BOOKS.
THE LIFE OF CHARLES READE.* WE regret to say that the defects of this memoir are more conspicuous than its merits. We learn from the preface that Mr. Charles L. Reade is responsible for the publication of the novelist's manuscript, which fills a goodly portion of the volumes, and that "the biography as such, with whatever opinions are here hazarded on men and things, must be referred absolutely and exclusively to the Rev. Compton Reade." Of "the matter which emanates from Charles 'Wade's pen," a good deal might
• Charles Bead., Dromatiat, Nocella, Jounmliet: a Memoir. Compiled Chiefly from his Literary Remains. By Charles L. Reade and the Rev. Compton Reads. 2 rob London: Chapman sad Hen. have been omitted with advantage, since it does little credit to- his judgment or good-feeling. It seems hard that words writtem in rash moments should be preserved in a biography. Every man is liable to say rash things in familiar correspondence ; but the fault with Charles Reads seems to have been chronic, and his nephews do not seem to be aware that it was a fault. The memoir for which Mr. Compton Reade is responsible is written in a pretentious style, with an occasional contempt for good English, and with defects of taste that are likely to irritate a sensitive reader. It may be true or it may not, but it shows a want of manners to say of Lord Selborne that he "will be forgotten when Masks and Faces is remembered and played, and its author's name is held in veneration," or to say of the "theatrical people" who gathered round Mrs. Seymour's grave that "Charles Reade towered above them, as the eternal firma- mentabove the ephemeral butterfly." When elsewhere Mr. Comp- ton Reade compares The Cloister anti the Hearth with Romola, be is at once inaccurate and insulting. "Imitation," he writes," is the sincerest form of flattery, and the lady who at the moment, and indeed since, was being steadily written up under the style of the greatest of contemporary novelists, at once bowed the knee before success, and set to work to plough with Charles. Reade's heifer." Reade, it is said, held George Eliot cheap, and the biographer, fully agreeing with his uncle's estimate,. observes that the author of Romola "bounced on the stage to play to a house crammed in every inch with the claque," and, that her works may be safely relegated to the judgment of the twentieth century. "Not Charles Reade alone, but others also. have little reason to dread the ultimate verdict, the contrast between puffery and priority." All this strikes us as foolish talk. There is no reason, we believe, for supposing that the one romance suggested the other ; but even had it been so, George Eliot can no more be said to borrow from Charles Reade than Reade to borrow from Scott. Surely there is ample space in the fields of medireval history for a score of novelists to labour in without clashing. The offensive style in which this memoir is written might be more amply illustrated, but it is unnecessary. Enough that, from a literary point of view, the biography is a failure. The book has few dates and no index, and a good sub- ject has been spoilt.
Charles Reade, who was born in 1814, came of a good, although curiously mixed stock, and was not a little vain of his pedigree. His father was a country gentleman, "with a noble presence and a fluent tongue," but, much to his wife's regret, without ambition. Her character, as described in these pages, forms a strange mixture of worldliness and "other-worldliness." A devout High Calvinist, a devourer of books, and holding strong opinions from -which, daring her long life, "she never varied by one iota," Mrs. Reade was also a woman of fashion, and "though a devoted mother, was by no means ambitions of being bored by her children; indeed, she sent the sons off to school as early as possible, and after that to India." Charles is said to have been her favourite. "When her other children came from school or college, she loved them for a day, tolerated them for a week, and then devoutly wished they were out of the house.' Yet much as Mrs. Reads loved her youngest son, she "loved her own whims and fancies more," and having resolved to spend some time at Bath, sent the child to a boarding-school at the age of four, where he remained some months. Three years later, the little fellow was sent, by the choice of his mother, to a school presided over by a brutal master, whose chief method of instruction was the employment of the rod. It was part of Mrs. Reade'e theory of education that a boy could not be too well beaten, "and that the more tender and sensitive he was, the more excruciating ought to be his agonies." Mr. Compton Reade is prone to use extravagant language ; but it is evident that although Mrs. Reads may have been very clever and very pious, she was by no means judicious. The cruelties of this wretched master, a clergyman by profession, are described with some detail. They must have ruined many a sensitive boy for life ; but although Reads "both suffered and winced under Mr- Slater's rod, that terrible weapon toughened his cuticle, and taught him to think less of pain."
