FIVE CHIMNEY FARM.*
" 0 MY juvenile friends !" says Mr. Chadband, in Bleak House, "if the master of this house was to go forth into the city and there see an eel, and was to come back and say, I have seen an elephant,' would that be Terewth?" It was the recollection of these absurd words that checked the genial current of praise with which we were at first inclined to hail the authoress of Five- Chimney Farm. We were so charmed by the plain, straightforward style in which this novel is written, and so pleased to find the dull and simple annals of a Sussex home-farm changing into a graphic sketch of the terrible Paris street-fights of June, '48, that we
were on the point of breaking out into a panegyric on Miss Hoppus, not less warm and (we fear now) much more exaggerated than that with which Macaulay loved to praise the authoress of Mansfield Park, as well as other less known and less deserving novelists whom the nugivorous historian delighted to honour. Second thoughts, however, have led us to believe that by neglecting Mr. Chadband's pregnant question we might be doing an injustice, not only to our readers, but also to Miss Hoppus herself. Praise her novel we undoubtedly can, with a clear conscience and a light heart ; praise it, that is, as a pure, a wholesome, and an inter- esting book ; but further than this we are afraid to go, on more accounts than one. And yet such praise as this seems hardly high enough, when we see how very little there is in this novel which, without censorious carping, we can blame. It is, we fancy, the .work of a " 'prentice hand," and what is more, of a youthful hand, and the writer deserves no niggard meed of recognition for venturing out of the beaten track, and for so boldly pressing the Muse of History into her service. We need not, indeed, draw invidious comparisons, and seek to raise the merits of this honest little water-colour by contrasting it with the glaring " oleographs " of other lady novelists. It is enough to say that Miss Hoppus has succeeded best where success was least to have been looked for, and that the historical part of her story is better done than that which is purely fictitious. Whether this augurs well for her future success as a novel-writer is a ques- tion which we need not discuss, but the change for the better is in every respect so marked when she shifts her scene from the
Sussex village to the capital of France, that we were inclined at first to suspect the presence of another pen. Even had such been the case, we were by no means inclined to grumble. It has been audaciously conjectured that the pens of more Georges than one had a share in the writing of Daniel Deronda,—which, how- ever, we do not believe,—and we should laud rather than blame a writer, whose object being merely to give pleasure, would be willing to accept assistance from extraneous quarters. We feel, however, that our original conjecture was unfounded, and in that case we may fairly claim attention for the following remark- able, though we believe unjust, sketch of Louis Blanc, from the
hand, be it remembered, of a young and (as we suppose) unprac- tised authoress :—
" This young theorist, who looks, in stature and appearance, a boy of fifteen, with the charming, expressive face, and the beautiful, bold, roving black eyes, who is always laughing, always talking, always gesticulating, holds in his hands the destinies of the Revolution. He had taught the working-classes to think that decrees of Government and artificial restrictions were all that they needed. Just as the world was beginning to find out the fallacies of Protection, an ultra-Radical and Democrat proposed a more rigid interference than ever with the labour market. But then this Democrat was a bookman and a theorist. The moment any practical difficulty arose, he was out of his element. He had genius, force of character, and an honest intention to benefit mankind, but his egotism spoiled all. Naturally gentle, he became the accomplice of the most vile, rather than let himself be supplanted in popularity. With all his genius, he could not realise that honest men might differ from him, nor see what he was doing, or making it possible for others to do. Naturally honest, ho became a double-dealer. He fomented the plans of Blanqui and Raspail over-night, and in the morning stood apart, pale and disconcerted, while his colleagues fought the battle. Not quite a coward, he was not brave ; not quite a traitor, he was not tree."
