TALES OF THE NORTH RIDING.• •

Tales of the North Riding ! Ah, there will be something real in these,—something of the rude grandeur of the bleak wild country, and the rough, outspoken, but hospitable natives they will tell about ,—a sort of literary tonic. We felt braced by the very sight of the two simple, honest-looking volumes, with the name in pic- turesque, but perfectly legible letters. And when we handled them, the covers had a raspish, file-like, burr-like feel that seemed in keeping both with the character and the accent of the hardy dalesmen. We thought of Tennyson's Northern Farmer, of Emily Bronte's terrible story, Wuthering Heights, and—this cold May favouring us—we sat down by a cheerful fire, provided with candles not near the socket, before we opened the " dreadfully nice "-look- ing volumes. By Stephen Yorke ; curious coincidence ; though probably the name was prophetic, and fulfilled its own prophecy. What more natural than that a Yorke of Yorkshire should feel impelled to write about the strongly-marked people of the fell-sides, the secluded dales and the bold, indented coasts of the angry North Sea, with whom he dwelt ? But alas! we reckoned without our host, for one of our earliest discoveries—unless we have found a mare's nest—was that our entertainer was a lady, and "Stephen Yorke" a mere blind,—and a very transparent one, for there is scarcely a line from beginning to end that does not betray a woman's handling. Our next dis- covery—and this time certainly it was also a disappointment, for courtesy demands that we do not so designate the earlier one—was that the tales were in no way characteristic of the North Riding, or of Yorkshire people, or Yorkshire customs, but might, with equal propriety, have been told of East Kent or West Somerset, excepting that we hear frequently of "becks," and that York is unquestionably in Yorkshire, and Filey and Danesborough also ; though why Scarborough is not called Scarborough, as well as York York, we do not know, since it is scarcely attempted to hide it, every feature of Scarborough (including Oliver's Mount) being carefully catalogued in the description of Danesborough. But some ladies love a little innocent mystery, and what harm could it do to call it Danesborough, and fix it on the West coast by making the sun set over the sea? Only it is a pity that broad bands of moonlight are also made to stream across the sea at the same hour of the evening, because that fixes the East, as does also the insignificant fact that the North Riding has no sea-board on its western boundary, and further, the incau- tious reference, later on, to the boisterous winds and waves of a North-Eastern coast. Altogether, the incognito is not quite well preserved, but it was, we dare say, a happy thought. We have said that it is so far a Yorkshire book that there are " becks " and York and Filey and Scarborough, but there are besides one farmer's wife and two old servants—of the faithful-nuisance type—who talk a page or two of Yorkshire, and here and there a humble per- sonage will say an odd sentence or so of the same. But that is all, and we are grievously disappointed, especially as even these are made to pronounce " more " " main," and "about " " about," and "down " " doon," &c., which Yorkshire people don't do. So that we begin to wonder whether Mr. Stephen Yorke is not Mrs.

* Tales of the North Riding. By Stephen Yorke. London: Smith, Elder, and Co. 1871.

Londoner who has visited Scarborough and is quick at imitation.

As a rule, the Yorkshire dialect is evaded, as is conversation generally, resumes of Yorkshire narratives being given by the author in excellent English. By the time that we had discovered

that we were reading tales of any place by a lady, and not tales of

the North Riding by a gentleman, we were sufficiently depressed to be grateful for small favours, and not surprised to note, next,

that ladies and their troubles formed the staple of all the stories, though in one the gentlemen are also included amongst the sufferers.

There are two stories in each volume, for " Taught by Adver- sity " is but the sequel to " Squire Hesildene's Sorrow,"—and the point of all of them is the same, disappointed love. But so far we have expressed, too exclusively, our disappointment, and, remem- bering that we brought this partly on ourselves by too sanguine a love-at-first-sight, this is scarcely fair. There is much quiet beauty in the tales, and an atmosphere of real sorrow pervades them ; and the occasions of trouble are, with one exception, very natural, and the sufferers and other actors very life-like, though—again with one exception—without originality or marked characteristics. The former exception is in the story called " Squire Hesildene's Sorrow."

This and its sequel are the most ambitious and are very sensational, and it is consistent with what we note of the rather moderate talent of the authoress, that when she departs from the simplest forms of life her powers of natural description are at fault. In this un- likely story there is, however, one redeeming passage besides the many nice little bits of natural feeling and pretty description. It is the quarrel between the squire and his son. This is really clever. The old man's irritation at the expensiveness of his son's long search for his wife, not from any absence of generosity, but from real pecuniary pressure—an irritation increased by the futility of the search—betrays him into complaint, and hints of staying his

hand. The son's startled despair at his own helplessness follows, and the pressure he puts upon his father drives the latter into a

corner, and almost forces him, in self-respect and regard for his own dignity, to refuse supplies point-blank, though against his own wish. Then comes the unkind reproach of the son that the father had lost the mother's fortune, and that it was this made him a dependent on his father's help ; and then the father, stung by the truth of this accusation, is tempted to remind his son that if he had not been so friendly with an old love his wife would not have fallen so readily into a trap laid to deceive her and retreated so precipitately from her home.

