of the struggles
of these two poor ladies to pay their way, and keep up a respectable
appearance, comes sympathetically from the pen of a woman whose heart
was ever open to similar distresses in real life. To her praise be it
remembered that to any tale of true suffering Dinah Mulock never closed
her ears or her hand.
* * * * *
Her next two novels, "Christian's Mistake" and "A Noble Life," in our
opinion, fall far short of any of her previous efforts. Yet they were
both received with much popular favour, particularly the former, which
called forth warm praise from reviewers.
For us not one of the characters has a spark of vitality. Christian is
not even the shadow of a young girl made of flesh and blood. Her
forbearance and self-abnegation are maddening. Her husband, the "Master
of St. Bede's,'" twenty-five years her senior and a widower, is nothing
but a lay figure, meant to represent a good man, but utterly devoid of
intellect and, one would think, of feeling, since he permits his young
bride, possessed of all the seraphic virtues, to be snubbed and
brow-beaten by two vulgar shrewish sisters-in-law. There is no interest
of plot or depicting of character, and the children are as unreal and
offensive as their grown up relations. In "A Noble Life," also, there is
nothing which stirs our sympathies. Even the personal deformities of the
unfortunate little earl fail to touch us, and, when grown up and
invested with every meritorious attribute, he is more like the
"example" of a moral tale than a being of human nature.
* * * * *
As has been said, the portrayal of men is not this author's strong
point. "Her sympathy with a good man is complete on the moral, but
defective on the intellectual side"--a serious deficiency in one who has
to create beings in whom we are asked to take a sustained interest.
That she could rise superior to this defect is shown in "The Woman's
Kingdom." In this story Miss Mulock displays all her old charm of
simplicity and directness, and is strong in her treatment of domestic
life. At the outset she announces that it will be a thorough love story,
and takes as her text that "love is the very heart of life, the pivot
upon which its whole machinery turns, without which no human existence
can be complete, and with which, however broken and worn in part, it can
still go on working somehow, and working to a comparatively useful and
cheerful end." This question we shall not stop to argue, but proceed
with--we cannot say the plot, for of plot there is none; it is just an
every-day version of the old, old story, given with admirable force and
sweetness. It is said to appeal principally to young women, and it is
possible that this is true, as the writer can recall the intense
pleasure reading it gave to her nearly thirty years ago.
The book opens with the description of some seaside lodgings, in which
we find twin sisters as opposite in character as in appearance. Edna is
an epitome of all the virtues in a very plain binding. Letty, vain,
spoilt, but loving her sister dearly, is a beauty. "Such women Nature
makes rarely, very rarely; queens of beauty who instinctively take their
places in the tournament of life, and rain influence upon weak mortals,
especially men mortals." Two of the latter kind arrive as lodgers at the
same house, brothers, also most dissimilar--Julius Stedman, impulsive,
erratic and undisciplined; William, his elder brother, a grave,
hard-working doctor, just starting practice. The four speedily become
acquaintances--friends--and when they part are secretly lovers. Letty,
by reason of what she calls "her unfortunate appearance," never doubts
but that she has conquered both brothers; but happily it is to Edna that
the young doctor has given his heart; and when in time Letty hears the
news, "and remembers that she had been placing herself and Dr. Stedman
in the position of the Irish ballad couplet,
Did ye ever hear of Captain Baxter,
Whom Miss Biddy refused afore he axed her?
her vanity was too innocent and her nature too easy to bear offence
long."
"But to think that after all the offers I have had you should be the
first to get married, or anyhow, engaged! Who would ever have expected
such a thing?" "Who would, indeed?" said Edna, in all simplicity, and
with a sense almost of contrition for the fact. "Well, never mind,"
answered Letty consolingly, "I am sure I hope you will be very happy;
and as for me"--she paused and sighed--"I should not wonder if I were
left an old maid after all, in spite of my appearance."
