NOTICE TO QUIT.* Tins is a novel of remarkable power
of a strange and rather larid kind. The strength of the book does not consist in the delinea- tion of character, which is strong and masculine in outline, but does not go nearly as deep, and is not nearly as finely shaded, as in many i
feebler productions. The chief power is in the writing, which some- times reads almost savage in its hard irony, though the tendency of the tale is meant to be, and is to some extent, religious; and the heroine's character is drawn with real pathos, depth, and insight. For the rest, there is a curious ruggedness : not only a carelessness in piecing the thing together, but what, in the absence of a more definite phrase, we must call want of atmosphere. We mean something of this kind : In Miss Austen's and Sir Walter Scott's, or Thackeray's or Trollope's novels, there is a defined social air breathing through the whole which gives a kind of intelligible background on which the cha- racters seem natural. You know the thoughts and feelings which per- vade more or less the whole scene; you are perfectly well acquainted, before you have read three chapters, with the locus in quo. The general character of the moral scenery is made quite as intelligible as the particular actors who appear on the scene. In Miss Bronte's first novel there was a striking absence of this element. There was something puzzling about it. We were not let into the secret of those rough Northern manners, and could scarcely tell what the authoress really thought, where she meant to delineate what was noble, and where what was the reverse. There seemed to be a sup-, pression of something. The characters looked as if they had been projected abruptly out of the author's own imagination into a social vacuum where there were no fixed rules, no previous laws, no con- necting customs, no binding manners—but where the characters made their own world. It is something of this kind which strikes us in the present tale. The whole force is lavished on the individual sketches ; and though we know both the time and the place—Lanca- shire just before and after the completion of the first English rail- way, the Liverpool and Manchester line,—there is a curious abrupt. ness and want of social finish about the whole story. It sometimes reads as if it had been written by a man in a dream. John Brom, who, though not the hero, is the leading character in the book, is very powerfully and yet not very vividly drawn. There is great force and vigour in the portraiture, and yet from beginning to end we have the feeling that the delineation is a great effort of Will rather than the natural offspring of imagination. The strokes, as one after the other they are shaded in, seem always to give the effect of a fresh volition in the artist. "The man shall be so," we seem to hear him saying ; "this is how I have willed him," instead of, with Miss Brontë, " I cannot make it otherwise ; for, try as I will, so it really is." Still no doubt it is a very vigorous and an original sketch. The man is horn of selfish parents,—a bookish German and a cunning mother—and by the latter the duty of success is constantly instilled into him. He has all the abilities for it ;—and let us say at once that these abilities are not merely imputed, but delineated. His conversa- tion is hard, incisive, and thoughtful. His diary is really epigrammatic. His actions are the actions of a strong, self-restrained temperament. Still, though we understand, we do not see him. There is the last touch of genius wanting in making him a vivid reality. He goes to school with his rival, James Heath, a boy of far more generous and irritable nature, less cool self-restraint, and more of the temperament of genius. The character of Brom is well foreshadowed at school. The lads contend for an English essay prize. They agree to com- pare their essays. Heath reads his first. Brom drops a few dispa- raging words to vex the former, and then reads Ins. Heath, irri- tated, criticizes it sharply and acutely. This was Brom's object. He takes advantage of the criticisms to improve his essay, gives no similar advantage to Heath, whose essay he afterwards praises lavishly, and gains the prize. This is a good boyish anticipation of Brom's character—shrewd, industrious, selfish. He becomes the heir to a large landed property without any adequate personalty, which he hopes to get from his aunt, who has hoarded money while the estate was still in her husband's hands. This unpleasant old lady is drawn with very great skill. She takes a fancy to his friend Heath, and the fear is that she will adopt him. Heath is living as a country surgeon very near this Lancashire estate of Brom's, with an uncle who is out of his mind, and a little, reserved, old-fashioned cousin, who is the gem of the book. The play of the first two volumes describes Mr. Brom's rise in fame and fortune, and his ultimate success in winning Ellen— without any dishonourable means, but not to hAr own happiness— away from Heath. The interest never flags. Every character that is introduced is ably dashed off. The Lancashire Stoker," who devotes his coarse, acute, confident intellect to the invention of patents and steam-engines, and runs one, " The Lancashire Witch," in corn- petition with George Stephenson on the Liverpool and Manchester line, at a high pressure which bursts the engine, is a very remarkable
i sketch. Nor is the poor old antiquarian baronet, " a low, weak-ham-
Notice to Quit. By W. G. Wilk. In three volumes. Hurst and Blackett.
