Charles Kingsley.
Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) was a novelist "by way of by-work," and had intellect and energy which might have found for themselves other fields; born thirty years earlier he might have distinguished himself under Wellington or Nelson. But in piping times of peace, after living the life of an athlete, sportsman, and reading man at Magdalene, Cambridge, he took holy orders, as Colonel Gardiner might have done, had he been earlier converted. As Rector of Eversley in Hampshire, he was an energetic parish priest, and had opportunities of angling for those uneducated trout which he commemorates in his pleasant "Chalk Stream Studies," for he was a born naturalist and observer of nature. The agitation among the labouring classes in the times of the Chartists awakened him to social questions and "Christian Socialism"; but as the excitement of the populace lulled, his interest slackened. The fruits of it were the novels of "Yeast" and "Alton Locke" (1848, 1850) which well deserve to be read, and repay the reader. It is almost incredible that Cambridge crews, in Kingsley's day, rowed in the May week after wine-parties and much eating of ices; but the sympathy with "sweated" artisans and the delineation of rural scenes and sports, are fiery, forcible, and sincere, whatever the truth may be about Cambridge training at that distant date. In 1853 he produced "Hypatia," a romance of the pagan girl-philosopher, torn to pieces by the Christian mob of Alexandria. The advent of Goths who cut up these beasts is a welcome relief, but the Jew who attempts humorous philosophy is merely a proof of Kingsley's lack of humour and an example of his characteristically strenuous efforts to be humorous. The book is, indeed, a boy's book, and has something in it, Kingsley's preoccupation with sexual ethics, which is not so agreeable to reflective seniors. Somewhat of this, with an aggressive Protestantism, and the sin of "jocking wi' deeficulty," mar the otherwise delightful romance of "Westward Ho!" the adventures of Amyas Leigh on the Spanish Main and in tropical forests in the great days of Elizabethan adventure. Kingsley hates and execrates the Spaniards. We have ourselves exterminated some savage peoples, and nearly exterminated others, and have no right to throw the first stone at the Spanish conquerors in America, odious beyond words as their dealings with Aztecs and Incas were; while the Privy Council, under Cecil, could give points in cruelty to the Spanish Inquisition of the day. But the boy who reads, or ought to read, "Westward Ho!" has none of these chilling reflections, nor had Kingsley. Taking the facts as Kingsley saw them, in the old English way, the novel is a superlatively excellent romance of English virtue and valour; and there is no doubt as to the valour and the adventurers had no doubts as to their own virtues. The whole is the work of a poet—for a poet Kingsley was,—and of a patriot, sympathizing with Drake's England in the crucial trial whence she emerged a victor. "Where are the galleons of Spain?"
"Two Years Ago," a novel of the Crimean War, must take its chances with the historical facts; and, in "Hereward the Wake," the bloodthirsty hero, despite the glory of his final fight, which rivals that of the brave Bussy or of Grettir the Strong in the Saga, in places awakes the smile even of the reflective schoolboy, to whom however, it may be recommended. "The Water Babies" is not always defective in humour, and would be excellent as a tale for children were it not for satire directed at the parents of the period. "The Heroes" initiate the young into the glories of the romance of Minyans and Minoans, and can only be spoken of by those who read it in early boyhood with entire gratitude and the remembrance of delight. Indeed, no one who has read Kingsley after the age of 16 is a fair critic of an author who, like R. L. Stevenson, was always at heart a boy; to appreciate him we must put away grown-up things; while, as to his verse, his songs and ballads, in "Andromeda" (1858), and even his hexameters, deserve immortality. He was not fitted for the Chair of History at Cambridge.
Froude thinks that Kingsley's a divine,
And Kingsley goes to Froude for history,
said the poet. His controversy with Cardinal Newman brought him into contact with a prettier fighter, and he did not come up to time against the author of the "Apologia". His essays, especially that on the Puritan aversion to the Caroline drama, are vigorous, and well worth reading.
