NOVELS.
A PORTENTOUS HISTORY.*
Mn. TENNYSON may be congratulated on having struck out a new line in fiction by assigning the central role to a real giant. Hitherto giants have hardly received fair treatment in the realms of romance. In fairy tales and the legends of knight-errantry they are generally of the ogre type, and are rarely invested with benevolent qualities. The tribe of Brobdingnag are not exactly attractive. Dwarfs, on the other hand, have attracted far more attention, though their malevolence has been perhaps unduly insisted on. This preference has no doubt a basis in the facts of life. Sovereigns have been anxious to procure regiments of giants, but have never, so far as we know, bestowed on a single repre- sentative of that species the privileges accorded to dwarfs, and for an obvious reason. Gigantic stature gives a man a certain physical advantage incompatible with the position of a Court favourite. Kings do not like to be looked down upon. The weakness and insignificance of a. dwarf ensures for him a certain compassion which cannot be extended to a colossus. Besides, dwarfs frequently make up in mental acuteness for what they lack in physical strength, and giants in real life have never been renowned for brains. We doubt whether, with the exception of Peter the Great, there was ever a man of over six feet six inches who was distinguished for anything but his height.
But if the giant of fact has seldom been a heroic or for- midable figure, the tragedy of gianthood is none the less a legitimate subject for the novelist in quest of pastures new, and Mr. Tennyson has carried out his self-imposed task with the enthusiasm and exuberance of a pioneer. The giant of his story is the son of poor Highland parents, who never• leaves the neighbourhood of his native village until he is grown up, and who throughout the entire course of those eighteen years leads a life of well-nigh unmitigated misery. Jim Macdonald—for that is his name—apart from the feeble and intermittent affection of his mother and the occasional inter- vention of a kind-hearted doctor, is misunderstood and mis- handled from his cradle. His father bitterly resents the burden of feeding and clothing this monstrous child, who threatens to eat him out of house and home. The children of the village regard him with mingled horror and derision. The dominie, an ill-conditioned pedant, lashes him with his tongue until Jim, goaded into frenzy, assaults his tormenter and is removed from the school. Endowed with the strength of a man in early boyhood, he is sent to work in the quarries and enjoys a brief respite of neglect until the perse- cution is renewed by the minister. Jim lifts up his voice to join in the hymn, but his innocent bellowing is set down to sheer irreverence, and he is outlawed from the kirk. A legend of his savage ferocity grows up and is sedulously fostered by the minister, who contrives to set his own mother against him. Even his good friend the doctor is misled by these calumnies, for Jim has been cowed into speechlessness by the universal hostility of the neighbours. But the hardest blow of all is that dealt him by Jessie Mame, the village beauty, for whom he cherishes a wholly unrequited affection. He saves her life when she is attacked by a bull, and injures the animal so severely that it has to be shot, but Jessie keeps silence rather • d Portentous History. By Alfred Tennyson. London: W. Heinemann. Ettlq
than own indebtedness to the outlaw. At a subsequent meet- ing, when Jim declares his feelings, Jessie, who has been thrown over by the man she loves, explains herself with extra- ordinarily brutal frankness :-
"' Yes,' cried Jessie, careless now whether anyone from the Manse heard her or not, 'the Minister told me the story. I kennod the bull was deid and that ye were suspected of having killed it. The Meenister an' 0, he was an angry man, said ye did it cot o' malice and spite. That ye were tired of frightening wee bairns and tried for a change the frightening an' the hurting o' pair wordless animals. These were the words o' the Meenister, an' ma wither believed them an' Miss McManus believed them. They believe them still. For why ? Because I never said a single little word to mak' them think anything else. That day ye saved me from the bull was hatefu' to me then and wull be hatefu' a' my life. That was why I bade ye say naethin' to nobody and nae for my mither's sake. Naethin' wad frichten her. She's as placid as a coo an' as