[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 6.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
CIRCULATING-LIBRARY CRITICS.
It appears to be a mania with some people to criticise everything which
comes in their way, no matter whether it be the last new bonnet of Mrs
Smith, the pug dog possessed by Mr Jones, or the last new novel by
Mr Brown; and as a true specimen of the ready-made critic, we might
cite those interesting individuals who, having more time upon their
hands than they can comfortably get rid of, endeavour to dispose of
some of the surplus stock by subscribing to a circulating library, and
diligently ‘cutting-up’ and otherwise abusing every author they read.
Novels, of course, are the principal dish of these readers; and it must
candidly be admitted that some of the notes pencilled in the margins
are not altogether uncalled for; though some of them are decidedly
personal, not to say unpleasant; while others, on the contrary, only
raise a smile, and if particularly ridiculous, are underlined by some
sarcastic reader, in order to call more attention to the blunder, which
has probably been committed by some indolent and not very well-informed
critic.
But taken as a whole, this criticism, although in some cases severe,
is but the echo of public opinion, and as such, is entitled to
consideration, no matter how humble the source may appear from which
it springs; and we know of nothing more enjoyable than a well-read
book, which has been some ten or twelve months in circulation. And
such a book would without doubt prove of great service to its author,
could he by any means get hold of a copy; for he would then have the
opportunity of judging for himself how his work was appreciated by the
public; and although some of the remarks would doubtless cause him
annoyance, he should remember that they are the candid opinion of the
readers through whose hands the work has passed. And if he has good
sense and a desire to please the public, he would avail himself of
those critical remarks which seemed to be just, and alter the text in
any future editions. It is an author’s place to write his work to the
best of his ability, and that of his readers to criticise it after it
has appeared in print. Whether the book be good or bad, the author may
be sure that he will have a faithful and industrious army of critics in
the shape of subscribers to circulating libraries, who will diligently
search out all its little defects, and display them in the margin for
the edification of the next reader, who in turn will try his best to
discover something which the other has passed over, and triumphantly
display it in a similar manner. Although ‘the stone that is rolling’
is said to gather no moss, it is a far different thing with a novel;
for the faster it passes from hand to hand, the more and more abundant
becomes its crop; and at a seaside watering-place, the writer has seen
blank sheets of letter-paper inserted between some of the leaves,
because the margins were already too crowded, to admit of some reader
adding his mite to the evidence there accumulated!
This is why we suppose it might be advantageous to an author to get
hold of a copy of his work which has been through a like ordeal; and
let him remember at the same time that his book has probably travelled
through the hands of some people who are intimately acquainted with
certain subjects upon which it treats, and whose opinion is not to be
lightly passed over. As some of the novelists of the present day seem
to think the law a machine which they can work upon as they choose,
without the slightest regard to facts, it might be recommended to
them either to study the subject seriously, or submit any notes which
may appear upon this subject in the margins of their works, to an
experienced lawyer; and in nine cases out of ten, the author will find
that the readers’ notes are correct. This may be taken as a proof that
people, although they may pass rough criticism upon the characters,
situation, and general plot of a novel, are not so eager to criticise
points which touch upon the law, physic, &c., unless they thoroughly
understand the subject. As an instance of this, we have heard of a
doctor who would never read a new novel by a certain author, because
in a former work this gentleman had murdered a man in a manner which
my friend described as being ‘utterly ridiculous;’ for the poison
administered, and of which the character in the novel died, would not
in reality ‘have killed a cat.’
These remarks may serve to show that the public, although they may
accept a taking title, a pretty cover, and a pound or so of toned
paper, as a novel, will also exercise their right of picking its
contents to pieces as soon as possible. To show with what diligence
some of them do so, we quote the following: ‘The red rose actually
_died_ the captain’s cheeks.’ The word in italics is underlined in the
book, and altered in the margin to _dyed_. This, of course, is merely
a printer’s error; but it serves to show how the circulating-library
critic delights in ‘cutting-up’ the work of other people’s brains,
and exposing to the best advantage any little defect he may discover.
