30 MARCH 1867, Page 20

LADY ADELAIDE'S OATH.*

MRS. WOOD has been, we think, the victim of a somewhat unfair persecution about this book, and some others. She published it originally, as we understand, in America, and, as we guess, it did not pay her. She then republished it in England, telling her pub- lisher the facts, a proceeding which does not appear to us to involve any direct moral wrong. She ought, perhaps, to have stated the facts upon her title-page, but after all people are rarely more virtuous than their surroundings, and the custom of the trade undoubtedly is to consider publication in any one country a separate publication. Indeed a separate form will suffice to make a separate book. A novel published, say in the Cornhill Magazine, is repub- lished as a book without any notice that it had appeared in the Cornhill Magazine, and we cannot see that anybody is injnred. Those who have read it recognize it; to those who have not it is a new novel, the understanding or ellipse on the title-page being clearly "never before published as a book in England." The practice of throwing different stories into one novel, of which Mrs. Wood is also alleged to be guilty, is a different one, but though it is wretched art, we do not see that it is morally bad. It proves that she is a bookmaker, without the slightest feel- ing for art and with very little care for her own literary reputation, but provided the publisher is not deceived we see no moral wrong committed. The reader gets his story, and if it is made up of fifty stories all by the same author, and all of equal merit and demerit, how is he injured ? He has got his amusement, such as it is, from an author who plunders nobody ; and as far as we can see is as well treated as if he had before him a book of which nobody had read a word. It would be almost as reasonable to object to the publication of a book which had already been handed about in manuscript, with- out a distinct intimation that it had been so handed about. But though we think Mrs. Wood had a distinct right to publish in • Lady Adelaide's Oath. 14 Mrs. H. Wood. London: Bentley. England under any name she pleased a book of her own which had failed in America, we also think it very much to the credit of the Americans that it did fail. Lady Adelaide's Oath is a very poor book indeed, poor even for Mrs. Wood, in whom as a real artist we have never been able to believe. It has, so far as we can see, but one single merit—the situations are dramatic. Mrs. Wood in her most hurried novels can produce the sense of sur- prise, can arrange situations so that the action of the dens ex machines who is sure to intervene is both intelligible and pic- turesque. A good deal could be made in a Surrey Theatre of the appearance of " Trevlyn of Trevlyn Hold" in the very nick of time, and the people in the gallery would quite appreciate it, for they believe the laws of real property to be quite as arbitrary as Mrs. Wood obviously does. They are not, and Trerlyn Hold is therefore unreal, but after all, what does it matter ? Novels must be based, like society, upon something, and an imaginary law of property will do at least as well as a non-existent scheme of life, under which every man thinks that a passion which he calls " love " is to override every other law, divine or human—the usual theory of novelists. Able novelists, of course, think it expedient to adhere to fact and nature, but then what places Mrs. Wood among able novelists? She made her reputation by a story the point of which was that a divorced wife lived months in her husband's house as a governess, in daily communication with him, and was not detected. That may be, nay, is, a highly dramatic situation, and the objection we urged at the time, that it is absolutely impossible, was thought hypercritical, objec- tions of that kind not being wanted by novel readers but still the readers attracted by that book to Mrs. Wood ought not to expect too much. If they are done out of their melodramatic situations they have a right to be aggrieved, but if those situations are improbable or impossible or inconsistent they have no right to complain, for they knew what they were ordering. If the Colleen Bawn refuses to be thrown into the water the audience have a right to hiss, but if she stays there four minutes measured by a watch, and comes up panting but alive, they have no right to be displeased. They went to see an impossibility, and must not growl because it is improbable. So, if the son of a man who claims a peerage thinks that a good reason why he should not be accused of burglary, and, moreover, a good reason for his release on the fiat of a police officer, why not? The claim would not be made in real life, but its success produces a dramatic situation, and dramatic situations are pleasant to read about, and probabilities do not matter at all to people who do not think. A gentleman under arrest for burglary says in Danesheld police station to an inspector sent down from Lon- don :— " 'A man with his conscience at peace is generally easy under most circumstances. As to the accusation against me, I have only to point to the Sailors' Rest, and say there's the true Lord Dane, come home to assume his rights, and you may know me for his son. Danesheld would soon scatter the charge to the winds.'—'I think I can scatter it myself, so far as your detention goes,' returned Mr. Blair. 'Come with me.' He lead the way into the front room, where Bent sat writing. The latter got up sharply at seeing his prisoner come out That be secretly favoured young Lydney was true; but not to the length of showing him outward favour, now he was committed. 'I am about to relieve you of your prisoner, Bent,' quietly observed Mr. Blair. This gentleman has satisfied me of his innocence and he must be sot at liberty.'—' Where's the authority for it?' asked Bent, after a pause of blank consternation. 'Your authority is that you are bound to obey my orders,' was the con- clusive reply. 'But how am I to answer for it to my Lord Dane and to Squire Lester ?' cried the unhappy inspector, believing himself to be an excessively ill used man. They'll be on to me with all sorts of pains and penalties.'—' Refer them to me,' said Mr. Blair. 'Pass out, Sir.' He held the door open as he spoke, and bowed to the ex-prisoner to precede him. There was a suspicion of deference in the bow that caught the attention of the inspector. Had he possessed ten eyes he could not have stared away his perplexity. Mr. Lydney looked back, laughing. It's all right, Bent. The time may come when you will find it so.'"