But to be left an old maid is not to be Letty's fate. Julius, already
bewitched by her beauty through being much more thrown into her society,
falls passionately in love with her, and for lack of any one else, and
because his ardour flatters and amuses her, Letty encourages him,
permits an engagement, and promises to join him in India. But on the
voyage out she meets a rich Mr. Vanderdecken, with whom she lands at the
Cape, and whom she marries. This is the tragic note in the happy story,
the one drop of gall in the Stedmans' cup of felicity. Edna and her
husband are patterns of domestic well-being. The joys and cares of
every-day life have mellowed all that was good in them, and the account
given of their home and their family is one we dwell upon lovingly.
Perhaps it is but natural that in our later reading we should note some
small discrepancies that had formerly escaped us. We regret that the
sisters had drifted so widely apart, and that each should seem to be so
unconcerned at the distance which divides them. It is as if happiness
can make us callous as well as luxury. And although it was true that
Letty's desertion suddenly wrecked the hopes of her lover, it seems
hardly probable that such an unstable being as Julius would have taken
her falseness so seriously. A wiser man might have foreseen the
possibility.
Still, when this and more is said, our liking for the story remains as
strong as ever. We know of few books which give a better picture of
healthful domestic happiness and pure family life.
* * * * *
Although we have hitherto called, and shall continue to call, our
authoress by her maiden name, she had in 1864 changed it by marrying Mr.
G. Lillie Craik, a partner in the house of Macmillan & Co., and shortly
after she removed to Shortlands, near Bromley, in Kent. This change in
her state does not appear to have interfered with her occupation, and
for many years volume followed volume in quick succession.
Unwisely, we think, for her literary reputation, she was led, through
her strong sympathy, to advocate marriage with a deceased wife's sister
in a novel, published in 1871, called "Hannah."
The novel with a purpose is almost certain to fall into the error of
giving the argument on one side only. Its author has rarely any
toleration for the ethical aspect of the other side of the question, and
it is to be doubted if such books ever advance the cause they desire to
advocate. In "Hannah" we are perfectly surfeited by those who wish to
marry within the forbidden degree, and we feel as little toleration for
the placid Bernard Rivers--one of those men who never believe in the
pinch of a shoe until they want to put it on their own feet--as for Jim
Dixon, who, after evading the law, speedily grows tired of the deceased
wife's sister, and avails himself of his legal advantage to take another
wife.
The objections we feel to novels of this class are well stated by a
writer in the _Edinburgh Review_, No. clxxxix. "We object," he says, "on
principle to stories written with the purpose of illustrating an
opinion, or establishing a doctrine. We consider this an illegitimate
use of fiction. Fiction may be rightfully employed to impress upon the
public mind an acknowledged truth, or to revive a forgotten woe--never
to prove a disputed one. Its appropriate aims are the delineation of
life, the exhibition and analysis of character, the portraiture of
passion, the description of nature."
In most of these aims Miss Mulock had proved herself an expert. In
addition to her numerous novels and volumes of poems, she wrote a large
number of tales for children, many of which, I am told, are exceedingly
charming. One cannot read her books without being struck by the intense
affection she felt for children. She had none of her own, but she
adopted a daughter to whom she gave a mother's love and care. From time
to time there appeared from her pen volumes of short stories, studies,
and essays; but it is not by these that her name and fame will be kept
green. Neither will her reputation rest on her later novels. This she
must have realised herself when writing, "Brains, even if the strongest,
will only last a certain time and do a certain quantity of work--really
good work." Miss Mulock had begun to work the rich vein of her
imagination at an early age. She took few holidays, and gave herself but
little rest.
She was by no means what is termed a literary woman. She was not a great
reader; and although much praise is due to the efforts she made to
improve herself, judged by the present standard, her education remained
very defective. That she lacked the fire of genius is true, but it is no
less true that she was gifted with great imaginative ability and the
power of depicting ordinary men and women leading upright, often noble
lives.
