RECENT NOVELS.*
THERE are few, if any, contemporary novelists to whom one can turn with a greater certainty of procuring good entertain- ment than Mr. Marion Crawford, and these agreeable expecta- tions are not disappointed in Adam, Johmtone's Son, a novel which, if it hardly touches the high level attained in his series of studies of modern Italian life, may be confidently recom- mended as a means of securing the swift and enjoyable passage of the few hours necessary for its perusal. Mr. Crawford has once more laid his scene in Italy, but the dramatis persona are exclusively English, nor can any serious exception be taken to the tone and temper of his delineations. Indeed, in spite of her " archangelic rigidity," we would gladly wish that more women of the type of Clare Bowring were to be met with in real life, for such a reunion of innocence, fearlessness, and candour as is presented by the heroine is as rare as it is engaging. For there is nothing mawkish in Mr. Crawford's portraiture of feminine goodness, and the elevating influence of his love for Clare on Brook Johnstone forms an illuminating commentary on Steele's famous remark (borrowed from the Greek) that the love of a good woman was a liberal education. Even so, most readers will be inclined to think that Brook Johnstone hardly deserved the good fortune of his release from the toils woven around him by the adven- turess. The book, in short, does not altogether make for optimism, for it indirectly emphasises the material victory of male selfishness, indulgence, and even superior physique. The • (1.) Adam Johnston,', Son. By F. Marion Crawf.srd. London : Maem,llan and Co.—(2.) The Tacl Marv. By Mrs. Oisphant. London: Ides heels .nd Co. —(3.) Hadjira: a Turkish Love Story. By "Adalet." London : Edward Arnold. —(4 ) The Braes o' Balquhieder. By Douglas A; town. Paisley Ale:ender Gardner.—(5.) The Dream Charlotte. By M. Bethem•Edwards. Londssn : A. and 0. B1sek.—(6.) The Seats of the Mighty. By Gilbert Parker. London e Methuen and Co.—(7.) A Cornish Maid. By L. Higgin. London : Hurst and B:ackett. unconscious hypnotism exercised by Brook Johnstone on the heroine, though artistically described, strikes a somewhat jarring note. And it may be fairly objected that the Alexandrine fashion in which the difficulties in the way of Clare's marriage are solved would hardly have been so readily acquiesced in by her mother or herself, in view of their fastidious taste. And while we are dealing with incon- sistencies, it is permissible to doubt whether Brook John- stone, if as unintellectual as he is made out at the outset, would have shown such conversational skill as he displays later on, or quoted Shakespeare. But here Mr. Crawford might retort Issocatirs Ipa; n,lciazuu. We cannot take leave of a book which, with all its inequalities, is instinct with the quality of charm, without expressing our satisfaction at the confession made by the author at its close :—" Here," he says, "the story comes to its conclusion, as many stories out of the lives of men and women seem to end at what is only their turning-point. For real life has no conclusion but real death, and that is a sad ending to a tale and one which may as well be left to the imagination when it is possible." This is a lesson which might well be laid to heart by modern writers of gratuitous tragedies.