med man, corpulent as a spider, with a wide cheesy face wrinkled with kindliness about his bright brown eyes," who surrounds himself with memories of Mary Queen of Scots, and falls in love with Ellen at the age of seventy-five, a less remarkable photograph. But on none of these sketches can we now dwell. They are all vivid, but all rapid sketches, and the more they seem to need a fuller painting, the less perfectly they are done. The " Stoker," who is essentially one-sided, and exhausted in one attitude of mind, is perhaps the most living, unless, indeed, the romantic baronet be an exception.
The most remarkable and powerful portion of the book—and yet, we think, the least successful—is the conclusion. Mr. Brom, after attaining fame as an author and a seat in Parliament, and receiving his aunt's wealth, is obliged by a whim in her will (not unmotived) to insure his life heavily. For this purpose he goes to the medical referee of the insurance-office, and is told abruptly, while under the stethoscope, that he is suffering from aneurism of one of the arteries of the heart, which must prove fatal in a year or two. The third volume is devoted to delineating the effect that this announcement has on his hard and selfish nature. It is done with unquestionable power, but not with a success that satisfies the reader of its truth- fulness. Restless and sceptical, he strives to fill every moment with voluptuous enjoyment, and drive away the horrid thought. He keeps it a secret for a time from his wife and mother, but ultimately divulges it to both. The effect on both women is very finely drawn—on his wife, who is deeply religious and sensitive, but has never loved him; and on his mother, who is heartless and worldly to all but him, but to him devoted. The former endeavours with passionate eagerness to turn his thoughts to God ; the latter, with still more passionate eagerness, to keep him amused and tranquil. Meanwhile, Brain becomes more and more hard-hearted. The painful part of the book is, that the author has almost a savage pleasure in holding him thus suspended over the pit of destruction. He never gives a hope of him. He intimates clearly his belief in the eternal destruction to which Mr. Brom is hurrying. He paints with mockery Mr. Brom's attempts to wring the intellectual secret of death out of the invisible world by means of the mesmeric phenomena. He pictures the gradual relaxa- tion even of his intellectual powers in the voluptuous and selfish life which he leads. He portrays with cold scorn, in a scene which we will give as a fair specimen of the book, the unfavourable contrast between this intellectual voluptuary and a brutal sea-captain, who has murdered his wife in jealousy, though deeply attached to her. This man, Captain Frompton, had married an old acquaint- ance of Enka's, with whom Brom had flirted in early life. In some fit of causeless jealousy, Frompton had murdered her, and hat been tried and convicted. Mr. Brom had rashly promised to plead his cause, though fearing the effect on his heart in hastening his death, and had done so, but had been violently interrupted by the prisoner when trying to make out a case of excuse on the ground of the woman's irritable temper, which Frompton savagely denied. BrOm goes to him in the cell after the trial :
"Restless Mr. Bram must visit him again a few evenings after, prying into his despair. He has found one in this busy world with whom lie can sympathize. He obtained a ready entrance into the condemned cell. Captain Frompton was seated at the grated window, reading a newspaper, and quite cheerful. He had positively thrown up flesh. The jailor said lie had just eaten a hearty dinner, and had cracked some jokes. When Mr. Bram's name was announced, he rose and gripped his hand in the old fashion, but returned to his seat in silence. The jailor left them together.