The vast public that such books as hers appeal to is shown in the large
circulation of some of her works, the sale of "John Halifax, Gentleman"
amounting to 250,000 copies, 80,000 of which--the sixpenny edition--have
been sold within the last few months. This shows that her popularity is
not confined to any one class. The gospel she wrote was for all
humanity.
As a woman, she was loved best by those who knew her best. "Dinah was
far more clever than her books," said an old friend who had been
recalling pleasant memories to repeat to me. She died suddenly on the
12th of October 1887, from failure of the heart's action--the death she
had described in the cases of Catherine Ogilvie, of John Halifax, and of
Ursula, his wife--the death she had always foreseen for herself.
Around her grave in Keston churchyard stood a crowd of mourners--rich,
poor, old and young--sorrowing for the good loyal friend who had gone
from them, whose face they should see no more.
[Signature: Louisa Parr]
JULIA KAVANAGH. AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS
_By_ MRS. MACQUOID
JULIA KAVANAGH. AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS
It is difficult to think of two writers more strongly contrasted,
judging from the revelation their books afford of their natures and ways
of thought. They both strove, in their novels, to represent individual
specimens of humanity. They must both have possessed the power of
distinct vision; but though Miss Kavanagh was a keen observer of
externals, her types seem to have been created by imaginative faculty
rather than by insight into real men and women, while Miss Edwards
appears to have gone about the world open-eyed, and with note-book in
hand, so vivid are some of her portraits.
In traditions, also, these writers differ. Miss Kavanagh has complete
faith in the old French motto, "le bon sang ne peut pas mentir;" while
one of Miss Edwards's heroes, an aristocrat by birth, is extremely happy
as a merchant captain, with his plebeian Italian wife.
The two writers, however, strike the same note in regard to some of
their female personages. Both Barbara Churchill and Nathalie Montolieu
are truthful to rudeness.
Julia Kavanagh never obtrudes her personality on the reader, though she
lifts him into the exquisitely pure and peaceful atmosphere which one
fancies must have been hers. There is something so restful in her books,
that it is difficult to believe she was born no longer ago than 1824,
and that only twenty years ago she died in middle life; she seems to
belong to a farther-away age--probably because her secluded life kept
her strongly linked to the past, out of touch with the new generation
and the new world of thought around her.
She began to write for magazines while still very young, and was only
twenty-three when her first book, "The Three Paths," a child's story,
was published. After this she wrote about fourteen novels, the best
known of which are "Madeleine," "Nathalie," and "Adele." She wrote many
short stories, some of which were re-printed in volumes--notably the
collection called "Forget-me-nots," published after her death. She also
wrote "A Summer and Winter in the two Sicilies," "Woman in France in the
18th Century," "Women of Christianity," and two books which seem to have
been highly praised--"Englishwomen of Letters" and "Frenchwomen of
Letters."
* * * * *
Julia Kavanagh's first novel, "Madeleine," appeared in 1848--a charming
story, its scene being in the Auvergne. The beginning is very striking,
the theme being somewhat like that of "Bertha in the Lane"; but
Madeleine, when she has given up her false lover, devotes the rest of
her life to founding and caring for an orphanage.
Born in Ireland, Julia Kavanagh spent the days of her youth in Normandy,
and the scene of her second novel, "Nathalie," is Norman, though
Nathalie herself is a handsome, warm-blooded Provencale. The scenery and
surroundings are very lifelike, but, with one exception, the people are
less attractive than they are in "Adele." In both books one feels a wish
to eliminate much of the interminable talk, which could easily be
dispensed with.
Nathalie, the country doctor's orphan daughter, teacher to the
excellently drawn schoolmistress, Mademoiselle Dantin, is sometimes
disturbingly rude and tactless, in spite of her graceful beauty. With
all this _gaucherie_, and a violent temper to boot, Nathalie exercises a
singular fascination over the people of the story, especially over the
delightful Canoness, Aunt Radegonde, who is to me the most real of Miss
Kavanagh's characters. Madame Radegonde de Sainville is a true old
French lady of fifty years ago, as charming as she is natural.
