AN ANGLO-HIBERNIAN NO VT L.*
Tin moods of this booli are strong and sustained, if not especi- ally varied. The prevailing tone is gloomy, rainy, and uncom- fortable: the wind moans in the reader's ears, and ever and anon shrieks madly across some lonely heath; chilly fogs arise, -the heavens are dark, the roads slippery with mud ; people struggle about in heavy ulsters or other outside garments, which become more and more drenched with the immitigable rain. Iu country villages, stolid and brutal peasants inflame themselves with beer, and give chase to mysterious outcasts in bloody rags, ghastly of countenance, with burning, staring eyes. Grim gamekeepers, with evil smiles or scowls of fury, dog the inno- cent footsteps of well-intentioned, but unlucky young Trish people. Now a black river glides noiselessly past our feet, as we stumble iu the wet grass of the slippery bank: Hark ! what footsteps are those ? what smothered voices ? what dim forms, like shadows, flitting across the gloom ? A torch flashes —many .torches ! a shot rings out—more than one ! a human shriek of agony eusuek, and there lies his wicked little lordship, with a ghastly wound in his shirt-front. Hereupon must follow scenes of domestic woe ; lonely watchers surprised by the white faces of murderous convicts pressed against the midnight window- pane; the door is opened ; blood and rags, and unkempt beard and locks, and burning, staring eyeballs, are all upon us once more. Now, since you are a Roman Catholic, swear upon the Cross that you will not betray me ! It is done. Therefore, when the trial comes on, poor Madge dare not, for her oath's sake, save poor, dear Conn by confessing the truth ; and the evil-eyed game- keeper, and the slender, unprincipled, beautiful, and mysterious ward of his late lordship arc consequently enabled to swear away his innocent life,—almost. We can partly excuse the gamekeeper, who had an old grudge to settle ; but we are scandalised by the beautiful ward. What ! swear away the life of a man whom you not only know to be innocent, but whose .strong arms were round you, and whose passionate kisses were upon your lips, at the very moment that the fatal shot was fired ! It is too bad, especially as you,had £10,000 and the jewels left you by the will, and might, therefore, have married hint, and lived to be the respectable mother of an Anglo-Hibernian family in the bogs of Ballymoy.
But leaving the moods aside, let us examine the story from other points of view. Being the story of a trial, it suffers, as
such stories must, from two causes. In the first place, fill that portion of the book which precedes the doing of the fatal deed must needs be so contrived as to make the circumstantial evidence at the trial set dead against the innocent accused. In
the second place, the accused must inevitably be saved by in- ..
* Madge Diawaren : a Novel. By the Author of "Queen of Connaught," ac. 8 role. Loudon: Bentley. ism calculable means, just as the noose is settling round his neck.; nor can any amount of seeming danger wherewith the ingenuity of the author invests him, shake for one instant our serene con- viction that it will come out all right at last. Now, these are drawbacks, because they give the reader too plain a view of the' writer's method and machinery ; we see him craftily pulling his ropes, and colouring his scenery, and preparing the pots which contain his blue and red lights ; and we say, " This is not thunder,—it is zinc !" And if a plot of this predestinate de- scription is injurious to the reader, to the writer it is yet more so, and to the characters of the story most of all. These last unfortunate personages must never forget, from the earliest dawn of their existence, that they are to be the principals, or the accessories, or the witnesses, or the accused, of the fatal crime ; and they must think, Speak, act, and develop themselves, not as- nature would have them do, but as the dramatic and construc- tive necessities of the grand "situation " require. This, in our opinion, is a state of things not favourable to the conscientious., and unexaggerated portrayal of character ; and young authors. especially would do well to keep themselves clear of it. The creative gift is not too common among our recent novelists, and care should be taken by them not to handicap whatever faculty of the kind they may be lucky enough to possess.
