MRS. LORIMER.*

Mrs. Lorimer will attract the critics more than the public. The latter will, we fear, declare that the beginning is fall of

forced humour, that the ending is needlessly melancholy, and that the absence of incidents—there is, for the regular novel- reader, not one in the whole book—is tiresome and disappoint- ing. That judgment is correct, but, nevertheless, we must offer another and a different one. We have read few novels of late years so obviously the work of inexperienced hands which seemed to us anything like so full of promise, rising occasionally, as in the final proposal scene, into unexpected and satisfying per- formance. We do not hesitate to predict that if "Lucas M.alet" has the faculty of growth in her—for the bisexual nom de plume will not mislead many—she will leave a distinguished name in literature. Mrs. Lorimer is not only brimful of cleverness, profuse and careless cleverness, as of one rich in intelligence, and of genuine, softly reflective humour, such as critics love ; but of power of a kind so separate, that it is hard to characterise, without quoting in justification the whole book. It is really, we imagine, the power of suggestion, of producing, as some few painters can, the impression that there is more in the scene or the face before you than is visible to the eye, or than can be made intelligible by report. There is a portrait, for example, of Mr. Mainwaring, a large-limbed, healthy, crusty, hard-riding parson of the old school, who can hardly endure modern tendencies, who is ready to give up hunting because a wealthy tradesman's son makes himself prominent in the field, and who thinks his own doings and belongings things with a kind• of divine right to be important. He never from first to last in the book does anything of any moment, except once make a remark to his wife; but you not only see him as clearly as you will ever see any figure in this life, but as you see him you become conscious that in this heavy-riding man there is a fund of unconscious, cumbrous strength, of thickly-covered Christian feeling, of battened-down love of justice and mercy, which you can trust implicitly, you do not know why. The sharpest critic can hardly say how it is done, the touches are so fine, the observation so delicately keen, the hints in action so nearly imperceptible ; but it is done, once for all. Parson Donnithorne, though it now seems half an impiety to say so, is only better because he required, from his different nature, so much more delicacy of treatment. The comparison will seem ridiculous to many, but surely these passages suggest compari- son, whatever the distance—and we quite admit any amount of distance—with the author of Adam. Bede, and no other :—

" It was not only his true fatherly affection for her which made Mr. Mainwaring so dear to Elizabeth ; she was a person singularly influenced by her early emotions and impressions. To most people, I suppose, the Rector would not have appeared a very romantic figure; but to Elizabeth's childish imagination, on one of his great raking hunters, clothed with the dignity of hunting-boots and spurs, he had seemed to embody all the gallant spirit of chivalry. The little girl fancied that the heroes of Sir Walter Scott's delightful stories must have ridden just such horses, and had the same air of perfect physical strength and pleasant courtesy about them. Eliza- beth, as a child, had never been fired with the idea of military glory; had never seen glittering uniforms, or been moved with a sense of passionate exhilaration at the sound of martial music; had never been overcome with the wonderful pathos of all that brave show with its implied possibilities of horror, and agony, and death. So it happened that fox-hunting country gentlemen, common-place, easy- going people engaged merely in the pursuit of their own pleasure, represented to her the fine disregard of danger and indifference to bodily discomfort and hurt, that is so entirely captivating to most women's minds. It is the fashion now-a-days to deprecate the poetry of broken bones as uncultivated and archaic ; but higher educa- tion,' Board Schools, and certificates notwithstanding, most people are still ruled more by their instincts and feelings than by pure reason, or a delicate perception of artistic cease and effect. A man's voluntary disregard of danger still claims a woman's sincere admiration. . .

I fancy there is no class of men who take themselves, and their occupations and engagements, so entirely for granted as the old- fashioned, English, country gentleman, and the said gentleman's old- fashioned, faithful man-servant. They do everything with a serious- ness and an amount of conviction which is at once comic and impressive to the Bohemian 'dweller in tents,' whose tendency is to smile at everything—himself, most of all. Bat though, to an eman- cipated mind, it may seem a little absurd that any class of persons should be possessed of such an earnest and sincere belief in them- selves, it must be admitted that they have an amount of solid, in- dividual character which is too often wanting in more brilliant men. They are at one with nature, in fact,—though they have little enough

• Mrs. Lminter. By Lucas Mulct. London : ?dacanillan and Co.

imaginative appreci don of her beauties ; and from that at-one-ness springs a strength a id self-confidence which is rightly very powerful."

After suggesting that Mrs. Frank Lorimer, quite a minor char- acter, had in her something of that clearness and definiteness which Englishwomen often lack, Lucas Malet continues :—

"She was a dainty little person, with a creamy-white complexion, large blue eyes—rather too light in colour, perhaps—and fair, brown hair, arranged low on her forehead in soft waves. Her features were small and neat. Without having any claims to remarkable beauty, she was exceedingly pleasant to look at. There were no mysteries, surprises, or sudden iguminations about her ; having seen her once, you had seen her always ; she did not enchant you unexpectedly ; on the other hand, she never disappointed you, but always produced the same effect of comfortable security and refined self-satisfaction. On the whole, women liked Mrs. Frank Lorimer more than men did. They found her so capable and so supporting. A few of her acquaint- ances certainly accused her of taking up a little too much room, and having to great a disposition to insert her pretty fingers into every pie : but then, who shall escape calumny altogether ?"