The brother of Charles Kingsley, Henry (1830-1876) either wanted leisure or lacked care and constructive faculty, but in his earlier works he displayed high spirits, and kind humour, with a good deal of skill in drawing character, and an engaging reckless manner. His most careful book, "Geoffrey Hamlyn," though promising, is not so dear to its readers as "Ravenshoe," a delightful topsy-turvy romance. The children in Henry Kingsley's books are especially fascinating.
Here we may briefly advert to two writers who with remarkable originality of character and outlook as novelists appeal to but small but devoted audiences. Thomas Love Peacock (1785-1866) was an almost self-made classical scholar, and a friend of Shelley's. His contributions to Shelley's biography are those of a rather candid though intensely admiring friend. His novels, from the early "Headlong Hall" and "Melincourt," and "Nightmare Abbey," to "Gryll Grange," at the end of his career, are not so much romances as discursive and satirical studies of, and dialogues about, contemporary society, opinion, and taste. Some of the characters are drawn, in part, from real personages, for example, from Shelley himself. The wit which Shelley called so keen, occasionally yields place to somewhat florid burlesque. The interest of Peacock is partly that which we feel in his own character and satiric views of life; partly it is historical.
George Borrow (1803-1881), a Norfolk man, who in childhood had followed his father's regiment as Sterne had done, can be best estimated by a study of his "Lavengro," really a sort of autobiography. Here he paints himself as a genius in the study of many languages, a friend of gypsies and their fellow-wanderer; an expert in the art of boxing, and altogether as a character equally vigorous and eccentric, and a sturdy Low Churchman who hates Papists, snobs, and Sir Walter Scott. Whether on the moors with the Viper-catcher; or at horse-fairs with jockeys and thimble-riggers; or as the hack of a niggardly publisher; or fighting the Flaming Tinman under the eyes of the lovely but unconvincing Isopel Berners, Borrow is always the strong, wild, tameless heroic figure. As an agent for the Bible Society in Spain he was in a place which suited his genius, and his "The Bible in Spain" is at least as romantic as evangelical. "The Romany Rye" is of the same fantastically autobiographical form as "Lavengro"; brilliantly capricious and picturesque. Other books are "The Gypsies in Spain," and "Wild Wales". Borrow plumed himself much on his wide range of philological learning, from Welsh to Manchu, but the strict modern science does not regard him as a very great scholar. There are dull stagnant places in his books, and there are passages aflame with genius.
Mrs. Oliphant (Mary Margaret Wilson (1828-1897)) was a woman of letters who heroically undertook incessant labour for the sake of others who were dependent on her pen. Consequently her gifts were diluted, and she must always be best known for the novels styled "The Chronicles of Carlingford," which are remarkable for their placid unstrained humour. More than once she displayed a very unusual power of dealing with the supernatural, especially in "A Beleaguered City," and "Old Lady Mary". In these pieces her manner is unique for tenderness and sympathy. In her historical biographies, as of Molière and Jeanne d'Arc, she suffered from want of strict training, and if she found a good thing of apocryphal source, inserted it on its literary merits. Her work on the publishing "House of Blackwood" is valuable to the student of literature and literary lives in the days of Wilson and Lockhart. Few who have written so much have written so well.
Wilkie Collins (1824-1889), a close associate of Dickens, was an assiduous professional novelist, who strenuously did his best and achieved two or three immense popular successes. His main strength lay in the construction of plots which powerfully excited curiosity, as in "The Woman in White," "No Name," and "The Moonstone"; the former was apparently suggested by the mystery of a French law suit, which dragged on from before the Revolution to the reign of Louis Philippe. The central puzzle, a question of identity, never was solved. Collins did his best to create characters, as well as to tell stories, but his humour was laboured (Captain Wragge is his chief success), and he shared with Dickens the mannerism of constantly dwelling on the tricks and hobbies of his people. For a long and warm appreciation of Collins, Mr. Swinburne's essay may be consulted. The work of his later years and overtasked fancy, such as "Poor Miss Finch" and "The Haunted Hotel," may be neglected; some of his short stories are good.