Then, again, in the same work, in describing the scene of a shipwreck,
the author makes use of the following words: ‘Quantities of chips, and
pieces of wood, and bits of _iron, were floating about_.’ The words in
italics are underlined in pencil by some incredulous reader, who could
not quite appreciate the joke, and took this method of calling the next
reader’s attention to it. The words might have been a mere slip of the
pen; but, as they stand underlined in the book, it is impossible to
overlook them now.
A little farther on in the same work, an unmarried gentleman is
supposed to have made his will, bequeathing all his property to
friends settled in the colonies; and his relatives at his decease are
disputing the same, when this paragraph occurs, and is supposed to be
uttered by a _lawyer_: ‘But had he lived to marry Lady A——, he would
surely have cancelled this will!’ Probably had the gentleman lived, he
would have done so; but our pencil-critic shows that such an act would
have been altogether unnecessary, by writing against the paragraph:
‘The act of marrying would have rendered it null.’ This is strictly
and legally correct; and as the words are supposed to be spoken by a
lawyer, it shows that the opinion of these gentlemen is not always to
be implicitly relied upon, especially when they air them in a novel.
To turn now to the criticising of situations, we find our amateur
critic is quite as hard upon them as he is upon the characters, and
will not allow a novelist to make use of situations which it is
scarcely probable would happen in real life. A noble lord is forced
through some miraculous circumstances which would rival the adventures
narrated in the _Arabian Nights_, to associate with poachers, who are
well known to the police; and after some time has elapsed, he at length
regains the property, which has wrongfully been kept from him by his
uncle; and to celebrate this happy event, he gives what is styled in
the novel a ‘levée,’ and invites thereto the whole country-side,
_including the poachers_, and also the police of the town. Our critic
could not quite appreciate the novelty of this situation, and therefore
pencils in the margin: ‘Is it likely the poachers would have ventured
there?’ After studying the facts of the case, and reducing the subject
to practical life, which is evidently the meaning of our critic,
and also bearing in mind that the police and poachers were in the
same room, and that several of the latter were ‘wanted’ for various
offences, we may take that bit of criticism as sound.
If our voluntary critics will read novels, they must expect novel
things; but as far as our observation goes, this is the very thing
they criticise most. They will not allow a young and delicate lady to
elope with a handsome Captain on a stormy night with nothing to protect
her from the weather but a flimsy ball-dress, under any consideration
whatever; but feelingly suggest in the margin that the gentleman should
either offer her his ulster or procure an umbrella; a piece of advice
for which I am sure the young lady’s parents would devoutly thank them,
if they only had the pleasure of their acquaintance.
We might easily add to these examples; but the above is sufficient to
show that the novelist who sits down to write a work of fiction merely
for the sake of airing an opinion, or to please a certain person,
neither caring in what language he expresses himself nor how absurd the
book may be, may be sure of a warm reception when his work falls into
the hands of the circulating-library critics.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER IX.—SLANDER’S SHAFT.
They were still at breakfast when the postman arrived, and Madge was
surprised to find amongst the letters two from the Manor. Both were
addressed in Miss Hadleigh’s large angular writing: one was for her
uncle, the other for herself.
As Madge had long conducted her uncle’s correspondence, she attended
to his letters first; but remembering that still unexplained quarrel,
misunderstanding, or whatever it was, between him and Mr Hadleigh, she
discreetly kept the letter from Ringsford back till she had disposed
of the others. These were all on business, and of a most satisfactory
nature: good prices for grain, good prices for sheep and cattle, and
reports of a deficient harvest in America, whilst that of Willowmere
was excellent. Uncle Dick was in capital humour, and disposed to be on
good terms with everybody. It is wonderful how prosperous all the world
looks when our own affairs are thriving; and how merciful we can be in
our judgment as to the cause of our neighbour’s failure.
Then Madge—sly Madge—opened the Ringsford letter, and read a formal
invitation to dinner at the Manor a fortnight hence, on the eve of Mr
Philip Hadleigh’s departure.