The two stories which comprise the contents of Mrs. Oliphant's latest book are of unequal length and merit. The longer, and by far the less striking of the two, gives a most charming picture of two Canadian girls visiting London for the first time with their father. For one who is not herself Colonial to depict the mingled enchant- ment and oppression exercised by the monuments and streets of London on two fresh and enthusiastic natures, in the way Mrs. Oliphant has done, is a veritable tour de force. Grace and Milly, alike in joy and in grief, are most gracious, loveable, and pathetic figures. For the rest, we find the plot artificial and hazy, and the remaining characters uncongenial and unconvincing, though the portrait of the selfish old lady is quite extraordinarily clever. Bat Grove Road, Hamp- stead, suffers from juxtaposition with The Two Marys, a story worthy of Mrs. Oliphant at her best, — in other words, of the writer of genius who gave us The Beleaguered City. To summarise one's impressions of this beautiful and touching little story—it only extends to one hundred and twenty-six pages—is no easy task. But one may at once single out for admiration the perfect and unaffected simplicity of the style, the entire absence of all literary artifice, and the transparent lucidity of the narrative—qualities which are not the less remarkable when it is taken into account that nearly fifty years have elapsed since Mrs. Oli- phant's first book was published. The Two Marys is a story of domestic jealousy and misunderstanding; of union, sever- ance, and reconciliation between a young stepmother and her stepdaughter ; an every-day tale in every-day surroundings, and yet with the cri du cceur ringing from end to end of it. The male characters are but faintly sketched, but the two women are instinct with vitality, and while the nature of the daughter is more fully revealed, that of the stepmother is at once more attractive and more noble. Her peculiar temperament is happily hit off in the following observation by the younger Mary :—" Those people who send you from one extreme of feeling to another, who do wrong things and right things all in a jumble, take a greater hold of you, somehow, than better people do, who are placid and always on the same level."
Hadjira is not merely a novel, it is a sociological curiosity, a contradiction in terms, a " Turkish Love-Story "—in which the lowly but freeborn heroine is wooed and won for her own sake by the son of a Pasha. Assuming the genuineness of the story, which the publisher fully guarantees, one cannot help feeling struck by the strange similarity observable between the usages of Turkish society and those of Mayfair. The position of Hadjira is exactly that of a governess or companion in an aristocratic household. The younger son, who is in the Army, falls desperately in love with her, but Hadjira conscientiously repels his advances, feeling sure that his parents would be horrified at such a viesalliance. Hanem Effendi, the Pasha's wife, is the very counterpart of a worldly, aristocratic British matron, while the conversations are curiously permeated with Occidental ideals. Altogether this strange book throws an unexpected and in the main agreeable light on the domestic life of the harem, but black shadows are not wanting, and sinister allusions are made to the cruelty of which Turkish ladies are capable towards their slaves. Bat by far the most significant thing in connection with the book is the publisher's statement that "it is unfor- tunately impossible to reveal the identity of the author, for her personal safety would be seriously imperilled by doing so." From which we are inclined to think that " Adalet's " picture of the Purple East is a trifle rose-coloured.
Another curiosity, though in a different sphere, is The Braes o' Balguhidder, a novel which ought to be redolent of the kailyard, bat is in reality written from end to end in the choicest guide-book style, illuminated with sprightly inepti- tudes, of which the following may serve as a i ypical example :
"Jack, at the grand reception in the Royal, met, for the first time, with the chief segments of the upper circles of Edinburgh society, and at once became a general favourite—especially of the unmarried ladies ; who, one and all, concurred in awarding him the somewhat flattering soubriquet [sic] of Handsome Jack."
When Jack visited Stirling Castle with his sister, that young lady quoted, for the benefit of the company, twelve lines from her favourite poet, Mrs. Hemans, on which we read how-
' Thoroughly imbued by the feelings which had prompted his sister in her recent deliverance, Jack turned round, and pointed towards the summit of the Craig, remarked,' What a pity it is that Mrs. Hemans is not of the earth now, so that her vision might be gratified by the noble fulfilment of her eloquent longing.' " In spite of which Jack attains eminence as an artist, and marries a fascinating heiress. By turns facetious and senti-
mental, but always eminently genteel, The Braes o' Balgultidder is calculated to afford a good deal of unintended amusement to a reader with a sense of humour and a passing acquaintance with the usages of polite society.
