THE TUDOR SISTERS
Is a polemico-historical romance. The time is between the close of Ed- ward the Sixth's reign and the opening of Elizabeth's ; the principal his. torical characters are Mary, Elizabeth, and Lady Jane Grey ; the public events are the Protestant persecutions against the Romanists carried on under Edward and Elizabeth : and the object of the author is to convince the world that we have " writ our annals " false,—that Mary, Gardiner, and Pole, are calumniated innocents ; that Elizabeth, in addition to her actual faults, was a mere quean; and that, by some hocus-pocus not made clear to the reader, the heart of the English people was soundly Catholic ; albeit for more than two centuries afterwards a Pope or a. priest was the key-note to which national prejudice was ever responsive howsoever struck, nor can its tone be said even now to be gone.
A fiction for a purpose is seldom very successful, through the narrow- ness of its base. The writer is ever tempted to sacrifice the larger fea- tures of the romance to his own didactic or philosophical objects or bobbies. In religion, this fault naturally becomes more conspicuous from the greater zeal of the writer ; and it reaches its climax when we meet the church militant, instead of the church triumphant or argumentative. " Tl:e worst of madmen is a saint run mad," and we have rarely met with a more singular example of this mania than in the author of Ths Tudor Sisters. His zeal, for it is not vulgar enough in the manner of it to be called fanaticism, blinds him even to the great necessity of art—" the modesty of nature." Fact is outraged in exaggerating the sufferings of the Catholics : not but that some families may have suffered the evils undergone by his pets the Widringtons, but not in the way or for the causes alleged. Truth is suppressed by suppressing all the provocations of the Protestants and all the misdoings of the Romanists, as well as by falsely picturing the characteristics of the age ; though this may be a critical rather than a moral defect. Then, everything is cari- cature. The virtues of the Romanists are superhuman, the Protestants not only vicious and vulgar, but absurdly ludicrous beyond the bounds of farce ; and but for the evident monomania of the writer, he would be open to an imputation of a very base kind. On no better authority than an old woman cicerone in the North of England, he makes Lady Jane Grey escape from the Tower, and then represents Cranmer as willing to betray her to Mary's Government, with the view of making his peace. Putting the extraordinary prejudices of the author out of view, his story is not badly planned to exhibit the manners and religious cha- racteristics of the time, and Romanism in some of its more genial featuies. The elder hero, Sir Wetherby Widrington, is a Durham baronet, of old English warmth and hospitality, but zealously Romanist; which, how- ever, adds to his hearty love for festivals and holydays, and feeds his prejudices rather than his bigotry. Love-story there is, but varied from the usual tales by its hopelessness and peculiarity. The son of Sit Wetherby has fallen in love with his cousin Alice, but the canon law forbids the marriage on account of their consanguinity ; a rather strained point, since a dispensation for such a cause was merely a matter' of money. However, the young lover vowing himself to the church—Alive nourishing a hopeless passion so pure as to be unearthly—and the suit of Lord Edward Howard, as romantic as that of the English officer for Miss Curran, though not so suocessful--form a contrast to the usual love-tales of novels. When it is added that the Widringtons are persecuted under Edward, Court favourites under Mary, and persecuted again on the ac- cession of Elizabeth, it will be seen that The Tudor Sisters contains the elements of a tale well enough contrived to display the manners and history of the age.
In addition to this germ or outline of a plan, the author has some lite- rary qualities. He has an eye for the beauties of nature ; he is acquaint- ed with the country in which he lays his scenes ; he is familiar with the history on one side of the question; he has some knowledge of the cus- toms of the age; and he possesses an eloquent style, with a poetical mind. But all this availeth him nothing, not only through his religious exaggerations, but his total deficiency in dramatic power. He cannot personify. is soon as he attempts to exhibit a character in discourse, his style becomes forced yet feeble—the persons speak as puppets, not as men : he can make no nearer approach to the modes of the age than the mere catch phrases which he borrows from other writers ; and even in this he confounds the earlier Reformers with the Puritans of the Stuarts. In narrative the same defect is visible, where anything like embodiment, as opposed to mere description, is in question. The failure is very curious.
It follows from this that the least essential parts are the best,—isolated bits of landscape, incidental sketches embodying the customs of the time, historical disquisitions, which are often distinguished for thought and fairness, and historical portraits. We will quote one of these last—a picture of the Tudor Slaters, when Mary is expecting the death of her brother.
" The prominent figure of the party, and the one to whom the greatest deference seemed to be paid, was a female of low stature, and small, spare, but faultless proportions; the vivacity of whose sparkling black eye, inspiring at once reverence and respect, as it expressed with decisive glances the impressions her mind re- ceived from the conversation and conduct of those around her—and the ease of whose attitude and gesture, as she held her silent monochord on her knee—forbade the beholder to number her years beyond their actual term of thirty-seven, al- though the thought and grief on her amiable but embittered and care-worn features when in repose spoke of a longer and a chequered term of life. "She was comely, but neither beautiful nor even pretty; her attire elegant and beComing, but sober withal, and unpretending. A three-square, horned, lattice- cap, through the interstices of which was seen the net of gold which confined her hair, studded with a single row of pearls round its peaked front, and relieved on one side by a pendant feather starting out of a golden boss, embedded in a green velvet rosette pressed close to her face, leaving m view two narrow braids of hair, sufficient only to disclose that its hue was dark. Her gown of green silk was cut square at the neck, but lay open in front to expose the milk-white kirtle, sur- mounted by a high collar, with a partiet of Venice gold. Her sleeves—a Part of female attire on which the ladies of the time lavished their utmost care and extra- vagance—were of plain white silk, puffed at the shoulders, and confined at the wrists with clasps of emeralds.
