MR. READE'S MEDLEVAL NOVEL.*
Mn. READE'S somewhat impudent genius has achieved a great success in this book. He has shown that he carries weight well; nay, that he is greatly the better for working up heavy- material, and acknowledging the restraints of history. A rattling and unscrupulous writer—as we must call the author of "Never too late.to Mend"—one indeed so apt to be harum-scarum, that discerning people were half inclined to doubt whether he were a man of genius or a lively charlatan, has proved in this book that he has in him substance and breadth, that his aplomb is not mere impertinence, that his buoyancy does not spring from heed- lessness and conceit. Mr. Re,ade hos shown us frequently that he could paint lively thieves and self-possessed, loquacious, fast young men so as to draw many a smile; but it was not till he sat down to study the manners of a past age and restore the colours of a long-acted human drama of very deep human interest, that we could recog- nize the real body of intellectual energy which lies beneath his random fire. A rattling chronicle taken from the middle ages lies in great danger of being a mere impertinence. Not that there was not as much—probably more—swagger imbedded in those Ages as in the civilization of the present day; but that to produce what was not specially characteristic of them, simply in order to confound our notions of what was, would be an offence to the good sense of the public. We rather feared, when we saw Mr. Reade's subject, that he would fall into this error, and give us a hair-brained parody of the middle ages. This is not at all the case. The faults of his picture lie rather in thelength of his too frequent di- gressional sketches, which interrupt needlessly the thread of the story, than in any extravagance of levity. Of course he kicks up his heels now and then; Mr. Heade could not help it, but he generally does so with fair regard to time, place, and scenery. And on the whole • The Cloister and the Hearth: a This of the Middle Ayes. By Charles Reads. in four volumes. Trtibuer. there is a great breadth of human nature, as well as force and pathos, in this historic picture ; and, though now and then there are por- tions where the divine right of not reading will be generally exercised, it seldom drags, and the last volume is perhaps the best. We had intended, nay resolved, to protest against the monstrosity of a four-volume novel. We had elaborated reasons why the return towards the lengthiness of Richardson should be discouraged in days when verbosity is a growing sin. But on the whole the perusal of the work has changed our mind. Much might indeed have been left out with advantage, but we cannot measure what is, in fact, only a half-fic- titious chronicle, by the standard of a common novel. And the purely imaginative parts are by no means windy and diluted. If, here and there, a dialogue or sketch of manners, taken from the writings of Erasmus, has been inserted at too great length for the reader's patience, this solid interpolation is pardonable. There is no culpable dilatation of the fluids and gases of modern sentiment, vanity, and con- ceit. Mr. Reade's power is not shown mainly in what is generally called delineation of character. There is a homely force and breadth in two or three of the main actors, which we recognize as something rarer ;—for we often meet with writers who can outline subtly with- out filling up the common groundwork of ordinary human nature. Indeed, these are two quite distinct powers, though of course often united—the power to catch individual characteristics, and the power to delineate the depth and strength of universal passions, sense, and affections. , Mrs. Stowe, for example, has the latter in perfection; the former only in the case of types of character with which she has been acquainted from her earliest years. But Thackeray and Trol- lope—especially the latter—seem to spend all their strength on the individual flavours, and none on the universal substance of human nature. By this we distinguish the thin artists of the present day, from the broad school of Defoe, Scott, and fielding. Mr. Reade is not great in the photography of individual traits. Few of his por- traits have the distinct personality which we find in the works of many eminent novelists; and those which have, have it mainly be- cause they are portraits of common-place hearty men and women, without marked personal peculiarities or manners of their own
cause they are generic rather than specific. The tale is founded on history. The lot of the father and mother of Erasmus was a strange romance, to which there are few parallels in all history. We find the following account of it in the old life of Erasmus by Dr. Knight, and this outline Mr. Reade has strictly followed :
