RANTHORPE

IS a novel of so much substance and power as to challenge close criticism. From internal evidence, it is a tentative work—the production of a prac- tised writer trying his hand in a new line ; and not only so, but the work of a man who has made such progress in his newer art that you may discern in the volume what the painter would call a first and a second manner. This is partly explained by circumstances stated in the preface. The novel was written five years ago, and has now been altered and compressed for publication. It has also been subjected to the critical advice of "two eminent friends"; whose suggestions the author has adopted. Change is implied in these very facts. But the change of which we speak is far more material. Speaking broadly, the book may be divided into two parts, and it may be said that the author begins with embodied abstractions and ends by painting real people. At the outset, his purpose is to paint a class ; which can only be done by painting an individual in a class : but the type, Percy Ranthorpe, is not sufficiently individualized. He is moved by the feelings and passions imputed to his class ; and so far as he is individualized, his character is not agreeable. As the story advances, other persons not belonging to class portraiture come more upon the scene; the passions of human nature, the incidents of flesh and blood, become the main subject ; the power of the author strengthens with the greater distinctness and solidity of his materials ; his originality is more apparent, and the interest of the reader increases pro- portionately.

It appears to us that the moral of the two parts into which we—not the author—have divided the book, is separate and distinct. The first part is intended to represent the entrance of a young author into the busi- ness of life, the temptations that beset him, the sources of failure and of success. As the writer starts on his mission from the region of abstrac- tion and reflection, he scarcely possesses a grasp of reality in this portion. Among the best passages here are those of reflection and critical disqui- sition. Ranthorpe does not fairly represent the class of literary men. We have no proof that he has the scholastic attainments of the order; if he has genius, we must take the author's word for it. He belongs rather to the corps of irregulars, whence perhaps many of the greatest writers have sprung, but they can scarcely be taken to represent the class.

Ranthorpe is a poor clerk, with a father who sneers at his literary as- pirations; he throws up his clerkship and becomes a journalist; he pub- lishes poems, and becomes a "lion" ; his vanity is inflamed, he jilts a young girl who would have been fit companion for a real poet, grows dissipated and indolent, writes ill, and becomes an unsuccessful author. He now undergoes a fearful but efficacious purgatory of adversity. The moral lesson conveyed in this history is excellent. Genius is not inde- pendent of industry, but includes industry ; for no great work is ever effected without labour, though the labour may not always take an ob- vious form. Part of Ranthorpe's suffering, however, is due not to mere literary mishaps but to defects in his character which amount to mean- ness. He seems incapable of estimating the girl whose affections he has won ; and to the reader his infidelity appears less as the result of an ar- dent but unstable nature than as pure want of feeling, or tuft-hunting. His preference of a highborn flirt to the highminded Isola betrays a defi- ciency of intellectual taste, and lowers him in the reader's eyes below the pitch to which mere error and indiscretion should lower the hero.

This portion of the book is a foil to the rest. The character of Isola is a beautiful creation; original, consistent with itself', harmonious in the east of its moral and physical beauty, painted with equal delicacy and force.

"Her beauty was of that chaste severity of style which only strikes connois- seurs. She had few of the charms which captivate drawingroom critics; was neither sylph-like nor sportive, neither sentimental nor voluptuous. Her cheeks were innocent both of roses and lilies. I am not aware of any cupids having taken up their abode in her dimples; nor did lever hear anything of the liquid languishment' of her eyes. In fact, she was a girl whom seven out of every ten would call 'nice-looking' or 'well-grown,' without a suspicion of the other three looking upon her as a masterpiece of Nature's canning hand.

"Tail, finely, somewhat amply moulded, with a waist in perfect proportion, her walk was the walk of a goddess; perhaps for that reason few thought it graceful. "From her mother, an Italian, she inherited a pale olive complexion, large lustrous eyes, black hair, and a certain look of Raffaele's Sistine Madonna; from her father, the winning gentleness which softened her somewhat stern severity of outline, and converted the statue into a woman. Yet, on the whole, her beauty was more sculpturesque than picturesque.

