RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD.*
THERE is a good deal of genius in the world which is born of sympathy ; indeed, if we were disposed to pursue the inquiry (which at this moment we certainly are not), we might question if all insight does not spring from quickness of response to innumer- able touches from innumerable springs too fine in their action to affect even the skin of coarser natures ; but, be that as it may, Mr. Macdonald's special genius at this moment consists in a real understanding of boy-nature, and he has in consequence produced a capital story judged from their stand-point, by no means free from his characteristic weaknesses, and they are many ; but with a true ring all through, which insures the success of his tale. This success is not always, however, obvious at first, for there is a dreamy look in the first pages which boys specially resent, outwardly at all events. We watched a clever lad of twelve as he tamed over the earlier pages, and closing the book, dogmatically pronounced it "rather bosh," but caught him an hour later notwithstanding, deep in the story, which he finally pronounced very good, but too sad, "What was the use of of making it so sad " ? We rather agree with that criticism. We know Mr. Macdonald will have a ready answer ; will ask if we understand "creation's undertones," its "sad, perplexed minors," &c. But we do not ask the unskilled hand to play fugues, or the unskilled ear to understand the science of dis- cords; besides it takes more heroism, more true mental backbone to make a glad man, than ever went to the making of a melancholy one. We incline therefore to endorse the question of our boy critic, and say, "What is the use of making it so sad ! "—though there are few of riper years who will read the story's sad sweet close without a conscious acknowledgment that it was at the touch of sorrow they first knew boyhood to be gone. But there is no lack of humour in the story ; to do Mr. Macdonald justice, he never makes divorce between humour and pathos, or tries even in this respect to divide what Nature has so closely joined together. He has been abundantly helped by the artist; the sketches with which the book is embellished are simply admirable.
In the intellectual as in the national life of a people we may observe traces of change, of growth or decay, long before the moment when that change culminates in some external act, which. leaves its mark irrevocably on the generation which called it forth. In political life the seeds of a new era seem often to have to undergo a very long state of dying, are trampled down and ploughed in, and utterly hid away in the darkness, before they finally assert their own vitality, and spring up and bear fruit ; and the final out- come of that seed is revolution, varying in form with the genius of the people who receive it ; but coming always with a sense of sur- prise on the multitude ; there may have been watchers to announce almost the very hour of its birth, but the crowd will always open- mouthed ask," Who would have thought it ?" With natural science it is much the same, and babes as we all are in that lore, each new page comes upon us as a revelation,—often as one, we half * Ronald Bannerman's Boyhood. By George Macdonald. London: Strahan and Co. 1871. fancy, "Heaven had ne'er foreseen, and not provided for." But no revolution is more complete or more silent than that which occasionally takes place in the mental attitude of a whole people, making them suddenly awake to the consciousness that life has taken an altogether different form for them ; it is always some little thing, some mere straw which shows the direction in which the stream is flowing, and this little stray tale of Mr. Macdonald's is one of those straws. The book would have been simply impossible fifty years ago, the characters have all changed places, played a kind of "general post," in a way which would make our grand- mothers hold up their hands in astonishment, if not in pious horror. In their days, Mrs. Mitchell would have come out of the story a very model of guardians, faithful and upright, if somewhat for- bidding and strict ; and good-natured Kirsty, with all her con- nivances at boyish tricks and boyish appetites, would have found a place,—nowhere. Not that she was non-existent—thank Heaven the Kirstys have ever been,—but her existence was ignored by the well-meaning moralists who catered for the good of the juvenile population of half a century ago ; for we must not forget that Mr. Macdonald comes before us with a tale written in a periodical by no means designed solely for the amusement of young readers. Whatever purpose was in the mind of Mrs. Trimmer, of Hannah More, or Jacob Abbott, such is the purpose (yes, we can imagine their wry faces, but truth is truth), such is the purpose of the staff who write "Good Words for the Young ;" and yet we know no more curious illustration of the different shape thought has assumed with reference to didactic teaching, than to take half a page almost at random from 6ne of these books, and place it side by side with sentences intended to inculcate the same lesson in a story-book of the present day. Take, for instance, the "Fountain of Beauty," and put it side by side with the "Ugly Duckling ;" or, though, we confess, it is not without dreadful
qualms we lay sacrilegious hands on the earliest delight of our childhood, yet take this page from The Robins with one from Mr. Macdonald
THE Roams." " RANALD Monntaliscr."