It is a most able picture of the anger rising between two with strong love for each other, each wounding his own heart more deeply than the other's by the accusations which each longs to withdraw as soon as made, and yet, the ice once broken, neither able to control the expression of grievances that have been rank- ling within him. There is an indication in this passage and in the next, of which we shall speak, of very keen observation of and intimate acquaintance with the human heart, and we are surprised to meet with no other attempts to portray and decipher more marked and distinctly individual characteristics. It seems to us quite a pity that this authoress should rest satisfied, as subjects for her pen, with amiable women who have not begun the warfare with the weaknesses of our nature, and with amiable women who have done so and have fairly accomplished it. To revert to the exception we have already noted to this rule. In the first tale there is a very finely-conceived

character, or a very able study from life. It is of an olive-com- plexioned beauty who has been long separated from her mother — a loving, amiable little woman—living at a boarding-school, and spending her holidays with a grave, reserved grandfather in a lonely vicarage. His influence and example, working on an inherited

disposition, and backed by a superior education, have made the girl conscientious, self-denying and courteous ; but reserved, self- confident and self-sufficient, and the calm and dignified, but duti- ful and gentle way in which she puts down her loving, demonstra- tive little mother, and checks firmly all approach to confidences, and the mingled admiration and grief of the poor woman on finding herself taken care of and watched over by the more powerful and self-possessed mind of her cold and queenly daughter, is a master- piece in its way. Here is the opening scene. The mother, who has not seen her daughter for three years, goes to fetch her from school :—

" A minute later the door opens again. Another lady enters. Tall, beautiful, young, but so stately, well-proportioned, self-assured, that you would not believe how young she is. It is Sophia Wynburn, and she is not yet seventeen. Mrs. Wynburn doubts, hesitates for a moment,—only for a moment. 'It is Sophie!' and the mother's arms are round her child, and a long, true, mother-kiss given before she has quite recovered from her doubt. Then she looks up,—her eyes Iambi- ous with the love, the pride, the gratitude that fill her heart. She- tries to speak,—tries, and fails Sophie moves, gently, yet resistingly, places for her mother the easiest chair the room affords, crosses the rug, leans her arm on the mantelpiece. 'How is my grand- father?' she inquires in a clear steady voice.—' He is better; he has improved much of late. How surprised he will be to find you so grown, so altered, Sophie.'—'You forget, mother, that I have spent my holidays at home.'—' So you have, dear. I had forgotten for the moment : for- gotten, too, that Hannah told me you were "grown quite out o' ken."— 'Poor old Hannah ! how is she getting on?'—' She is quite well, dear. But I must not keep Miss Leyton'a dinner waiting. Will you come with me to my room?'"

But though the conception is admirable, it is not sustained with ability. Sophie occasionally breaks out into vehemence and rude- ness, and betrays a hardness almost cruel, altogether at variance with the self-controlled, ever-watchful spirit of duty and forbearance that characterizes her, and finally, her self-sufficiency and isolation are broken through, not by suffering, or the gradual dawning of new spiritual light, but, very inconsistently, by a wild, sudden and very early rush of remorse for her coldness to her mother,—as if the authoress had not had strength to work out her conception, and had felt a sudden necessity to bring the story to an end, but an inability to leave the poor little mother still uncomforted by her daughter's love.

We wish we could say more in praise of these pure and kindly little stories. But there is too much gentle sentiment for our liking, such as we have about the influence of York Minster on the spirit :—

" Ah ! the west front at last. Sublime, glorious, in its lofty, majestic grandeur. And an indraugbt of solemn sensation sweeps over her, suffusing her whole soul with its wondrous, ineffable power. Rever- ently she crosses the Minster Yard. The western door is open fortu- nately; and as she enters the nave, every note of her heart's harmony quivers into unison. Low, soft, adagio airs ; spirit-stirred into strains of devotion and veneration. Awakening new life, new consciousness of the presence of the 'things which are not seen.' Inspiring new grati- tude, new hope; giving new meaning to the ancient words, ' Neverthe- less I am always by thee.'"

Then the tender little mothers excite language in their worshippers which too closely resembles baby-talk, as when " the frail little figure" of Mrs. Wynburn—approaching forty—is folded in her friend's embrace with the prayer, " Mary, my own little friend, tell me what troubles you ? Talk to me as you used to do in the old days." And there is so very much of sunset and moonlight and dawn and twilight,—two or three dozen references to them, more or less extensive, in the two volumes. And innumerable little bits of description like the following, which, though the scenes described are often delightful and fascinating, and are sufficiently vivid to yield something of the refreshment and rest of country sights and sounds, are, nevertheless, too abundant ; if it is possible, as we sadly believe, to have too much of a good thing

" Almost gloomy was the cool, dark blue shade under the trees by the side of the little stream. Giant boughs arching and twining overhead ; moss-grown trunks and wide-spreading roots ; dark-green stones by the side, and in the middle of the beck ; the clear, brown water gurgling and eddying round them with soft murmurings. Rare grasses and wild flowers; graceful, glossy ferns bending into the water; a reedy little pool where some of Isaac Dent's cows stood knee-deep ; a path through the trees ; then an open glade. Distant trees on the other side ; the rugged highland rising above. Glimpses of hot sky and yellow sunshine enhancing the charms of my cool, 'dark resting-place tenfold."

Altogether, the impression left by these volumes is that we have been idling over pleasing stories in periodicals for young people ; annoyed here and there with a piece of melodramatic nonsense, but roused, from time to time, by touches and strokes of real power.