His next school was of a different order, and the biographer compares the change to one from a diet of gall to one of cham- pagne; but we must pass on to his career at Oxford, where, thanks to an English essay, he 171113 cleated Demy of Magdalen. The youth, for he was but seventeen at the time of his election, seems to have disregarded the special studies of the place. He only touched academic Oxford, it is said, "with the tips of his
fingers." To some of the habits of the University he also objected, "having a rooted aversion to wine, and a positive detestation of beer." He went his own way, neglected lectures, played the fiddle, and read voraciously. What he pleased to do he could do, for having but three weeks in which to study for honours, he worked night and day, passed in the third class, and gained a Fellowship.
Small certainties, said Dr. Johnson, are the bane of men of talent, and not being forced to work for a livelihood, Reads lived as he pleased. He professed, indeed, to study law, and was called to the Bar, which Mr. Compton Reade thinks a misfor- tune, since "it encouraged that spirit of litigiousness which at times almost embittered his existence." In those early days, when most young men aim at a distinct course in life, Reade, while never idle, was apparently satisfied with the occupations and enjoyments of the hour. He travelled on the Continent, he "developed a craze for violins," and wrote a petition to the Lords of the Treasury on the subject which, despite a measure of sound sense, is perhaps unequalled for its grotesque absurdity ; he excelled in manly exercises, and spent his money so lavishly that "oftentimes he was hurried across the Channel to await the bursar's cheque which should enable him to return home."
According to Charles Reade's own account—and it may baton severe a one—his youth was wasted, and it was not until he was thirty-five that he began his real life. His earliest and life-long ambition was to excel as a dramatist ; but his first attempts were not encouraging. "I wrote," he says," first for the stage, —about thirteen dramas which nobody would play." He was taught to find his true vocation by Mrs. Seymour, the actress with whom he formed a connection which, while deeply affectionate, was, we are assured, strictly Platonic. "Why don't you write novels ?" she asked one day, when Reads was depressed by his experiences as a dramatist. Yet his first successful effort was Masks and Faces, a drama originally written in connection with Tom Taylor, but in its latest revival, every line of the play, according to Charles Re.ade's statement, was from his pen. Peg Woffington, his earliest tale, was, it need scarcely be said, suggested by the play. This was followed by Christie .Tohnstone, a stagey tale, but full of the originality and, we must add, of the eccentricity which he afterwards displayed on a broader scale.
It was about this period that Reade took his turn for a year as Vice-President of Magdalen, and then for many years after- wards he did his hardest literary work in the pleasant retirement of his College " The rooms he occupied in No. 2 New Buildings were scantily furnished, MSS. and books littering in heaps on the floor, the walls being decorated with looking-glasses instead of pictures. Daring his year of Vice-Presidency he laboured unremittingly with his pen, receiving the formal visits of members of the College with Bohemian informality in his shirt-sleeves, and not quite earning the apprecia- tion of his brother-Fellows by neglecting their high-table and senior common-room In this same year he contrived to enact the parts of diplomatist and don, playwright and novelist, with a cool and clear head. He was, moreover, still young enough to relish the oricket.field and the river, and to shoot over the College estate at Tabney. Never during his fifty years of Fellowship was he on more cordial terms with the Society ; perhaps because they began to perceive his merit, and were wise enough to court the rising sun."