"His Father whose Name was Gerard of the Town of Ter-Gou, in the Neighbourhood of Rotterdam, fell in love with Margaret the Daughter of one Peter, a Physician of Sevenbergen ; by whom after the most Solemn Promises to each other, and as some say the Marriage Ceremonies past, he had Erasmus. The Rations of Gerard had always designed him for some Religious Order, thereby to exclude him from Marriage; and because Church-men then governed all, they hoped that if he thrived upon his Profession, to have a sure Friend where they might eat and drink and make merry upon occasion. They set themselves therefore to do whatever they could to disappoint him, in this his Amour, thinking also thereby, to secure some share of his Patrimony to them- selves: and did by a series of ill-Usage, at last force him out of his own Country into Italy, where he was sure to be out of their reach and secure himself from any farther molestation. And coming to Rome he betook himself to the transcribing of Ancient Authors, being excellently qualified for this business, by his writing a fair hand (printing being not then known) and having a good Capacity for learning, be at the same time made some progress in his Studies. But he had not been long thus employed, before his unkind Friends plotting together, to defeat his return home to his designed Wife, hearing where he was, sent him word that she was dead ; which News gave him the most Inexpressible Grief imaginable, and determined him to take Holy Orders, that so it might be out of his Power to think of any other Person, since he thought himself deprived of her, he so dearly loved. He lived long disconsolate under this false News, and seemed not, till his return home, to have known the Trick that had been play'd him ; but however kept his Vow and Resolution of living ever after separate from her. All his care was to have the Child brought up to Learning, which at this time ran very low; but having now in his own Country a Benefice given him by the Pope, and only this Child to maintain, he would spare no cost for his Education."
At the age of nine the child was sent to school to Daventer, in Gelderland :
"His Mother was so tender of him that she went and lived at Deventer, that she might be near him if any Accident happened to him and might have the pleasure of seeing and taking care of him. He was aboilt thirteen years old when his Mother, and almost the whole Family wherein she lodged, died of the Plague; his Father Gerard was so affected with her Death, that he did but a little time survive her, both of them seemed not to exceed the 401/1 year of their Age."
It will be seen at once that we have here the outline of a noble romance. Mr. Reade has filled it in with incidents derived from Bayle's article on "Erasmus," from the literature of the age, and especially from writings of Erasmus: and by following Gerard's wanderings into Italy he has made it, in fact, a picture of the state of society towards the close of the fifteenth century, in Holland, Germany, and partially—though with less success—also in Italy. The picture is completed with very unequal power. For a picture of the inns and beggars of Germany he had ample materials, and the result is very lively, though here and there, as in the murder scene in Burgundy, he exaggerates the sensation element for the sake of spicing his story. We must quote one specimen. Here is a graphic picture of a German inn: "'Not an inn, after all,' said he sadly. No matter; what Christian would turn a dog into this wood to-night?' and with this he made for the door that led to the voices. He opened it slowly, and put his bead in timidly. He drew it out abruptly, as if slapped in the face, and recoiled into the ram and darkness. He had peeped into a large but low room, the middle of which was filled by a huge round stove or clay oven that reached to the ceiling; round this wet clothes were drying, some on lines, and some more compendiously on rustics: these latter habiliments, impregnated with the wet of the day, but the dirt of a life, and lined With what another foot traveller in these parts calls ' rammish clowns' evolves rank vapours and compound odours inexpressible, in steaming clouds. In one corner was a travelling family, a large one: thence flowed into the common stock the peculiar sickly smell of neglected brats. Garlic filled up the interstices of the air. And all this with closed window, and intense heat of the central fur- nace, and the breath of at least forty persons. They had just supped. Now Gerard,. like most artiste, had sensitive organs, and the potent effluvia struck dismay into hem. But the rain lashed him outside, and the light and the fire tempted him in. He could not force his way all at once through the palpable per- fumes ; but he returned to the light again and again like the singed moth. At last he discovered that the various smells did not entirely mix, no fiend being there to stir them round. Odour of family predominated in two corners, stewed rustic reigned supreme in the centre, and garlic in the noisy group by the window. He found too, by hasty analysis, that of these the garlic described the smallest aerial orbit, and the scent of reeking rustic darted farthest; a flavour, as if ancient goats, or the fathers of all foxes, had been drawn through a river, and were here dried by Nebuchadnezzar. . . .