The men in Julia Kavanagh's books have led secluded lives, or they are
extremely reserved--very hard nuts indeed to crack for the ingenuous,
inexperienced girls on whom they bestow their lordly affection. One does
not pity Nathalie, who certainly brings her troubles on herself; but in
the subsequent book, sweet little Adele is too bright a bit of sunshine
to be sacrificed to such a being as William Osborne.
The old chateau in which Adele has spent her short life is in the
north-east of France; its luxuriant but neglected garden, full of lovely
light and shade, its limpid lake, and the old French servants, are
delightfully fresh. The chapters which describe these are exquisite
reading--a gentle idyll glowing with sunshine, and with a leisureful
charm that makes one resent the highly coloured intrusion of the Osborne
family, though the Osborne women afford an effective contrast. Adele is
scantily educated, but she is always delightful, though we are never
allowed to forget that she is descended from the ancient family of de
Courcelles. She is thoroughly amiable and much enduring, in spite of an
occasional waywardness.
* * * * *
Fresh and full of beauty as these novels are, with their sweet
pure-heartedness, their truth and restful peace, they cannot compare
with the admirable short sketches of the quiet side of French life by
the same writer. The scenes in which the characters of these short
stories are set, show the truth of Julia Kavanagh's observation, as well
as the quality of her style; they are quite as beautiful as some of Guy
de Maupassant's little gem-like Norman stories, but they are perfectly
free from cynicism, although she truly shows the greedy grasping nature
of the Norman peasant. The gifts of this writer are intensified, and
more incisively shown, in these sketches because they contain few
superfluous words and conversations. Julia Kavanagh must have revelled
in the creation of such tales as "By the Well," and its companions; they
are steeped in joyous brightness, toned here and there with real pathos
as in "Clement's Love" and "Annette's Love-Story," in the collection
called "Forget-me-nots."
* * * * *
Such a story as "By the Well" would nowadays be considered a lovely
idyll, and, by critics able to appreciate its breadth and finished
detail, a Meissonier in point of execution: it glows with true colour.
Fifine Delpierre is not a decked-out peasant heroine; she is a
bare-footed, squalid, half-clothed, half-starved little girl, when we
first see her beside the well. This is the scene that introduces her.
"It has a roof, as most wells have in Normandy, a low thatched roof,
shaggy, brown, and old, but made rich and gorgeous when the sun shines
upon it by many a tuft of deep green fern, and many a cluster of pink
sedum and golden stonecrop. Beneath that roof, in perpetual shade and
freshness, lies the low round margin, built of heavy ill-jointed stones,
grey and discoloured with damp and age; and within this ... spreads an
irregular but lovely fringe of hart's-tongue. The long glossy leaves of
a cool pale green grow in the clefts of the inner wall, so far as the
eye can reach, stretching and vanishing into the darkness, at the bottom
of which you see a little tremulous circle of watery light. This well is
invaluable to the Lenuds, for, as they pass by the farm the waters of
the little river grow brackish and unfit for use. So long ago, before
they were rich, the Lenuds having discovered this spring through the
means of a neighbouring mason, named Delpierre, got him to sink and make
the well, in exchange for what is called a servitude in French legal
phrase; that is to say, that he and his were to have the use of the well
for ever and ever. Bitter strife was the result of this agreement. The
feud lasted generations, during which the Lenuds throve and grew rich,
and the Delpierres got so poor, that, at the time when this story opens,
the last had just died leaving a widow and three children in bitter
destitution. Maitre Louis Lenud, for the Parisian Monsieur had not yet
reached Manneville, immediately availed himself of this fact to bolt and
bar the postern-door through which his enemy had daily invaded the
courtyard to go to the well....