That would do very well, not only at the Surrey, but even at the Adelphi, and why on earth should not Mrs. Wood, if she likes, write Adelphi novels? There is no harm in them at any rate, any more than in curds and whey.

Seriously, Lady Adelaide's Oath is just a little too poor. We do not care a straw if Mrs. Wood has published her novel under ten titles in ten different countries, but we do care to say that in all it is a very indifferent novel, the worse, much the worse, because there are traces of dramatic power in every chapter. Mrs. Wood has chosen to use her remarkable power of inventing situations, and her considerable power of indicating, not analyzing, cha- racter, without the slightest attention to any rule either of art, or nature, or probability. Lady Adelaide herself, who commits perjury that she may screen a lover whom she will afterwards scarcely listen to, is perhaps natural, though the Lady

Adelaides of real life would have explained their reasons. But Herbert Dane is nearly an impossibility, and the true Lord Dane and his son are simply flunkeys in better costume than any to which they have a right. In real life they would have pleaded their claims through a respectable lawyer, in the story they adopt disguises, risk dangerous enterprises, and when they fail assert their rank as fall justification. We do not object if Mrs. Wood likes, but then let her acknowledge that she cares nothing for reality, nothing for her art, and wishes only to produce a roar from the gallery by the defeat of wrong, the somewhat uproarious 'triumph of the right. William Lydney has been arrested upon very strong suspicion of burglary, and his father, who is the real "Lord Dane," resents the arrest thus :—

" 'Reports have been abroad some time, I find, connecting him with the poachers,' said Mr. Apperly ; but he has now got himself into real trouble. He and three more, with blackened faces, broke into Squire Lester's last night, after the plate; but they were fortunately disturbed before they could carry it off. Lydney was the only one recognized, and he is given into custody.'—'How dare you so traduce him, and in my presence?' cried Lord Dane, his countenance flashing with wrath. You don't know what you are saying, Mr. Apperly. Axe you aware who he is ?'—' Not I, ray Lord. I know nothing of him, except that his name's Lydney—as he says. Danesheld looks upon him as an adventurer.'—' He will be Danesheld's chieftain, Sir ; I can tell you that,' returned his Lordship, with emotion. 'Ay, you may stare, but he wilL He is my own lawful son, and will be my Lord Dane before very long, for I fear that my days are numbered.'—' Why, it is mystery upon mystery !' exclaimed Mr. Apperly, who certainly did stare, in no measured degree, and grew hotter every minute. He goes by the name of William Lydney.'—' He is my own son, I tell you—the Honourable Geoffry William Lydney Dane. Geoffry is his first name, but we have always called him William: my wife, a lady of French extraction, used to say her lips would not pronounce the Geoffry. And you assert that he is in custody Ah, well ! that will be soon set to rights,' concluded Lord Dane, leaning back on the sofa, and calming down from his excite- ment.—' He certainly was in Mr. Lester's house with the others ; he does not deny it,' debated the lawyer, hopelessly puzzled. Then, Sir, he was there for some good and legitimate purpose,' cried Lord Dane,

with dignity. know nothing of the matter ; he has not confided it to me ; but I can take upon myself to answer for so mach. Pshaw, Sir ! talk of housebreaking in connection with William Dane, one of the best and most honourable of men and who will be a Peer of England! Your wits must have gone wool-gathering."

Thunders of applause from the gallery, which thinks, like Mrs. Wood, that a Peer's son is not in reality liable to the law, and that this assertion of an absurd " chieftainship " is rather fine. Mrs. Wood knows, we fancy, as well as we do that this is unreal nonsense, but if she likes to write unreal nonsense likely to sell we have no particular objection to raise, beyond describing it as what it is. There is absolutely nothing in Lady Adelaide'e Oath except a few highly dramatie situations, which could never have occurred, among persons who are quite unreal, and who talk, as a rule, very exalted rubbish. Considering that Mrs. Wood is one of the half-dozen women now alive who can make society read what they write, it is rather hard of her to use her power over the public so exceedingly ill.