DESPERATE REMEDIES.*

Tars is an absolutely anonymous story ; no falling back oi. previous works which might give a clue to the authorship, and no assumption of a nom de plume which might, at some future time,. disgrace the family name, and still more, the Christian name of a repentant and remorseful uovelist,—and very right too. By all means let him bury the secret in the profoundest depths of his. own heart, out of reach, if possible, of his own consciousness. The law is hardly just which prevents Tinsley Brothers from concealing their participation also.

There are things which men do voluntarily, against their own better judgment, but for which they have, at least, this excuse, that it is expected of them, and non-fulfilment of this expectation would lead to difficulty and complication ; as when a clergyman professes belief in all that the Church teaches, and when a Chancellor of the Exchequer removes a tax which the people have decided is obnoxious. But we never heard of the man who got himself into difficulties by refusing to write a novel which no one but himself has had any thought of his writing. So that it seems to follows that our unknown author thinks either that his story is justifiable; or that he cannot do a better description of work, and must do something. On the first hypothesis, however, professing—is all novelists do, who do not wish to see their works scouted—and pro- bably feeling sympathy with goodness and purity, he can scarcely up- hold deliberately the propriety of encouraging, as far as in him lies,. low curiosity about the detail of crime. Here are no fine charac- ters, no original ones to extend one's knowledge of human nature, no display of passion except of the brute kind, no pictures of Chris-

• Desperate Remedies. London: Tinsley Brothers. 1571. tian virtue, unless the perfections of a stock-heroine are such ; even the intricacies of the plot show no transcendent talent for arrangement of complicated, apparently irreconcilable, but really nicely-fitting facts. But there is—and therefore the second hypothesis notably fails also—an unusual and very happy facility in catching and fixing phases of peasant life, in producing for us not the manners and language only, but the tone of thought—if it can be dignified by the name of thought—and the simple humour of consequential village worthies and gaping village rustics. So that we are irresistibly reminded of the paintings of Wilkie, and still more, perhaps, of those of Tethers with their lower moral tone and more unmistakable, though coarser humour. The scenes allotted to these humble actors are few and slight, but they indi- cate powers that might and ought to be extended largely in this -direction, instead of being prostituted to the purposes of idle pry- ing into the ways of wickedness. If we dwell on the one or two redeeming features, and step in silence over the corrupt body of the tale, it is because, should our notice come under the eye of the author, we hope to spur him to better things in the future than these "desperate remedies" which he has adopted for ennui or an -emaciated purse. Here is a group round a cider-mill, under a tree in front of the village inn :— " 'And have you seen the steward, Mr. Springrove ? ' said the clerk. =Just a glimpse of him ; but 'twas just enough to show me that he's not here for long.'—' Why m't that be ? He'll never stand the vagaries of the female figaro holden the reins—not be.'—' She d' pay en well,' said a grinder ; and money's money.'—' Ah !—'Lis; very much so,' the clerk replied.—' Yes, yes, naibour Crickett,' said Springrove, 4 but she'll flee in a passion—all the fat will be in the fire—and there's an end Yes, she is a one,' continued the farmer, resting, raising his eyes, and reading the features of a distant apple.—' She is,' said Gad, resting too (it is wonderful how prompt a journeyman is in following his master's initiative to rest), and reflectively regarding the ground in front of him.—' True; a one she is,' the clerk chimed in, shaking his head ominously.—' She has such a temper,' said the farmer, and is so wilful too. You may as well try to stop a footpath as stop her when she has taken anything into her bead. I'd as soon grind little green crabs all day as live wi' her.'—' Tis a temper she hey, 'tie,' the clerk replied, though I be a servant of the Church that say it. But she isn't goon to flee in a passion this time.' The company waited for the continuation of the speech, as if they knew from experience the exact distance off it lay in the future. The clerk swallowed nothing as if it were a great deal, and then went on, There's some'at between them : mark my words, naibours—there's aome'at between 'em.'—'D'ye mean it? '—I d' know it. He came last Saturday, didn't he?'—"A did, truly,' said Gad Weedy, at the same time taking an apple from the hopper of the mill, eating a piece, and flinging back the remainder to be ground up for eider. —‘ He went to church a-Sunday,' said the clerk again.—' 'A did.'—'And she kept her eye upon en all the service, her face flickeren between red and white, but never stoppen at either.' Mr. Springrove nodded, and went to the press.—' Well,' said the clerk, • you don't call her the kind o' woman to make mistakes in just trotten through the weekly service o' God ? Why as a rule she's as right as I be myself.' Mr. Springrove nodded again, and gave a twist to the screw of the press, followecrin the movement by Gad at the other side ; the two grinders expressing by looks of the greatest concern that, if Miss Aldclyffe were as right at church as the clerk, she must be right indeed. 'Yes, as right in the service o' God as I be myself,' repeated the clerk, adding length to such a solemn sound, like St. Cecilia. 'But last Sunday, when we were in the tenth commandment, says she a Incline our hearts to keep this law," says she, when 'twits "Laws in our hearts we beseech thee," all the church through. Her eye was upon him—she was quite lost—" Hearts to keep this law," says she; she was no more than a mere shadder at that tenth time—a mere ahadder. You mi't ha' mouthed across to her -" Laws in our hearts we beseech thee" fifty times over—she'd never ha'