Miss Betham-Edwards is happily inspired in the alternative title of The Dream-Charlotte. She calls it "A Story of Echoes," and that expresses adequately enough her methcd of dealing with so momentous a theme as the French Revolu- tion. The scene is laid in a remote rural district, whither
only the echoes of pandemonium are able to penetrate, and although the heroine is the foster-sister of Charlotte Corday, the latter, so far as her direct connection with the story is concerned, is in very deed the "Dream-Charlotte" of the title. This may not be an ambitions method, but it is eminently discreet. It relieves an author from the risks incidental to bringing historical personages into her pages, especially the necessity of inventing conversations worthy of their abilities or in keeping with their characters. What Miss Betham-Edwards has done, however, and with no little skill, is to illustrate in the person of her heroine the sympathies and tendencies that early association with an enthusiast like Charlotte might have awakened in an intelligent girl of the farmer class. The pictures of life in a Norman farmhouse are minute, and obviously based on close observation and intimate experience, but it cannot be said that any of the characters are of engrossing interest, unless we except the old Huguenot farm servant, whose efforts to convince her long-lost son of her identity strike a note of genuine pathos. The love interest is not happily treated, for while the heroine's successful suitor is a mere handsome savage, her Huguenot lover comes perilously near to a prig. Airelle, in short, is offered up on the altar of family interest, and the sacrifice is so complete as to annihilate all possibilities for the expansion of her individuality. Passive resignation is the keynote of her
character, and the upshot of the whole story is decidedly negative in its tendency. Miss Betham-Edwards prepares us
for a new Joan of Arc, but her regard for historical accuracy obliges her to abandon such a creation, and substitute de-
votion to the domestic ideal for mystical enthusiasm. It is no doubt truer to life, but it is somewhat dreary and disappoint- ing. The tale is picturesquely told, apart from the author's exasperating habit of omitting articles and pronouns a lee Browning, Carlyle, and "Toby, M.P."
Mr. Gilbert Parker tells us in the preface to his new novel of the historical materials that were placed in his bands by several of his Canadian friends. That they were well advised in so doing all lovers of adventurous romance will cordially agree. The Seats of the Mighty is emphatically a book for holiday reading. Here are no problems, no introspection, no morbid analysis, but a tale chock full of excitement, intrigue, sword-play, hairbreadth escapes, all-but-successful devilry, and ultimately triumphant heroism. It may be objected that the agony is piled a trifle too mountainously high; that the occasional finery and affectation of Mr. Parker's style—his use of " carbolic " in the sense of vitriolic is decidedly infelicitous—is hardly in keeping with the .charaoter of the narrator, a blunt, straightforward Sottish soldier; and that the exact nature of the transactions which expose him to the charge of playing the spy, and lead to his long imprisonment, are somewhat hazy. But these and other blemishes may be readily overlooked in a writer who is endowed, not merely with a vivid imagination, but a remarkably picturesque and alert descriptive style. By far the most elaborate portrait which be gives as is that of Doltaire, the villain of the plot, a personage strangely compact of generosity and guile, of cruelty and tenderness : Admirable Crichton and Mephisto- pheles rolled in one. Hardly less wonderful are the heroine, inspired by love with superhuman ingenuity and audacity, or the much-enduring hero himself. There is, in short, a good deal that borders on the incredible in this exciting story, but the manner of its telling goes far to redeem its improbability. Vigorous sketches of Montcalm, Wolfe, and other historic personages are given in the course of the story, the most charming and poetical thing in which are the letters written by Alias to her lover in prison. But The Seats of the Mighty is a book to be glad of and to read, rather than to write about. For while it is easy to point out its obvious shortcomings, it is difficult, without extensive quotation, to convey a notion of its buoyancy and charm.
The course of true love, we know, never did run smooth, but it is only in three-volume novels like A Cornish Maid that its course is carefully and elaborately interfered with, as in an obstacle race. The hero's reticence is so gratuitous as to deprive him in great measure of the sympathy of the reader. Still, Dolly is a pleasant little heroine, and in spite of the artificiality of the plot, the amount of unnecessary tear-shedding, and the high death-rate prevalent amongst the dramatis persona, the story is readable and even agreeable. If it were always on the level of the admirable sketch of the struggling girl-artist in the third volume, it would deserve high, instead of faint, praise.
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