Books, plays, letters, and lawsuits occupied Reade's thoughts and time for a goodly number of years. Meanwhile he was gaining fame and wealth, and a definite but not altogether enviable position in the world of literature. Even his nephew allows that his perverse book, The Eighth Commandment, is as hysterical as its subject is dreary, and that Cream "seemed like a determined effort to wreck an established reputation." More- over, his combative nature, which led to frequent quarrels, was at this time in full activity. On The Cloister and the Hearth, unquestionably the greatest book produced by Charles Heade, hebestowed infinite labour, and observes :—" I will never attempt an old-world story again. Good heavens ! how often have I
been stuck ? Henceforth I shall remember the advice, Soyez de noire siècle. I am convinced that learning and research should be applied to passing, not to past events." Mr. Walter Besant has called The Cloister and the Hearth the greatest historical novel in the language, and he regards it, as a picture of the past, more faithful than anything in the works of Scott. It is profoundly difficult to gauge the depths of a romance. writer's fidelity, but there is one test of a work of genius which, if it does not satisfy the claims of criticism, will be of practical service in this comparison of Scott and Reade as historical novelists. Books of rare humour and of imaginative power are so full of vitality, that the oftener they are read, the more con- scious are we of their charm. This exhaustless vitality is to be
found, we think, in the romances of Scott, which can be read again and again with ever-growing delight ; but we do not find it in Reade. The interest felt on a first perusal of The Cloister and the Hearth, and, indeed, in reading any of the author's best novels, is intense ; but does the reader care to return to them as he returns to the tales of Jane Austen or of Scott ? If so, our argument will have no weight with him, and he may agree with Mr. Swinburne in ranking Reade's fine romance "among the very greatest masterpieces of narrative."
With Hard Cash, a novel written, like It's Never too Late to Mend, with a definite social aim, Dickens, strange to say, was disappointed. It was very successful ; but Griffith Gaunt met with still greater applause. For swift, eager narrative that carries the reader along without a wish to pause, this novel is one of Reade's highest efforts. Its publication was, we are told, the culminating point of his literary career. "He had paid his debts, saved a handsome sum, earned reputation both as a novelist and dramatist, while his Fellowship at Magdalen was now yielding a dividend exceeding 2500 a year. He resolved accordingly to provide himself a permanent home; and after some few contre- temps and changes, settled finally at Albert Gate." Here he lived with Mrs. Seymour as companion and housekeeper, sur- rounded by dogs, hares, a gazelle, and "other fauna :"— " The old Ipsden craze for killing, the hereditary instinct of a sporting race, quite deserted him. He had learnt to reverence the great gift of life, and had he lived longer, might have attacked the callous vivisectors whom he always spoke of with the loathing inspired by supreme blackgaardism."
He said that the twelve years spent at Albert Gate were the happiest of his life. His home was not well cared for, "but it happened that Charles Reade was, of all human beings, both the most untidy and the least observant, so that, relatively to his comfort, the hugger-mugger ways of the theatrical lady signified less than little."
Rash and indiscreet as he had frequently been before, Reads may be said to have surpassed himself by the publication of A Terrible Tempttaion, written in the first instance for that most respectable of journals, Cassell's Magazine. He, indeed, ex- pressed a doubt whether Messrs. Cassell would print the story, and he writes that it was declined by all the publishers to whom he offered it. He suffered for his error in pocket as well as in reputation, and, commercially, it was the least profitable of his works. The biographer's excuse for him is perhaps the best that could be urged,—" He meant well." There are indications, as he advanced in years, of dissatisfaction with his mode of life. He lamented the hours and the money he lost at whist, and probably felt depressed with the conviction that his creative faculty was exhausted. He had many designs, but little was done of value, and the owner of " Naboth's Vineyard" nursed his eccentricities at the expense of his credit as a sensible Englishman. Often he laid himself open to ridicule, yet he winced under it and did not even know how to tolerate the friendly chaff of his associates. What would have made another man laugh, made him angry ; and we are told that in his later years, "a long acquaintance with the world had superinduced a habit of viewing every one, even his nearest and dearest, with an eye of suspicion."
In 1879, Mrs. Seymour died. It was a crushing blow to Charles Reade, who at the funeral was "almost beside himself with emotion, and had not his brother gripped him firmly, would have flung himself on the coffin." He sought for con- solation where alone it can be found when human ties are broken, and by some of his former associates was accounted a mono- maniac because he wished to be a Christian. Five years of life remained to him, but on these it is unnecessary to dwell. He passed away on Good Friday, 1884.
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