‘You will go, of course, uncle?’ said Madge, looking up with a coaxing
smile.—‘And you will break through your rule of not going to parties
for once, aunt? You know we may not see Philip for a long, long time.’
Aunt Hessy smiled, and looked inquiringly at her husband. Dick Crawshay
was not a man to bear malice; but it was evident that he did not relish
this invitation. He was not frowning, but his face was not quite so
cheerful as it had been a moment before.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, rising. ‘I hate these sort of things at
Ringsford. They’ve always a lot of people that don’t know anything’
(about farming and cattle, he meant); ‘and when I’m there, I always
feel as uncomfortable as a bull in a china-shop that didn’t want to
break the crockery. Certain, I have spoken to some young fools that
knew all about betting lists, but not one that knew the points of a
horse—except Wrentham. They only want me there because they want you,
Madge; and if it wasn’t for you, I’d say no straight off.’
‘But you mustn’t do that, uncle; at least wait till we see what is in
my letter.’
‘You can tell me about it when I come in. That new reaping-machine
ain’t doing what I expected of it, and I want to give it a fair trial
under my own eyes.’
With that he went out, preceded by the dogs; for they had made for the
door the moment their master rose to his feet, and as it opened, almost
tumbled over each other in their haste to be first afield.
‘I hope he will go,’ said Madge thoughtfully; adding, after a pause:
‘We must try to persuade him, aunt.’
‘Why are you so anxious about this, child? I never knew you to be very
eager to go to Ringsford yourself.’
‘Because I am about to disappoint Mr Hadleigh in a matter which he
considers of great importance.’
Then she read the strange letter she had received from him, and
Dame Crawshay was surprised almost as much as Madge herself by the
earnestness of the appeal it contained. She was silent for several
minutes, evidently occupied by some serious reflections. At length:
‘Thou knowest how I love the lad; but that does not blind me to his
faults—nay, it need not startle thee to hear me say he has faults: we
all have our share of them. Perhaps it is lucky for thee that what
seems to me Philip’s worst fault is that he has the impulsive way his
father speaks about.’
‘But all his impulses are good-natured ones.’
‘I do not doubt it; but that makes it the more needful he should have
some experience of the world’s ways before tying himself and you down
to a hard-and-fast line. Nothing but experience will ever teach us that
the hard-and-fast line of life is the easiest in the end. There’s a
heap of truth in what Mr Hadleigh says about Philip, though he doesn’t
seem to me to have found the surest way of keeping him right.’
‘What would you advise, then?’ was the eager question.
‘Thou must settle this matter for thyself, Madge; but I will tell thee
that there is one thing Mr Hadleigh is quite wrong about.’
‘What is that?’
‘In saying that Mr Shield would try to keep Philip from _you_.’
The emphasis on the last word and the curious, half-sad, half-pleased
smile which accompanied it, caused Madge to ask wonderingly:
‘Did you know Mr Shield?’
‘Ay, long ago, before he went abroad.’
‘Have you never seen him since?’
‘Once—only once, and that was a sad time, although we were not five
minutes together. He heard only a bit of the truth: he would not stay
to hear it all, and I daresay he has had many a sorry hour for it
since.’
She ceased, and leaning back on her chair, lapsed into a dream of
sorrowful memories. Madge did not like to disturb her, for she was
suddenly amazed by the suspicion that once upon a time Austin Shield
had been Aunt Hessy’s lover.
But the active dame was not given to wool-gathering, and looking up
quickly, she caught the expression of her niece, and guessed its
meaning.
‘Nay, thou art mistaken,’ she said, shaking her head, and that curious
smile again appeared on her face; ‘there has only been one man that
was ever more than another to me, and that’s thy uncle.... But I’ll
tell thee a secret, child; it can do no harm. Hast forgotten what I was
telling thee and Philip in the garden yesterday?’
‘About the two lovers? O no.’
‘Well, the man was Mr Austin Shield, and the girl was thy mother.’
‘My mother!’ was the ejaculation of the astounded Madge.