"Their little benefactors, though "After this talk with my father, like all good children, they were I fell into a sleep of perfect con- remarkably early risers, and always tentment, and never thought of had said their prayers, washed and what might be on the morrow till cleansed themselves, and learned the morrow came. Then I grew their lessons before breakfast, yet aware of the danger I was in of having been fatigued with a long being carried off once more to walk the evening before, lay very sehooL Indeed, except my father late in bed that morning ; but as interfered, the thing was almost soon as Frederick was dressed his inevitable. I thought he would sister, who was waiting for him, protect me, but I had no assurance. took him by the hand and led him He was gone again, for, as I have down stairs, where he hastily asked mentioned already, he was given to the cookfor the collection of crumbs, going out early in the mornings. As soon as he entered the break- It was not early now, however : I fast-parlour, he ran eagerly to the had slept much longer than usual. window and attempted to fling it I got up at once, intending to find up. 'What is the cause of this him ; but, to my horror, before I mighty bustle?' said his mother ; was half dressed, my enemy, Mrs. 'do you not perceive that I am in Mitchell, came into the room, look- the room, Frederick?' ' Oh, my ing triumphant and revengeful. I birds, my birds P cried he.—' I an- am glad to see you are getting up,' derstand,' rejoined Mrs. Benson, she said ; 'it's nearly school-time.' that you have neglected to feed The tone, and the emphasis she laid your pensioners; how came this on the word schoo4 would have an& about, Harriet?' We were so tired flood to reveal the state of her last night,' answered Harriet, that mind, even if her eyes had not we overslept ourselves.'—' This ex- been fierce with suppressed indig- case may satisfy you and your nation. 'I haven't had my por- brother,' added the lady, 'but I ridge,' I said.—' Your porridge is fear your birds would bring heavy waiting you—as cold as a stone,' complaints against you, if they she answered. If boys will lie in could speak. But make haste and bed so late, what can they expect?'
feed them now ; and, for the future, Nothing from you,' I muttered whenever you &nye any living crea- with more hardihood than I had tare cause to depend on you for yet shown her.' — What's that sustenance, be careful on no account you're saying ? ' she asked angrily. to disappoint it ; and if you are I was silent. Make haste,' she prevented from feeding it yourself, went on, and don't keep me wait- employ another person to do it for ing all day.'—' You needn't wait, you. It is customary,' continued Mrs. Mitchell. I am dressing as Mrs. Bowan, 'for little boys and fast as I can. Is papa in his study
girls to pay their respects to their yet ?'—' No. And you needn't think parents every morning, as soon as to see him. He's angry enough they see them; this, Frederick, you with you, I'll warrant. She little ought to have done to me on enter- knew what had passed between my ing the parlour, instead of running father and me already. She could across it, crying out, "My birds, not imagine what a talk we had ray birds!" It would have taken had."
you very little time to have done
so. However, I will excuse your neglect now, my dear, as you did not intend to offend me ; but remember that you depend as much upon your father and me for everything you want as these little birds do upon you; nay, more so, for they could find food in other places, but children can do nothing towards their own support ; they should therefore be dutiful and respectful to those whose tenderness and care they constantly experience."
The picture of Mrs. Mitchell, a little later, with her chin in the air and her very shoes looking defiance, carrying off the struggling boy, is inimitable ; but then here, it is Mrs. Mitchell who is all in the wrong, and to be outmanceuvred and defeated, and the young hero who comes off triumphant, a sequel impossible to Mrs. Trimmer, and yet,—is it the weakness of an old affection that will not be expelled ?—we believe the Robins will outlive Remit." Bannerman by many a long day. Mr. Macdonald has drawn a most pleasant picture of a perfectly free childhood, a childhood more possible in Scotland, perhaps, scarcely so possible in England, cer- tainly not in our larger towns, and we think when he holds up, as he decidedly does hold up, his sketch of boy life for our approval and imitation, he forgets, as he is apt, that he is writing of a Utopia which has no solid ground where we may plant our willing feet. Turkey, the Scotch herd-boy, noble in heart, educated on the same form, with all his instincts generous and pure, is the devoted companion, playmate, and servant of his master's son, and such lads, for aught we know, may abound in Scotland, to her endless credit, and be familiar to Mr. Macdonald's experience ; but English herd-boys are not like them, more shame to us probably, and we have yet to see the lad who is the better man for his childish familiarity with the stable-yard. We notice this because it is a feature in the book all through. Kirety is admirably drawn, and her legends just full enough of surprise and weirdness to. fascinate her young listeners, and the boy's adventures are just such as boys delight in. Elsie Duff and her sour-tempered, but not ill-meaning grandmother are very true to nature, and we can commend the whole story to both boys and girls in the full assurance of their keen appreciation. But while amused with contrasting the didactic tone of earlier story-books with the far other style of this one, which reads like a boy's life from a boy's own point of view, we cannot forget that the blank spaces left, by an absence of what, for want of a better word, we will call didacticism, are filled up with problems and theories and solutions of problems, which the children, the true children of this nineteenth century, are as likely to skip as their predecessors the long moralizing, which, after all, was not the story. But Mr. Macdonald's graver thoughts have this advantage over their intellectual ancestors, that they are full of interest for the children of a larger growth, who rarely forget to find some leisure minutes in which to steal a glance at his stories.
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