HIS DEAREST WISH.*
A NOVEL! Does Mrs. Hibbert Ware really look upon this work of hers as a novel ? It certainly does not realise our modem and common-place conceptions of the kind of book generally described by that word ; but Mrs. Hibbert Ware says that it is a novel, and we are diffident in questioning any state- ment made by her. What is a poor critic, with only a limited time to bestow upon each work, to do, when an author presents himself or herself armed to the teeth with references, as is the case here ; for, after the dedication page, we are confronted with the following formidable announce- ment :—" Notice [in large letters], the works made use of by the authoress of this novel are the following :—John Kay's Portraits and Biographical Sketches, of well-known persons living in Edinburgh about the end of the last century ; Memorials of the Pretenders, by Mr. Jesse ; Marshall's History of the Rebellion, of 1745; Smollett's and Cormick's History of England; The London Magazine, 1751; Gentleman's Magazine, 1757; Abbe Le Blanc's Letters from England, 1746; Daniel Wilson's Memorials of Old Edinburgh; William Skene's Highlanders of Scotland; Martin's Western Islands of Scot- land ; &c., &c. I" And what may not an "&c., &c.," to such a list as this, mean P "Connected Anecdotes" would, to our thinking, be a much truer description of Hil3 Dearest Wish than "a Novel," for surely there is very little that is new in these volumes, and very little that is fictitious.
Mrs. Hibbert Ware "brings forth out of her treasure things new and old," we suppose, but certainly the "things old" greatly preponderate. It would be impossible to say to how many characters we are introduced solely for the purpose of
• His Dorset Wish. A Novel. By Mts. Hibbert Ware, Author of "The King of Bath." 8 vole. London: F. V. White and Co.
having some trifling—and often not very amusing—anecdotes related of them, gleaned, of course, from the pages of some of the numerous books before referred to. They usually call attention to themselves by breaking into a conversation.
Hout laird ! ' exclaimed Ross of Pitcalnie, a laird of broken fortunes, of whom we will presently speak more fully," writes our authoress ; and when the " presently " has arrived, the authoress "redeems her promise," and we have a short history of this impecunious gentleman, then a short anecdote about a device of his for borrowing money from a stingy lawyer, and then he is disposed of, and appears no more. In the same way, a celebrated comic singer, who carries a coffin in a bass-fiddle case, is brought in and disposed of ; a poor captain who maunders on religions subjects when he is tipsy, a needy lawyer who takes his fees in the form of turnips or any- thing else that his clients like to bestow upon him, and many others, appear and disappear ; and we are even treated to the good old story of the " twa phailosophers " and the dish of snails. Some of the anecdotes are certainly very amusing, but many are very tedious. The thread which links all these characters together and gathers them into the group- ing necessitated by a continuous story, is the slightly demented Jacobite laird, whose "dearest wish" is to lose his life in testi- fying his loyalty to his "rightful Sovereign—James Stuart"; to be "hanged, drawn, and quartered," and to have his remains exposed on the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, in vindication of his principles and of his love for the fallen Royal House. His "dearest wish " is never accomplished, and he considers himself a deeply injured man, as it has been to him in the place of love and family, and he has worked for it with might and main, doing all that his ingenuity could suggest to be thrown into prison, and, when there, to arouse against himself the sluggish loyalty of the adherents of the House of Hanover.
But we must not give the impression that the book is a thoroughly bad one. The first two volumes indeed are overpower- ingly and unutterably dull, and one wonders if any interest whatever can be elicited from the fortunes and misfortunes of Kincraigie (for such is the "daft laird's " name), and of his large circle of friends, before the third volume closes. But at last, when we are almost despairing of the book, and for no particu- lar reason that we can see, we are really interested. Two young friends of the laird's, who have been in love with one another from the beginning of the book, become a little anxious as to the probable termination of their courtship ; but this is no point of interest, as the densest novel-reader could not be deceived on this subject, but has known, from the beginning, that Charlie Macdonald and Winnie Witham were to marry one another ; and besides, the young lady is only allowed to make two remarks in the whole course of the book,—she is seen, but not heard, as, it is said, young people ought to be ; and. Charlie is also kept very much in the background, and, being a very modest young man, he does not push himself forward. Young Tony Witham, brother to the beautiful but silent Winny, pores over musty old volumes, and. receives a few foreign letters ; but this also is no point of interest, as he himself tells the reader that he has no thoughts of love or marriage, and the authoress further explains that he is too high-principled to be up to any mischief. Tony's and Winny's mother marries, for her second husband, a very good-natured but spendthrift captain in the Army, who dissipates her fortune for her ; but neither does this account for the interest we feel in the latter part of the third volume. It is, indeed, difficult to say what does account for it, except the fact that Kincraigie, Mrs. Witham, Tony, Mr. Roger Hogg, and a few other people have, somehow, in the course of the book, become old friends, and that their concerns have become ours. Kincraigie himself is a kind, genial, and manly Highland laird, who, but for this special craze—his wish to be hanged, drawn, and quartered—is as right-minded as a man need be. Mrs. Witham, in spite of her silly vanities, is a very amusing and good woman ; and Tony, her son, is a thoroughly fine fellow. His rescue of his friend, Charlie Macdonald, in the snowstorm is very well told, very interesting, and probably original.
Should we be rash, we wonder, if we advised Mrs. Hibbert Ware to give up making books, and to take to writing books ; or does she really depend upon gleanings from other brains ? We should say that she did not—for the character which we imagine to be most entirely her own, namely, that of Tony Witham, is the best in these volumes. He is simple, generous, manly, and high-spirited, and his farewell to the world, when sve last see him, is touching in the extreme. We shall not go into his story further, as it would rob the best passages of the book of their interest. The funeral of Captain Edmonston, attended by poor, "daft Jamie," with his water-cans, is both exceedingly fanny and exceedingly touching. But, alas ! here again those books of reference raise our suspicions, for was not Jamie introduced to this end ?
As far as the spirit of the book is concerned, nothing could be better. Faults, follies, and absurdities are sketched with such a kindly hand, not hidden and covered away, but at the same time not represented as hiding or impairing the good qualities of those in whom they appear ; and. good, wherever it is found, is duly honoured.
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