‘Yes. It was a silly business on her part, poor soul; but she was
cruelly deceived. She had been told lies about him; and there were so
many things which made them look like truth, that she believed them.’
‘What could she have been told that could make her forget him?’
‘She never did forget him—she never could forget him; and she told the
man she married so. What she was told was, that Austin had forgotten
her, and taken somebody else to wife. At the same time no letters came
from him. She waited for months, watching every post; but there was
never a sign from him. She fretted and fretted; and father fretted to
see her getting so bad on account of a man who was not worth thinking
about. He had broken his word, and that was enough to make father turn
his back on him for ever.’
‘But how did my mother come to—to marry so soon?’
‘She was kind of persuaded into it by father, and by her wish to
please him. He was a kind good man; but he was strict in his notions
of things. He considered that it was sinful of her to be thinking of a
man who had done her such wrong. Then Mr Heathcote was a great friend
of father’s—he was a deacon in our chapel—and he asked sister to be his
wife. He was quiet and well-to-do then; and father was on his side,
though he was twenty years older than your mother. Father thought that
his age would make him the better guide for one who was so weak as to
keep on mourning for a base man. He was never done speaking about the
happy home that was offered her, and in every prayer asked the Lord to
turn her heart into the right path. At last she consented: but she
told Mr Heathcote everything; and he said he was content, and that
he would try his best to make her content too, by-and-by. Father was
glad—and that did cheer poor sister a bit, for she was fond of father.
So she married.’
‘And then?’
Only the subdued voice, the wide, startled eyes, indicated the
agitation of the daughter, who was listening to this piteous story of a
mother’s suffering.
‘And then there came a letter from Austin Shield, and he came himself
almost as soon as the letter. He had been “up country,” as he called
it, for more than a year, and he had been lucky beyond all his
expectations. But there were no posts in the wild places he had been
staying at. He had written to warn us not to expect to hear of him
for many months; but the vessel that was carrying that message home
to us—eh, deary, what sorrow it would have saved us—was wrecked in a
fog on some big rock near the Scilly Isles; and although a-many of the
mail-bags were fished up out of the sea, the one with sister’s letter
in it was never found.’
‘What did my poor mother do?’
‘She sat and shivered and moaned; but she could not speak. I saw him
when he came, and told him that he must not see her any more, for she
was married. I wasn’t able to tell him how it happened, for the sight
of his face feared me so. It was like white stone, and his eyes were
black. Before I could get my tongue again, he gave me a look that I can
never forget, and walked away.... I found out where he was, some time
afterwards, and wrote telling him all about it. He answered me, saying:
“Thank you. I understand. God bless you all.” We never had another word
direct from him; but we often heard about him; and some time after your
mother went to rest, we learned that he had really got married; and the
news pleased me vastly, for it helped me to think that maybe he was
comfortable and resigned at last. I hope he is; but he has no family,
and his sending for Philip looks as if he wants somebody to console
him.’
‘But who was it spread the lies about him at the first?’
‘Ah, that we never knew. It was cleverly done; the story was in
everybody’s mouth; but nobody could tell where it had come from.’
The feelings of Madge as she listened to her aunt were of a complicated
nature: there was the painful sympathy evoked by the knowledge that it
was her own mother who had been so wickedly deceived; then it seemed as
if the events related had happened to some one else; and again there
was a mysterious sense of awe as she recognised how closely the past
and the present were linked together. Philip was the near relation of
the man her mother had loved, and was to be parted from her on his
account for an indefinite period.
Who could tell what Fate might lie in this coincidence?
She pitied the lovers; and her indignation rose to passion at thought
of the slanderers who had caused them so much misery. Then came
confused thoughts about her father: he, too, must have loved as well
as Mr Shield; and he had been generous.
Gentle hands were laid upon her bowed head, and looking up, she met the
tender eyes of Aunt Hessy.
‘I have troubled you, child; but I have told you this so that you may
understand why I cannot counsel you to bid Philip stay or go.’
A soft light beamed on Madge’s face; a sweet thought filled her heart.
She would bid Philip go to help and comfort the man her mother had
loved.