sleepy as a dormouse. I bade ye say naethin' be- cause I hated the very thocht o' your having saved me, yo ugly, feckless, speechless, dirty, mannerless loon. I wad surer Lae been saved by a convict free a gaol than you. I think I wad miner has been caught and killed. I wad has run tae the bull not free him, had I known it was you. I'm not like the ithers, not like Mr. McManus, an' I pity him in my heart if he thinks y'aro, in truth, wicked and cruel as he says. Nae, I ken ye better. If ye were really as wicked and cruel as he says, I might like ye. As it is, I despise ye and hate ye and has done the same ever since I was a bit bairn because y'are a lumbering, stupid, helpless, hopeless fule an' the ugliest, biggest, and clumiest gawk anyone has ever seen or is likely tae see. I knew, when ye were at schule, the!) ye hated bein' sae big an' that the thocht of it made ye miserable. An' every minute, every hour I was glad of it. Every time that I brocht a tear intae your ee, I was glad of it. Every day that I made miserable for ye, I went hame happy. Noo I has naethin' left tae love, but, thank God, I has you still tae hate. Hate is somethin' of a luxury, my ugly Jim. 0, I hate you, how I hate you! When ye saved me free the bull, d'ye ken what it was that made a' hate of ye come back, bigger and bigger and bigger than it ever was in the auld schule rays? Juist this, this, ye red-haired beast. Juist because I saw it made ye proud o' your huge an' ridiculous body, the body that a' we bairns used tae mock at the body that made ye miserable, an' me happy because ye were miserable. When I saw the licht o' pride in your ee instead o' the mild sadness, reckoned a gey ill day that made sic a change in ye, and pit me under sic an obligation. I believe ye thocht that I admired ye for your huge strength. Eediot ! When ye tauld me ye bad over- thrown the bull, ye seemed to me Wray human. Ye seemed juist a beast wha fooht wi beasts. The sicht of ye revolted, dis- gusted me. I hate your ugly big haunds. I hate your red hair. I hate your stupid, hideous face. I bate every pairt of your monstrous body. Och ! Jim, hoc I hate ye ! An' noo, I'll tell ye straight. I winna beat the bushes langer. Wad I had said a' this at first, but I was a coward an' a fule, like a' us wretched weemen. I wad'na say a word tae keep ye free the gaol doors. I wad'na lift a finger to save ye frae hangin'. Sae, Jim, they can send ye tae prison, and for the joy of it my heart wull sing. Wad I cud gloat ower ye as ye did a felon's wark or sat in a felon's cell ! It's out at last. I'm liohter for it. My heart is even singing the noo joist for the joy of tellin ye what I think of ye an hurtin' ye ante tnair as I did in the auld days, hurtin' mair, I'm hopin'. The anely thing that grieves me is that I ken I cud never hurt ye sae much again. It's cot at last and noo ye can do what ye like wi' me. Rill me if ye wull. I dinna care to live noo. I've lost the same as you, my ugly hatefu' Jim. I ken hoc it feels—as if ye dudna wush tee live ony mair. That's why my hairt is singing. I ken hoc ma words, every little word o' mine, hurts ye, an' I'm glad for it. My heart is singing, singing, singing because I've hurt ye as much as I hate ye."
This is the last straw, and Jim, maddened by this crowning evidence of hostility, runs wild across the country, stupefies himself with drink, and, after nearly dying of pneumonia, is restored by the doctor's skill and rescued from martyrdom by a Jewish impresario, who carries him off in triumph to join his circus as the tallest man in the world.
As may be gathered from this outline A Portentous History is not a cheerful story. There is hardly a single character, if we except the doctor, who engages the unreserved good-will of the reader, for Jim, in his outbursts of fury, "reels back into the brute" and excites more disgust than pity. But while the theme of the story is tragic the author's manner is exasperat• ingly vivacious. Mr. Tennyson has all sorts of tricks and affec-
tations. He is perpetually apostrophizing his characters, intruding his own personality, and exploding into Carlyiese comments. The book is a crude but forcible illustration of the resentment which ordinary people feel against the unusual; it has energy, a sense of the picturesque, and eloquence. But we have seldom read a first novel of promise which showed a more undisciplined talent or a greater lack of self-criticism.
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