"Her voice was peculiar. 'Though musical and vibrating, it had that loudness common to Italians, but which in England, amongst a race accustomed to eat

half their words, is regarded as But the clear, vibrating, powerful tone of Isola's voice, always seemed to me a witchery the more, and was not inaptly characteristic of her frank, large, and healthy soul. It gave some persons the impression of her not being feminine; and this impression was strengthened by the simplicity of a manner free from all the permissible coquetry of woman. Yet Isola was exquisitely feminine in sonL She was woman in her gentleness, loving- ness, singleness of purpose, and endurance, only not in coquetry. * * • "If the reader run away with the idea that Isola was an imposing woman, he will be curiously misled. It is the fault of language that it cannot convey =la- ser; so that the term 'grandeur' applied to one so simple and truthful as Isola may seem ill-applied, because it is forgotten that all grandeur is exces- sively simple."

Isola is won by Ranthorpe's genius ; also by the fact that opportunity developes the affectionate impulses of her own nature ; a process as acutely perceived by the author as it is delicately indicated. When she is abandoned by Ranthorpe, she is sought by another suitor, far more worthy of her. He is a medical student, whose errors aud youthful in- discretions are of a vulgarer and grosser sort than Ranthorpe's; and his

first encounter with Isola is not of a propitious kind. But his chariair is solid, manly, and generous ; and the mode in whOt■ he gains upon Isola's esteem is truthfully worked oat. Esteem, however:, will not bear up against passion. When the penitent Ranthorpe returns, a cry of an- guish reveals the hopelessness of the struggle on which Isola has entered, to force love into any particular channel according to the judgment ; and the generosity of Harry Cavendish saves the sacrifice which her generosity would have accomplished. Extracts would not convey any adequate idea of this part, which depends much upon the working out. In Isola, the author has portrayed a woman of independent intellect, yet modest and devoted ; of strong feelings, but self-denying ; a girl of flesh and blood, not idealized into a shadow or a pattern for an annual, yet raised above vulgar triviality ; original, yet vraisentblabk.

Several of the accessory characters come out with no less force and effect. The heartless coquette, Fanny Wilmington, who indulges her love of worship and her humour by encouraging the forward suit of her bro- ther's tutor even up to the moment when she is going to church to be married to a titled suitor, is strange and revolting, but not untrue to na- ture. Her character is summed up well by her jilted lover, who tells the story late in life.

"'Yet she is not a &semen,' replied Wynton; believe me she is a woman, and a not uncommon woman. When I was your age I thought as you do. Expe- rience, and long studies of moral anatomy, have convinced me of my error. Calm now, I can read her character in its tree light. Shall I read it aloud ? '

"'Do so—bat no paradoxes, I beg!'

'" None that I can help. Well, then, Fanny was simply and truly a victim of intense egotism with no intellect to direct it; weak, vacillating, and unprincipled, she had no malignity, she had not force of character for any villany that did not spring from the negative vice of want of principle. Self was her only considera- tion, and she was reckless what she sacrificed to it. She was gratified by my love in many ways. By her vanity she lived; to gratify it was therefore to give her a vivid feeling of her existence. Hence her delight in my passion.' "She could not break off our intercourse when once her future husband had dazzled her with the prospect of a wealthy "establishment." I say she could not, and for these reasons—

"'She would never sacrifice a gratification merely at the expense of another's suffering; and my love was a gratification, and I was easily deceived. "'She could not bear to be thought ill of by any person, no matter by whom; it tortured her. She lived, as I said, by her vanity, and this vanity was inordinate; the praise of the meanest was food to her; and hence the pliancy with which she suited herself to everybody's way of thinking.

"'But if to be thought ill of, even by a servant, was a pang to her' what would she have suffered if the man who then adored her were to turn his adora- tion to contempt? How much pleasanter to prolong that adoration till the last minute!

"'As she never for an instant contemplated becoming my wife, she knew that I must detect her some day: all her art was required to delay that moment until she should see me no more.'" Lady Wilmington's daughter, Florence, inherits her mother's coquetry, but not her absolute want of feeling ; possessing just enough sensibility to make her amenable to the chastisement for her transgressions. Her temptation of Ranthorpe is punished by regrets for a piquancy of atten- tions which she never attains elsewhere. In Sir Frederick Hawbucke, whom she presumes to hide a deep warmth of heart under a cold exterior, she discovers, too late, coldness to the very core. After marriage, Flo- rence writes a letter to a friend declaring her mistake, describing her husband as he is, avowing her ennui at his dulness, and saying, " If I were not an actress, Frederick would be miserable."