"Near her, and with one beautiful hand, Vora which ostentatiously but grace-
fully dangled a dangled fan of ostrich feather' resting on the high-backed-chair tter which the figure we have described was seated, stood another female form, fur- nishing in mien, attitude, gesture, feature, and dress, a striking contrast. Her sta- tuis was tall, her proportions large, exuberant, and sumptuous; her presencestately Mid commanding; and though numbering only half the years of the elder figure, she seemed born for a throne. Her aspect struck the beholder as decidedly handsome, Ent neither beautiful nor amiable; and, despite himself, he wished away from her countenance a certain air of unfeminine boldness and indelicacy, which was ever found there. Her eyes were large, blue, and penetrating; her hair flaxen and flow- ing, though it was usual with females of the period to .confine their locks; her ringlets manifestly placed in clusters on her neck and bosom, with studied view to effect. Sneh grace as the cunning of art could accomplish was thrown into every attitude and gesture of her shapely figure; but the gazer, though pleased, felt a painful lack of the natural, and an involuntary but vain wish that it would, un- consciously to the fair one, appear."
The following is part of a scene from the catastrophe, where two Pro- testant underlings are hunting Priest Widrington. The idea seems to have been taken from Turpin's ride to York in Ainsworth, and misap- plied. The notion of saving the consecrated wine from spilling, which is alluded to in our extract but is more prominently brought out in other parts, seems rather ludicrous than impressive.
" On went theest of God, his instinct-guided steed devouring Gateshead Fell. Alas priest alas ! the scourges of his faith gained on the open fell. A slug whizzed past the ear of Willie, who rode the ride within his master's spray. Sher y he turned, and saw the sorry Sneak in advance of the scout, and within -range of the unconscious father. Might he not, in this wild country un-
wn to the pursuers, though every spot to him was familiar with 'bairn- time,' rid creation of one of these monsters? A feint, as if wounded and dis- abled in his speed, and an erring shot fired behind him, tempted on the underling. "Diverging from his master's path, on went the decoy, up a well-known slope which led to a fatal spot, where a stray benighted hunter had found his grave. Ramer and nearer still came the victim to the lure; till, the ledge of the precipice attained, the desperate Willie with sudden dexterity turned aside his steed's career, while the charger of the pursuer flew madly by, and leapt into empty air over the furze-clad lip. of the chasm. A rush—a hush—a hollow crash—a muffied sound like a voiceless echo, and the limbs of horse and rider lay at the precipice foot, an indiscriminate mass for ravens to devour and the elements to tester into corruption. " On went the priest of God, unwotting of the deed. On, on, went saint and fiend in human shape; and close to their track the intrepid votaress clung, in a frenzy of" fear and an ecstasy of zeal. Over the Windmill Hills, away they flew, with the triumphant Willie in their rear. The valley spurned, the Derwent cleared once more, and home, dear home, in every step, the martyr emerged again within the limits of the paternal chace. A few short moments, and his steed would have carried him, unconscious as he sat, to his father's hall. " Well knew the scout that now' or never, must be done some deed, or the guer- don for which he had sold his soul must be shared with others, or lost to him for ever. A petronel torn from the holster, he fired at the entranced priest; but, ere his own arm fell, a slug was lodged in the shoulder of the assassin. It was the devoted Alice maimed him, unbalanced him, and flung him from his horse. Like a tiger he rushed towards the wounded father, whom he saw reeling in his sad- dle, prepared to despatch him as he fell. And now and now, revenge and hatred are to be glutted in one fell blow: but see, the faithful bloodhounds are at the monster's throat Oh, God I bow fiercely they drag him, yelling with agony and despair, to the 'ground. " come, dear Henry!' cries a well-remembered voice; and Alice shoots by, reins in her steed, and alights in time to ease and check the fall with which the martyr totters from his saddle. " One pace, another, a third, and he staggers against the gigantic bole of the ember-elm—years before doomed, by that very scout, to the axe, and slides to the earth; and lo! never for one unguarded moment, never inga= vulsive pang of pain, does he relax his grasp of the chalice, or decline it from rte perpendicular position. " The ride was ridden, and the priest of God lay dying. He saw the struggling scout raise his imploring face, ghastly in its gory mutilation, and heard him roar in his anguish with superhuman and unearthly cry. But every feeble effort to call off anguish dogs failed him; his voice was too faint to reach them. In whispered accents only, and with holy look of entreaty, could he prevail on his affiicted cousin to leave his side and save his persecutor. But it was too late. Before she could move a pace, the rapier of the scent had transfixed the gallant Trueblood; and the chafed and angry Stoutheart had buried his fangs in the apos- tate's neck, severed his windpipe, and left him for ever breathless."
Previous page