The hero, Fred Wharton, is as good as Mr. Mainwaring. This is how he appears on the scene :—

" He was a very pleasant young gentleman, with a remarkable capacity for enjoying everything, himself included. He was a charm- ing companion, and, though not actively or enthusiastically zealous in the service of his fellow-creatures, he had the delightful factilty, too often wanting in greater souls—in saints, and prophets, and reformers, and all those other admirable people whom we admire immensely at a distance, and canonise with sincere veneration when

they are safely dead—of never being in the way Wharton was by way of being an artist. He had considerable talent ; but his powers of application were not very highly developed. He really preferred contemplating his fellow-creatures from a stand-point of philosophic calm to any more practical occupation ; and only worked earnestly when some particularly attractive subject pre- sented itself to him, or when the state of his exchequer warned

him that times of scarceness were not far off I sup- pose everybody's sense of humour is more or less intermittent. Wharton's sense of humour was certainly defective where those whom he disliked were concerned. Otherwise, as he stood and con- templated things around him, he was sensible of abstracting an immense amount of amusement from the show. Nothing matters very much, after all. From a secure position people have managed to watch the progress of the bloodiest battles with considerable com- posure. Sometimes, for a moment, Wharton's cheerful indifference left him, and the underlying tragedy of life lay bare before him, confounding and appalling his spirit. But, as a rule, he watched the strife serenely enough from his own safe and comfortable station, regarding even the painful incidents as so much excellent dramatic material, lie was too busy noting every detail and each delicate effect of light and shadow, to be acutely distressed by the scene, however pathetic. A very lively interest often presents the same appearance to bystanders as positive hardness of heart. Wharton's heart was by no means hard, but he was too much engaged in receiv- ing vivid mental impressions to have time for any great display of personal feeling."

One expects that man to say that he trusts he shall never break his heart, and to add, reflectively, "Though, really, Mrs. Lorimer, when one comes to think of it, it might be a very interesting experience !" Is not that delicate painting? The Shakespearian breadth and force are not there, any more than the Shake- spearian humour ; but it is Silas Hamer, and no lesser book, which is called up by this description, which thus -isolated. is spoiled, for you do not see, as in the whole description of the man you do see, that while he is true poco- curante, deliberate spectator of life, who cannot be voluntarily actor in it, there is in him capacity for deep passion, and for intermittent but genuine bursts of energy and devotion. This is inferior, because it is so slight, but its suggestiveness is nearly

as striking :—

"Frank Lorimer was of a very reasonable temperament. As a rale, he had not the least inclination to quarrel with things as they

are ; bat he had often felt it hard that the world had not been con- stituted on some principle which would have rendered it unnecessary for him ever to have to say anything unpleasant to anybody. You may call this inherent sweetness of nature, or a lamentable want of moral courage, as you please. The more delicate virtues always run the risk of being included under the head of reprehensible weakness of character. Any way, Frank Lorimer found no righteous satisfaction in rebuking the erring brother. And rebuking the erring sister seemed to him, if possible, even more objectionable. He felt that Elizabeth had been very careless and extravagant ; but be had not the smallest desire to tell her so. Consequently, he arrived at her house, on the evening of the day following Mr. Leeper's stormy visit, with a sense upon him that he had a most ungracious duty to accom- plish."

The heroine of the story, like every one else in it, does next to nothing. Left a widow at-twenty-one by a husband she only half loved and only a quarter comprehended, Elizabeth Lorimer returns to her uncle Mr. Mainwaring's house, is bored there, goes to London to live among brie-h-brac, does nothing there except receive half-friendly worship from Wharton and pay visits, wakes in a larger experience of life to a

truer perception of what 13\lr husband had been, refuses Wharton in a scene full of power, returns to her uncle's rectory, and, visiting the poor, dies of some ordinary fever. That is all, nor does Elizabeth distinguish herself greatly in dialogue, being occasionally snappish, and even hot-tempered ; and yet the impression on the reader of a large, rich, self- indulgent nature, with a strain of strength and principle in it, hungering, thirsting, almost frantic with desire for happiness, yet utterly incapable of acting wrongly, or of putting aside an impulse towards a higher life, is indelible. We cannot prove the proposition by extracts, for every sentence about Mrs. Lorimer in the book, every act she does, every attitude she assumes, is directed towards the end, but no one who reads Mrs. Lorimer is in any doubt. She is not completely finished, far from it ; there is, as artists say, a want of the suggestion of skeleton under all that dainty flesh, and fine colouring, and flowing drapery ; but still, she is a person, and one about whom you make no error. The author makes one, the only one in the book, which suggests possible inexperience of life. Elizabeth Lorimer, ne llainwaring, would not have gone back to Claybrooke, but have accepted Wharton, whom she more than half loved, to try that experiment in her pursuit of happiness. She was not religious, the increased perception of what her dead husband had been would have increased her feeling for his memory, but would not have quieted her inability to face ennui; and the return, if made at all, would have been later, when experience had done its work, and the youthful hunger for happiness had been stilled. The catastrophe is a failure in art; but in the reader's certainty of that, is the evidence of the power which inexperience—or is it some special view of life, like Currer Bell's conception of the hostility of Fate ? —has wilfully thrown away. The error is not redeemed by a page or two of rather weak, goody reflections, which, we dare say, are the real outcome of a true feeling, but produce, nevertheless, on the background of so much ob- servation, sometimes almost cynical in its keenness, an effect of unreality. The contrast between the almost malignant sketch of Mr. Leeper, the acrid and earnest clergyman, and the apology for Mrs. Lorimer's latest phase of feeling, is a little too sharp not to rouse the reader's suspicion of over-colouring.

That is a defect, like the almost inexplicable strainedness of the first chapter ; but it is the defect of a raw, not of a feeble, hand.

It is not as a finished story, but as a story of rare promise, alike of humour and of pathos, that we recommend Mrs. Lorimer, not to the public, but to the critics.