" The landlady sat on a chair an inch or two higher than the rest, between two bundles. From the first a huge heap of feathers and wings, she was taking the downy plumes, and pulling the others from the quills, and so filling bundle two; littering the floor ankle deep, and contributing to the general stock a stuffy little malaria, which might have played a distinguished part in a sweet room, but went for nothiug here. Gerard asked her if he could have something to eat. She opened her eyes with astonishment. 'Supper is over this hour and more.' But I had none of it, good dame." Is that my fault? You were welcome to your share for me." But I was benighted, and a stranger, and belated sore against my will." What have I do with that? All the world knows the Star of the Forest sups from six till eight. Come before six, ye sap well; come before eight, ye sup as pleases Heaven; come after eight, ye get a clean bed, and a stirrup cup, or a horn of kine's milk at the dawning.' Gerard looked blank. May I go to bed then, dame?' said he, sulkily, 'for it is ill sitting up wet and fasting, and the byword saith "He sups who sleeps."' The beds are not come yet,' replied the landlady: you will sleep when the rest do. Inns were not built for one.' . . . "The door opened and in flew a bundle of straw. It was hurled by a hind with a pitchfork ; another and another came flying after it till the room was like a clean farm yard. These were then dispersed round the stove in layers like the seats in an arena, and in a moment the company was all on its back.. The beds had come. . . .
"At the door the landlady committed the whole company to Heaven in a formula, and disappeared. Gerard went to his straw in the very corner, for the guests lay round the sacred stove by seniority, i.e. priority of arrival. This punishment was a boon to Gerard, for thus he lay on the shore of odour and stifling heat, instead of in mid ocean. He was just dropping off, when he was awaked by a noise, and lo I there was the hind remorselessly waking guest after guest to ask him whether it was he who had picked up the mistress's feathers. ' It was I,' cried Gerard. ' Oh, it was you was it?' said the other, and came striding rapidly over the interme-
diate sleepers. She bade me say, "One good turn deserves another," and so here's your night-cap,' and he thrust a great oaken mug under Gerard's nose.
thank her and bless ber—here goes—Ugh l' and his gratitude ended in a wry face, for the beer was muddy, and had a strange medicinal twang new to the Hollander. 'Trink awl shouted the hind, reproachfully. • Enow is as good as a feast,' said the youth, jesuitically. The hind cast a look of pity on this stranger who left liquor in his mug. • Ich brings each,' said he, and drained it to the bottom. And now Gerard turned his face to the wall and pulled up two hand- fuls of the nice clean straw, and bored in them with his finger, and so made a scab- bard, and sheathed his nose in it. And soon they were all asleep : men, maids, wives, and children, all lying higgledy-piggledy, and snoring in a dozen keys like an orchestra slowly tuning; and Gerard's body lay on straw in Germany, and his spirit was away to Sevenbergen."
In Switzerland and Italy Mr. Reade draws more on his imagination and the traditions; and the result is much less real. The best part of the book, however, is the picture of the deserted wife, and her rela- tions with her husband's mother after the reconciliation. This really deserves the highest praise. Catherine (Gerard's mother) is a picture of great natural force, of the jealous but motherly housewifely baby-wise kind. She is sent for by Margaret, on some illness of the little Erasmus, and the dispute about ureaniv Erasmus which takes place is a fair specimen of Mr. Reade's highest and least high- pressure powers :
"Margaret met her at the door, pale and agitated, and threw her arms round
her neck, and looked imploringly in her face. Come, he is alive, thank God,' said Catherine, after scanning her eagerly. She looked at the failing child, and then at the poor hollow-eyed mother, alternately. 'Lucky you sent for me,' said she. 'Tire child is poisoned." Poiaoned ! by whom ?" By you. You have been fretting." Nay, indeed, mother. How can I help fretting?" Don't tell me, Margaret. A nursing mother hiss no business to fret. She mast turn her mind away from her griet to the comfort that lies in her lap. Know you not that the child pines if the mother vexes herself? This comes of your reading and writing. Those idle crafts befit a man; but they keep all useful knowledge out of a woman. The child must be weaned." 0 you cruel woman!' cried Mar- garet, vehemently; I am sorry I sent for you. Would you rob me of the only bit of comfort I have in the world? A nursing my Gerard, I forget I am the most unhappy creature beneath the sun.' 'That you do not,' was the retort, or he would ul not be the way he is." Mother !' said Margaret, imploringly. ' 'Tis hard,' replied Catherine, relenting. 