It is not our purpose to analyse the plot, or sketch the incidents of Five Chimney Farm. Those who have read what is probably
• Five Chimney Farm: a Novel. By Mary A. M. Hoppna. London: Sampson Low and Co. 1877. the most brilliant chapter in what is certainly the most brilliant work of Victor Hugo, will feel, if they deign to read this novel, an abiding sense of disappointment. But the English translation of Les Miserables is a thing of naught, and students of the original are, we believe, not very numerous among us, and we are sure that there are many novel-readers who will be pleased as well as instructed by Miss Hoppus's account of the most famous street-fight which history records. Such readers, however, will naturally enough look to the purely fictitious portions of this book for their chief amusement, and if their own taste be not thoroughly spoilt by the strong and unwholesome stimulants of sensational romances, we cannot think that they will be disap- pointed. Parts of the first volume are indeed almost silly in their simplicity. They are photography and not painting, and photo- graphy applied to the commonest and stalest of mortal things- Miss Hoppus is not a mistress of that alchemy with which Dickens could transmute a pair of boots or a door-plate, and at times her story sinks to the level of a Sunday book for children under ten. It is crude also at limes, and not amusing in its crudity, and we can imagine that before a decade of years—or months, shall we say ?—have passed, Miss Hoppus herself will hardly read without " indescribable sensations " such a funny little burst as this :—" The barn-door fowl's wings are not of much use to him, perhaps ; and even that noble animal the goose seldom flies very far,—but what should we think of fowl or goose whom no provocation could induce to take wing ?" Such blemishes as these, however, are few and far between in Five Chimney Farm, and the way in which Miss Hoppus treats the subject of love, which has been called the novelist's touchstone, is admirable- In these days of whiskered " seraphs " and silky-moustachioed "cherubs," whose love is as unstrained as coffee made without a biggin, and who breakfast late on " corked claret," and " govern themselves accordingly " for the rest of the day, it is refreshing to come across a manly and sensible young fellow like Felix Darrell. And then the heroine herself,—how charmingly, to use the good old phrase, she falls in love ! " The fire had long been smouldering, and needed but a breath of air to fan it into a flame. She had thought sometimes that love, the love we read of in books, was a pretty fable. Of course people loved somehow, but not, in her experience at least, in this wild, unreason- ing fashion. She herself had had dreams of noble love,— love free from all self-seeking, all pettiness ; love which could gladly and easily be true, through any misfortunes ; love which absence could not shake, nor the world's frown chill. But the love which overmastered her now was not like this. It included it, but unconsciously ; it was conscious of nothing but absolute love. It knew no comparisons, no degrees, no reasonings. It was pure spirit, the outgoing of one soul towards another soul, the longing to mingle her being with his, and so be one. The great mystery of love, which those who jest upon it know not, and which not every one who praises it understands, the merging of one's individuality, the losing of one's self to find it, and so be alive for the first time, had come to her at last." Veterans and cynics may shake their heads over words so inco- herent as these and may smile at the eagerness which pours them forth, regardless whether to the logical ear they signify nothing. But by far the noblest and finest praises of love have been sung by men whose brains were cool and whose pulses were steady while they were singing them, and for all we know, there may breathe more genuine passion as well as truth in these short- winded accents than in all the splendid imagery of Plato and in all the mystical subtleties of Dante.
But we are getting out of our depth, and will return to the more congenial. task of criticising what we can under- stand. In her third volume, Miss Hoppus gives us her ideas about prayer, and difficult as the subject is, she treats it very well. The strong point against the non-praying theory is clearly this,—that in the hour of extreme peril a spoken or speechless " Good Lord deliver us !" bursts from the lips and heart of every man, and we must leave the thinkers who follow Mr. Tyndall's view to explain away that fact as they can. Miss Hoppus makes the most of it, but perhaps in a rather too com- bative and feminine manner. The best passage on prayer that quiet good-sense ever penned was written by a novelist, and is to be found in the most unequal of all Scott's novels, the Heart of Midlothian. We have praised Miss Hoppus's style, and we believe with justice, but we object to such a word as "solva- bility," applied to a man who is able to pay his debts. We are rather surprised, too, to find in this book so old a friend or foe as a l'outrance, which is banished even from the pages of that amus- ing paper which still astonishes us with zele and ce'le'brites chez eux. There must be something particularly seducing to an English ear in this mistake; and Shakespeare uses, it may be remembered, the phrase of " to the utterance." But Miss Hoppus's gravest fault in these minor matters is the disregard which she shows for what we suppose we may still call ' Lempriere.' She brings the shade of Napoleon I. upon the stage in company with Hannibal and Caesar and Antiochus, and she speaks of a lady looking at her unwelcome wooer as Diana looked upon Argus. It is easy to see how the first mistake arose. Antiochus the Great and Alexander the Great are as alike as Macedon and Monmouth, but we are at a loss to guess the process by which Actmon has been changed into -a " very,—very peacock." Anyhow, Miss Hoppus must leave such amusing errors as these to the well-known authoress who may be said to enjoy the monopoly of them, for however much good- fortune and industry may help this young lady in her future efforts, she must never hope to rival " Ouida " in this particular branch of mirth-provoking pleasantry.
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