noticed ye. She's in love wi the man, that's what she Then she's a bigger stunpoll than I took her for,' said Mr. Springrove. Why

she's old enough to be his mother.'—' The row 'ill be between her and that young Curly-wig, you'll see. She won't run the risk of that pretty face been near.'— Clerk Crickett, I d' fancy you d' know everything about everybody,' said Gad.—' Well so's,' said the clerk modestly. I do know a little. It comes to me.'—' And I d' know where from:—Ah That wife o' thine. She's an entertainen woman, not to speak dis- respectfully:=She is : and a winuen one. Look at the husbands she've had—God bless her !

And here is another of wedding-bell ringers inside the old church tower in the moonlight. We wish we had space for the scene- painting as well as for the gossip :—

" The triple-bob-major was ended, and the ringers wiped their faces and rolled down their shirt-sleeves, previously to tucking away the ropes and leaving the place for the night. Piph—h—h—h ! A good twenty minutes,' said a man with a streaming face, and blowing out his breath—one of the pair who had taken the tenor bell. 'Our friend here pulled proper well—that 'a did—seen he's but a stranger,' said Clerk Crickett, who had just resigned the second rope, and addressing the man in the black coat.—"A did,' said the rest.—' I enjoyed it much,' said the man modestly.—' What we should ha' done 'ithout ye, words can't tell. The man that d'belong by rights to that there bell is ill o' two gallons o' weld cider.'—' And now so's,' remarked the fifth ringer, as pertaining to the last allusion, 'we'll finish this drop o' metheglin and cider, and every man home-along straight as a line.'—' Wi' all my heart,' Clerk Crickett replied. 'And the Lord send if I ba'n't done any duty by Master Teddy Springrove—that I have so.'—' And the rest o' us,' they said, as the cup was handed round.—'Ay, ay—in ringen—but I was spaken in a spiritual sense o' this mornen's business o' mine up by

the chancel rails there. 'Twas very convenient to lug her here and marry her instead o' doen it at that twopenny-halfpenny town o' Cres'n. Very convenient.'—' Very. There was a little fee for Master Crickett: --‘Ah !—well.—Money's money—very much so,—very—I always have said it. But 'twas a pretty sight for the nation. 'A coloured up like

