MISS CADOGNA.*
Ma. JULIAN HAWTHOB.NE is a writer of such unquestioned talent that his choice of a field affording little or no scope for the
display of his well-known antipathies is a matter for unmixed congratulation. He has laid the scene of his new novel in what he enthusiastically calls "the most picturesque and most winning [it must be admitted that he adds and the most fatal'] country in the world,"—Ireland—and he is in thorough sympathy with the three races—American, Irish, and Italian—from whom he
has taken his dramatis personce. Indeed, almost the only passage in which any mention whatsoever is made of England
is one wherein occurs a passing allusion to the climate of London. It is true that he speaks of it as " moral, physical, and artistic death ;" but having disposed of us in this summary fashion, he recurs to the more congenial surroundings of what he calls, either by a curious slip or an ill-chosen pseudonym, "the county Munster." And yet in spite of the attractiveness of his materials, which he has treated with much spirit, subtlety, and humour, Mr. Hawthorne's romance will hardly give sustained pleasure to an English or Irish reader. Such a result, if we are correct in our surmise, will be due mainly to the gratuitous intrusion of a vein of somewhat vulgar pleasantry, and in a minor degree to extravagances of style and the caricature which disfigures the author's representations of Irish speech and society. To illustrate our first ground for complaint, we have only to quote the following passage, in which Mr. Hawthorne is at his worst :
"' You're going to be married ?' said Ambrose, scarcely disguising a sudden and vehement feeling of resentment.—' Yes, sure, if the right man will have me. I'm old enough !' replied the young lady, smiling and fingering the braids at the back of her neck.—' Oh ! then it isn't—he isn't—what sort of a man is the right one ?'—' Well, he'll
be good-looking—that's the first thing And rich, of course ?'— ' I don't so much mind about that! And good-natured,' she went on, for I've the devil's own temper, myself, asking your pardon, Mr. Ambrose,' &c."
When Mr. Hawthorne pays a high-born and attractive Irish lady the doubtful compliment of imagining her capable of using such language to a stranger at a first interview, he sinks in point of truth and taste to the level of M. Max O'Rell. Fortunately, such lapses are rare, but they are characteristic of the inequality of this author's work, and are barely redeemed by the general prevalence of a finer and higher tone.
In the matter of style Mr. Hawthorne, who can write admirably when he chooses, is over-apt to indulge in " a passionate and poetical intensity of nouns and adjectives," to quote from his own description of one of his characters. Such a sentence as this only confuses and aggravates the reader. " The base of the hills and the bosom of the harbour were spiritnalised by a delicate white mist, which hovered like the dust of diamond roadways, and was gently chased and laid in long swathes by the slanting sunrays." This delirious word-painting is all the more
to be regretted in a writer who can give us such passages as the following :— " As be walked onwards, the glow faded slowly from the leavens, and the farther bank of the broad river became indistinguishable from its own reflection in the stream. In that immense calm and silence, his hurrying thoughts and heated imagination seemed a foolish impertinence. The stars sparkled softly, but more and more distinctly, above. How many passions of men—how many races of mankind—had they outlived ? Be charitable, be kind, be unselfish ; for what matters a little gain, a little triumph, a little exaltation ? He who wins ignobly, loses ignobly. These still voices of unending nature fell like cool dew into his feverish and confused mind."
Before proceeding to criticize Mr. Hawthorne's Irish colouring, let us admit the truth and acuteness of many of his observations.
He remarks with justice that, "In great measure the religion of Ireland is still superstition." He has noted, with a keen eye, " the pest of beggardom which, in Ireland as in Italy, renders the stranger's life a burden to him," and there is truth and humour
in his description of such details as a ragged gossoon's " shoot" of clothes, " the area of whose apertures exceeded that of the material." But in the main his pictures of the architecture and scenery of" the county Munster," though highly complimentary, are equally highly coloured. When we read of "high houses
leaning towards one another across the street with over hanging balconies and arched doorways in the Spanish and Italian style gabled old cripples with projecting second stories and latticed windows ; these had hobbled hither from the spacious times of great Elizabeth," we are merely struck with the resemblance in style to that of the elder Hawthorne, and not with the accuracy of the description.
Furthermore, while admitting that Mr. Hawthorne has reproduced the dialect of the Munster peasantry skilfully enough, we wish to point out that in putting it into the mouths of such refined persons as his heroine and her aunt, he is guilty of a solecism on a par with that of confounding the lingo of Whitechapel with the clipped colloquialism of Mayfair. We hold that a refined Irishwoman speaks our tongue as well as it is spoken. But, although she may have a slight brogue, she is certainly not in the habit of using such constructions as " You'll be after finishing the picture soon now," any more than she is given to interlard her conversation at every turn with " faith " and " sure." Cultivated Irish people appreciate the dialect immensely ; but even among themselves they only employ it by way of a joke, and none of their womankind, however romantic and impulsive, would, if she were of gentle birth, break out in conversation with a stranger into such absurdities as " Glory be to God, he's himself again Anal, dear friend, my heart misgave me," &c. This is gross caricature, and in such passages Mr. Hawthorne proves himself to be not a whit in advance of English actors and humonrists who essay the delineation of the Irish dialect. We can think of no more scathing criticism to pass on Mr. Hawthorne than this.. One word in particular that he has employed, " dismaclaver " (p. 133), we believe to be a vox nihili. Dialect, if it be introduced at all, needs a light and sparing touch, or else the hand_ of a master. The former method is far the safer for a writer who appeals to a wide circle of readers. Lefann's tales, which are perfectly inimitable of their kind, are put out of court by their spelling and fidelity so far as the bulk of English readers are con cerned. If Mr. Hawthorne had rested content with the fragments of dialogue with the peasantry, which are cleverly done, all would have been well, but in ascribing the same peculiarities of speech to the " quality " he has blundered heavily. It would be ungracious and unfair to bring this notice to a close without. acknowledging the merit of much of the dialogue and the cleverness with which the situations are devised. The plot, in its bald outlines, is improbable enough, and the behaviour of the heroine, especially in making a confidant of a male friend, is bewildering, in the extreme. The author apparently would not have us think any the worse of her because she escaped by the veriest fluke, —thanks to the similarity of the initials of her two lovers,—from throwing herself away on a worthless Italian, from no earthly motive save a desire for a title. There is a sort of moral haze which floats over much of Mr. Hawthorne's work, blurring its distinctness and robbing it of distinction. There was a haziness, too, about the elder Hawthorne's tales, but with this great difference, that it was mainly intellectual, and lent them much of their singular and indefinable charm.
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