" Mr. Bram scrutinized his companion, glanced at his smooth brown forehead, as if some mark of doom should be on it ; resolution was in the man's set mouth. What sustains this man?' he asked, in thought; 'whence has he his stolid courage?' Mr. Brom too may pluck up heart if he learn the source of this cheer. Do they make you comfortable, my poor friend?' he said, in a tone of pity I'm not hard to please, sir,' replied the captain, unaffectedly. ' The diet is good and plenty—regular and early. Short 'lowance of malt. sir, and that's not to my habit." I shall speak to the governor of the jail, and I am sure he will give you every indulgence in his power. Do you find your mind pretty easy?' said Mr. Brion, cautiously probing. Why, yes, pretty fair, for the matter o' that.
Haven't the care of a ship on me now,' smiled the captain. I've been lookin' over the paper, sir. That's a queer business, that is, how the screw steamer, the Jupiter—I've ve sailed in her afore now—ran into theCharlotte ; 'ard to make out who's to blame.' He entered coolly here into a criticism upon the conduct of the two captains with much energy, and greatly to Mr. Bram's amazement. He gave with his humour for a while, watchful to recommence his feverish pryings. I have been led by our old friendship, and by my strong sympathy with your mis- fortunes, Captain Frompton, to intrude upon your time, which has become too abort and precious.' As worthless, Mr. Brom, as them old links of metal.' Mr. Brdm started. How priceless were the days and months to him ! The chaplain has • been attending you, Captain Frompton ; a most excellent man, I hear.' Ya-as, he's bin to patch up my soul, and I let him ; but he don't under- stand my grif, he can't probe the bullet true,' said the captain. " I am sorry to bear you talk so indifferently of the comfort of religion, captain. Death is robbed of its terrors by the- the—in point of fact, by the belief in the resurrection? I've sin mony a dead man slid off plank into the sea, Mr. Brom, and watched
'em sink ; but I've had no account o' their bones since then.' But, captain, my dear Captain Frompton,' cried Bram, with vehemence, yon are wilfully casting away all comfort. Our beautiful religion holds out to you the hope of meeting your wife again."I've had Moll's pardon, an' ave her last kiss, Mr. Br-°m,' said the captain, ' an' I feel it on my lips this minute. I don't believe it makes much differ whether my carcase is tossed under the prison flags or laid be-
side poor Moll in Grasswell churchyard. It's the last kiss I'll ever get; I pro- mise ye.'
_ " The captain, for the first time, showed some signs of agitation, and Mr. Brum s nerves shrank.. Do you sleep well?' he said, kindly. Like a calm, air,' said the captain, regaining his composure; not dead calm yet,' he added, with a recklessness which chilled his visitor to the core. ' I'll wait till they give me my jolly boat e good soon' deal.' Affected hardihood,' thought Mr. Brum ; ' I do the seine continually, though in a different way ; now he'll change the subject.' Now, Maester Bram, fhe regillation in every vessel out o' harbour is t' have the green light up when the sun goes down, and this here mate says, &c.' Mr. Bram rose to go. Now, Captain Frompton, let me just ask you one serious question before we part. What is your support in this trying hour, my poor fellow ?' No answer. Mr. Bram paused. He then laid his finger softly on the large hand of the felon, repeating his question almost timidly. We have made' every exertion to obtain you a reprieve, and failed. What is your support?' I am going to die for Mary,' he said, sullenly. Mr. Bram bade him adieu fur ever, and went.
" This then was the dull felon's comfort; he had persevered and unearthed it at last—a man then can die undaunted, hugging a mere flimsy idea to his heart. Why, this is as cold a comfort as that pitiful fallacy, posthumous fame. This is almost less substantial than the dead warrior's glory whose epaulets are in a auttler's pocket—some thinking so earnestly how to die most seemly, forget death itself. Happy self-deceiver!' thought Mr. Bram, and repented he had come." This is powerful writing, and not more powerful than many other scenes in the book. Were it not for the character of the heroine, which is painted with great tenderness as well as originality, we should feel that there was something cruel in the author. The un- relenting and almost triumphant way in which he hardens the heart, fevers the senses, and dwindles the intellect of this selfish man as his death approaches, is one of the most painful pictures of the kind we have ever seen. Nor is it—why, we cannot tell—quite satisfying. It is more picturesque than artistic. Still, there is real genius in this writer, and we may safely predict that if he writes more we shall hear much of him.
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