"At this moment she was interrupted by her husband; who, opening the door, stood outside with his hand on the lock, and said—

"'Did you order the carriage for this afternoon ?'

"She started; did not at once reply, but shutting up her writing-case in some agitation' turned round her head, and then said-

" I really forget.'

"'Shall you want it?' asked Sir Frederick, now coming into the room and shutting the door.

" ' Well—I scarcely know. Yes, I may as well take a drive.' " ' What are you doing ? ' "'Oh! merely writing a letter.' She coloured as she spoke. "'To whom?'

" ' To Caroline Fullerton.'

" ' Remember me to her.'

"'Certainly.' "Florence breathed again. She thought her husband had now quitted the sub- ject, which was peculiarly unpleasant to her; and imagined he would soon leave the room. But he remained looking out of window, to all appearance as calm as usual. He made no signs of going away; and yet there seemed no reason for his staying. He was perfectly silent, motionless. His eyes were fixed upon the un- dulating lawns spread out before him. He was abstracted. "The truth is, that his wife's manner, her agitation about the letter, had roused painful suspicions in his breast. • * Wherefore this agitation? Could she really be writing to Mrs. Fullerton? If so, why shut up her writing- case? why colour ? "Florence began to feel marvellously uneasy at her husband's silent presence. She sat drawing figures on the blotting-paper, counting the minutes of his stay. She wanted to say something to him, but could think of nothing. The silence was as a spell upon her, which she could not break. • * *

"'By the way,' said he, 'give me year letter, I will finish it. I want to say a

word or two to her.'

"'Then why not write yourself? I shan't allow you to spoil my letters.' "'Let me see what you have written, at any rate,' he said, advancing towards

her escritoire.

"'Nonsense, my dear,' she said, swiftly interposing, you know we women have secrets, which you have no share in.'

" Secrets !'

" Yes; all sorts of little nothings.' "'Now you pique my cariosity. I must see it.' "'No, no, no; don't be absurd, Frederick.'

" ' To oblige me.'

"'Nonsense.'

" am serious.'

"'How can you ask such a thing? Who ever heard the like!' " I have a motive.'

" ' A motive ! what motive can you have ? ' " ' That is my affair; enough that I have one.'

" ' Yon are not he I suppose ? ' she said, scornfully. "'Why not?' he retohed, calmly. " This is too ridiculous! She was moving from the room.

"'Florence, lain not so to be put off I wish to see the letter. No matter what my motive—whether stupid curiosity, or stupider jealousy—enough that I wish it. Will you show it me?' "No, I will not,' said Florence, drawing herself up to her full height, and en- deavouring to crush him with the haughtiness of her indignant look. • • • "'Do you not see that your refusal puts the very worst construction possible?' "'Let it do so. I am above suspicion.' "'Then you brave me?' he said fiercely. " No—I despise you!' And with this insult she passed into her bedroom, with the most scornful look that her outraged feelings could call up. • • *

"Half an hour afterwards she rose and walked to the door of her boudoir. Looking in, she saw her husband in the same position as that in which she had left him; his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was whistling with a sort of ghastly resolution. She walked up to him, saying gently= Frederick, we have been very childish. I am sorry for what I said, but you provoked me beyond my power of restraint.' She held out her hand to him—' You forgive me, don't you. "'If you show me the letter.'

" What ! still at your suspicions?' " Until they are removed.'

"She turned haughtily from him; and, taking her letter from the case, pre- sented it to him, saying= Since you persist, read. If its contents displease you, it is your own fault.'" The domestic feud is patched up in a hollow truce : husband and Wife contrive to keep up appearances; but Florence is easily tempted by an idler in search of a sensation where he supposes that he can have it with- out cost to himself: she abandons her husband, flies to her lover, and discovers in him a coward aghast at her "imprudence." The selfishness of Florence is punished at every turn by its own recoil. The whole of her story is vigorously written.

Indeed it may be said that the whole of the second part of the book makes out its case with great power and nicety. The moral is, that real passion is not a thing to be tampered with : it is to be controlled if you will, but not to be played with, nor simulated, nor ignored. Like fire, it is not to be counterfeited ; and it destroys what it does not cherish.