But to tell the truth, we doubt whether the author of Madge Dicuraven is at her best in the portrayal of character. In her present work, at all events, there is no very. striking or consistent figure ; and this, although no attempt is made to produce anything out of the common run. The failure fully to realise a complex and powerful personality may be forgiven to the fiction-monger, in consideration of the excellence of the intention ; but when he flies only at small game, we have a right to expect that he shall bring them down to the reader's comprehension. In Madge Danravcrt we meet with nobody who enlarges or elevates our knowledge of human nature ; nor are we made to see and hear distinctly those in whose existence we are asked to believe. Not that they aro carelessly presented; there is, properly speaking, very littlo careless work of any kind in the book ; but there is a lack of sharpness and raciness of outline, their action is warped by the exigencies of what the writer knows they have to do, rather than by what the reader sees that they have done; and they are too much tinged, at various times, by the prevailing hue of their various surroundings. Madge herself, the true-hearted., tender, courageous little Irish maiden, by whom we have every desire to be captivated, provokingly eludes our homage, by re- fusing to give us any reasonable account of herself', or, shall wo say, by neglecting to collect into a tangible and recognisable individuality the numerous charming attributes wherewith the author credits her. She is dispersed and unsatisfying, like the photograph of a person who has walked across the field of the. camera, instead of standing still in front of it. As for Conn, the broad-shouldered, hot-hearted, handsome Irish lad, he is two persons, if not three, during the course of the tale ; and in his latter phases, he fails to retain the respect and affection which we were prepared to lavish upon him in his earlier state. Moreover, during the course of a trial, and imprisonment lasting not more than two or three months, he contrives to add no less than thirty years to his apparent age; although, as the author is careful to inform us, the colour of his hair remains unaltered. George Aldyn, the second hero, is the most clearly conceived character in the book ; and the most commendable passages are those iu which is delineated the gradual bettering, under Madge's influence, of this young gentle- man's b/a6.<5 and cynical disposition. Matthew Dalton, the mysterious and ghastly-visaged vagabond, always bleeding, always wringing wet, and always wiping his forehead with the cuff of his ragged coat, is consistent in his improbability, if in nothing else ; nevertheless, the presentation of him is occasion-• ally forcible, and always unpleasant. Rosamond, the beautiful ward of doubtful parentage, who is the recipient of most of the passionate kisses and vehement embraces, is, upon the whole, tolerably well sketched, and should have been made more of. But she, like Conn, dwindles into insipidity at the end, and time astounding perjury which she commits at the trial is grotesquely impossible, and was, we fear, ascribed to her merely for the sake of dramatic effect. Aud by-the-by, we are inclined to suspect that the author of this novel intended, „den she began it, to bring it to a conclusion different from that which she has actually given it. We think she would have done more wisely to carry out her original intention. Rosamond and George Aldyn are parallel characters ; and as the latter is reclaimed by Madge, so should the former have been by Conn. It is true that a sensational episode or two would have been missed by this arrangement, but we would gladly have dispensed with them for the sake of the increased truth and delicacy of the alternative construction. However, novelists must write their own stories in their' own way, and if they yield to the tempta- tion of sacrificing what is subtle and difficult to what is striking and easy, they will probably gain in popularity what they lose in reputation.
But if Madge Dlt1WaVen, has many defects, it is not without some merits. The style in which it is written is clear and easy. The story depends, for such attractiveness as it possesses, upon no vulgar impropriety. The characters do not talk fashionable slang. A good deal of picturesque effect is obtained by the device of contrasting the English with the Irish char- acter, though the coldness and stiffness of the one and the simplicity and unconventionality of the other are perhaps a trifle overdone. The descriptions of scenery and of meteoro- logical phenomena are open to no worse charge than that of being dolorously common-place ; but they show observation and care, and they are seldom extravagant and incorrect. The general effect, however, of both the scenery and the per- sons resembles those water-colour drawings which young ladies produce at watering-places ; the colouring is flat and immodu- lated, and there is a cautions avoidance of detail. ;5in col.• rect and felicitous detail that the true artist, in novels as well as in water-colours, is revealed. By this he shows, not only that he knows how to work, but that he enjoys working. And no artist who does not enjoy using pen or pencil ought to take either in hand. We take the liberty to recommend to the author of Madge Danraven, a careful consideration of the method of such men as Richardson and Balzac. She describes often enough, and at sufficient length, and yet her descriptions are stamped. She does not describe the right things, Her feeling is better and truer than her sight. She can never so immerse herself in her story as to forget that she is writing it. Much that she does would win our commendation, if we could but divest ourselves of the notion that she intended it to be commendable. It lacks spontaneity. The best literature seems to grow out of the mind of the reader as he reads, and it is only by a deliberate effort that he realises his detachment from it. Great writers, no matter how oppressive their egotism and self-deceit when away from their desks, become impersonal as soon as they return to them again. Their art absorbs them, in their own despite. Who more vain than Goldsmith or than Balzac P And yet, who could pick out from Pere Goriot or from The Vicar of lrakefield the personali- ties of their author P The author of Madge Dauraven is not a great writer, but if she had not been greatly above the average, both in design and execution, we should not have intruded upon her so much untoward criticism and advice. We believe that she may do far finer work than she has thought of doing yet ; but then, she Must be something more than commendable, and something better than conscientious.
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