any maid, that 'a Well enough ' a mid colour up. 'Tis no small matter for a man to play wi' fire.'—' Whatever it may be to a woman,' said the clerk, absently.—'Thou'at thinken o' thy wife, clerk,' said Gad Weedy. She'll play wi'it again when thou'at get mildewed.'—' Well— let her, God bless her! for I'm but a poor third man, I. The Lord have mercy upon the fourth . . . . Ay ! Teddy's got his own at last. What little white ears that maid hey to be sure ! choose your wife as you d'choose your pig—a small ear and a small tale—that was always my joke when I was a merry feller, ahl—years agone now ! But Teddy's got her. Poor chap, he was gotten as thin as a hermit wi' grief,—so was she.'—' May be she'll pick up again now.'—' True—' tis nater's law, which no man shall gainsay. Ah! well do I bear in mind what I said to Pa'son Raunham, about thy mother's family o' seven, Gad, the very first week of his comen hero, when I was just in my prime. "And how many daughters has that poor Weedy got, clerk ? " be says. "Six, sir," says I, " and every one of 'em has a brother ! " "Poor woman says he" "a dozen children !—give her this half-sovereign from me, clerk." 'A laughed a good five minutes afterwards, when he found out my merry nater,—'a did. Bat there, 'tis over wi' me now. Enteren the Church is the ruin of a man's wit, for wit's nothen without a faint shedder o' sin.' —.If so be Teddy and the lady had been kept apart for life, they'd both ha' died,' said Gad, emphatically.—' It went proper well,' said the fifth bell-ringer. They didn't flee off to Babylonish places—not they.' He struck up an attitude= Here's Master Springrove standen so: here's the married woman standen likewise: here they d'walk across to Rasp- water House : and there they d'bide in the chimley corner, hard and fast.'—' Yes, ' twas a pretty wedden, and well attended,' added the clerk. 'Here was my lady herself—red as scarlet: here was Master Springrove, looken as if he half-wished he'd never a-come,z--Ah, toads o'em !—the men always do ! The women do stand it bast—the maid was in her glory. Though she was so shy, the glory shone plain through that shy skin. Ah! it did so's:—Ay,' said Gad, 'and there was Tim Tankins and his fine journeymen carpenters' standen tiptoe and peepen in at the chancel winders. There was Dairyman Dodman waiten in his new spring-cart to see 'em come out—whip in hand—that 'a was. Then up comes two master tailors. Then there was Christopher Runt wi' his pickaxe and shovel. There was wimmenfolk and there was menfolk traypsen up and down church'ard till they wore a path wi' traypsen so- letten the squallen children slip down through their arms and nearly skinnen o' em. And these were all over and above the gentry and Sun- day-clothes folk inside. Well, I aid Mr. Graye dressed up quite the dand. "Well Mr.Graye," says I, from the top o'church'ard wall, "How's yerself ? " Mr. Graye never spoke—he'd dressed away his hearen. Seize the man, I didn' want en to spak. Teddy hears it, and turns round : "Right Gad !" says he, and laughed like a boy. There's more in Teddy.'" This nameless author has, too, one other talent of a remarkable kind,—sensitiveness to scenic and atmospheric effects, and to their influence on the mind, and the power of rousing similar sensitive- ness in his readers. Take, for instance, this deicription of what the heroine sees through a window during the progress of a mid- day entertainment in a cool town-hall. The contrast between what is going on around her and what is going on at the spot that has absorbed her attention strikes us vividly, without being even alluded to ; and her helplessness to prevent what we foresee is going to happen adds an awe to the dreaminess of a scene, common- place enough, but for its height and distance and silence :— " The town hall, in which Cytherea sat, was an Elizabethan building of brown atone, and the windows were divided into an upper and a lower half by a transom of masonry. Through one opening of the upper half could be seen from the interior of the room the housetops and chimneys of the adjacent street, and also the upper part of a neighbouring church spire, now in course of completion under the superintendence of Miss Grape's father, the architect to the work. That the top of this spire should be visible from her position in the room was a fact which Cytherea's idling eyes had discovered with some interest, and she was now engaged in watching the scene that was being enacted about its airy summit. Round the conical stonework rose a cage of scaffolding against the white sky ; and upon this stood fivo men—four in clothes as white as the new erection close beneath their hands, the fifth in the ordinary dark suit of a gentleman. The four working-men in white were three masons and a mason's labourer. The fifth man was the architect, Mr. Graye. He had been giving directions as it seemed, and now, retiring as fat as the narrow footway allowed, stood perfectly still. The picture thus presented to a spectator in the town hall was curious and striking. It was an illuminated miniature, framed in by the dark margin of the window, the keen-edged shadiness of which emphasized by contrast the softness of the objects enclosed. The height of the spire was about one hundred and twenty feet, and the five men engaged thereon seemed entirely removed from the sphere and experiences of ordinary human beings. They appeared little larger than pigeons, and made their tiny movements with a soft, spirit-like silentness. One idea above all others was conveyed to the mind of a person on the ground by their aspect, namely, concentration of purpose ; that they were in-

different to—even unconscious of—the distracted world beneath them, and all that moved upon it. They never looked off the scaffolding. Then one of them turned; it was Mr. Graye. Again he stood motion- less, with attention to the operations of the others. He appeared to be lost in reflection, and had directed his face towards a new stone they were lifting."

And the following brief description of a midsummer mid-day is a further illustration of the power, with a few effective strokes, not only of giving the physical aspect of the scene, but of suggesting vividly the languor and aridity of the corresponding mental condition :—

"The day of their departure was one of the most glowing that the climax of a long series of summer heats could evolve. The wide expanse of landscape quivered up and down like the flame of a taper, as they steamed along through the midst of it. Placid flocks of sheep reclining under trees a little way off appeared of a pale blue colour. Clover fields were livid with the brightness of the sun upon their deep red flowers. All waggons and carts were moved to the shade by their careful owners ; rain-water butts fell to pieces ; well-buckets were lowered inside the covers of the well-hole, to preserve them from the fate of the butts, and generally, water seemed scarcer in the country than the beer and cider of the peasantry who toiled or idled there."

We wish we had space for the description of a village fire, and of its silent and stealthy growth in the autumn night, till "the bewildered chimes" (of midnight), "scarcely heard amid the crackling of the flames, wandered through the wayward air of the Old Hundred-and-Thirteenth Psalm."

The story is disagreeable, and not striking in any way, and with the exception of the use made of a word in a sonnet which is certainly clever, is worked out by machinery always common-place, and sometimes clumsy. A murder is at the root of it, of course ; but though suspected, it is only brought home at last by the very

dull expedient of a detective seeing the murderer remove the body

from the oven of an unused building to a hole in a wood. With a vast superfluity of not remarkably clever invention, two other people, and all three unknown to each other, watch the same proceeding. The merest sensuality is the murderer's only motive, —he has a wife, and wants another, and he even fills the inter- regnum with a mistress. His mother, an unmarried lady of posi- tion and fortune, is a miserable creation,—uninteresting, unnatural, and nasty. But we have said enough to warn our readers against this book, and, we hope, to urge the author to write far better ones.