'But bethink thee; would it not be harder to look down and see his lovely wee face a looking up at you out of a little coffin?" 0 Jesu I" And how could you face your other troubles with your heart aye full, and your lap empty?" Oh, mother, I consent to anything. Only save my boy." That is a good lass. Trust to me! I do stand by, and see clearer than thou.' Unfortunately there was another consent to be gained; the babe's: and he was more refractory than his mother. 'There,' said Margaret, trying to affect regret at his misbehaviour; 'lie loves me too well.' But Catherine was a match for them both. As she came along she had observed a healthy young woman sitting outside her own door, with an infant, hard by. She went and told her the case; and would she nurse the pining child for the nonce, till she had matters ready to wean him! The young woman consented with a smile, and popped her child into the cradle, and came into Margaret's house. She dropped a curtsey, and Catherine put the child into her hands. She examined, and pitied it and purred over it, and proceeded to nurse it, just as if it had been her own. Margaret, who had been paralyzed at her assurance, cast a rueful look at 0a- thenne, and burst out crying. The visitor hooked up. ' What is to do? Wife, ye told me not that the mother was She Is not: she is only a fool. Never heed her: and you, Margaret, I am ashamed of you." You are a cruel, hard-hearted woman,' sobbed Margaret. Them as take in band to guide the weak, need be hardish. And you will excuse me; but you mire not my flesh and blood: and your boy is.' After giving this blunt speech time to sink, she added, Come now, she is robbing her own to save yours, and you can think of nothnig better than bursting out a blubbering in the woman's face. Out fie, for shame!' Nay, wife,' said the nurse. 'Thank Heaven, I have enough for my own and for hers to boot. And prithee vote not on her! Maybe the troubles o' life ha' soured her own milk." And her heart into the bargain,' said the remorseless Catherine. Margaret looked her full in the face ; and down went her eyes. I know I ought to be very grateful to you,' sobbed Margaret to the nurse: then turned her head and leaned away over the chair, not to witness the intolerable sight of another nursing her Gerard, and Gerard drawing no distinction between this new mother, and her the banished one. The nurse replied, You are very welcome, my poor woman. And so are you, Mistress Catherine, which are my townswoman, and know it not." What, are you from Tergon? All the better. But I cannot call your face to mind.' 'Oh, you not know me: my husband and me, we are very humble folk by you. But true Eli and his wife are known of all the town; and respected. So I am at your call, dame; and at yours, wife; and at yours, my pretty poppet ; night or day." There's a woman of the right old sort,' said Catherine, as the door closed upon her. I hate her! I hate her ! I hate her !' said Margaret, with wonderful fervour. Catherine only laughed at this outburst: 'That is right,' said the, better any it, as sit sly and think it. It is very natural after all. Come, here is your bundle o' comfort Take and hate that; if ye can:' and she put the child in her lap. 'No, no ;' said Mar- garet, turning her head half away from him ; she could not for her life turn the other half. He is not my child now; he is hers. I know not why she left him here, for my part. It was very good of her not to take him to her house, cradle, and all—oh oh ! oh oh I oh I oh ! oh ! oh !" Ali! well, one comfort, he is not dead. This gives me light; some other woman has got him away from me; like father, like son ; oh 1 oh I oh ! oh ! oh!' Catherine was sorry for her, and let her cry in peace. And after that, when she wanted Joan's aid, she used to take Gerard out, to give him a little fresh air. Margaret never objected ; nor expressed the least incredulity; but on their return was always in tears. This connivance was short lived. She was now altogether as eager to wean little Gerard." The more tragic scenes are scarcely managed with equal force, though some of them are forcible, particularly the last farewell be- tween Gerard and Margaret, when the plague carries her off. Mr. Reade's most serious fault is a too great craving for effect, which leads him into a very free and tasteless use of italics, and all the devices of fragmentary paragraphs. Does he not know that when he writes— "Her life might fairly be summed in one great blissful word— Maternity" (s)— lie disgusts us with maternity instead of touching our hearts so very much as he intended? Mr. Reade's powers are really too consider- able for these affectations. He can paint manners vividly, and express human passions with simplicity and force,—let him abandon all the mere trickeries of his trade.
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