Tales of the North Riding. By Stephen Yorke. Smith, Elder, and Co.
The title of this book led us to expect that 'Stephen Yorke' had attempted to do for Yorkshire what the author of 'Lorna Doone' has so admirably done for Devonshire, or what, in his 'Wenderholme,' Mr. Hammerton has done for the Yorkshire and Lancashire borders. We are disappointed. 'Stephen Yorke' is not the impersonation of a genius loci, although there is no reason to deny that she may be a Yorkshire-woman; nor have the four stories any very distinctive local colouring. Neither the descriptions of natural scenery nor the reproduction of the vernacular is characteristic enough to necessitate a Yorkshire locale rather than a Devonshire one. It might be an imperfect representation of either, save, indeed, that the items of natural configuration catalogued are more true of Scarborough than they are of Lynton. The forte of the authoress certainly does not lie in description. We can, however, speak much more favourably concerning her powers of portraiture. The characters of her four stories are well conceived and delicately discriminated. The tone is artistic and tender, and the treatment skilful; a quiet and acute observation of the gentler sorrows of human life, sometimes, however, as in Lizzie—the heroine of Thorpe House Farm—developing into sad domestic tragedy, and considerable power in daguerreotyping it, are the writer's forte. Thorpe House Farm is the best story of the four, and is very pathetic; when the authoress attempts stronger positions she becomes sensational, as in the quarrel of 'Squire Hasildene and his Son,' and the rough winter experiences of the latter in Danesborough. There is much that is natural and touching in the delineation of Mrs. Wynburn and her daughter; the yearnings of the mother, and the breaking down of the cold reserve of the daughter after the not very original mishap which befel her. Sophia Wynburn is a very clever creation. The book is not great, but there is a certain something in it which indicates a power of character-painting which itself has not adequately realized, and which may, when it has shaken off what 'A. K. H. B.' would call a little of the 'vealy,' and when it has acquired the confidence and skill of practised writing, develope into a distinctive gift. The stories are very pleasant reading—that is, they are admirable in tone and interesting in execution.
For Lack of Gold: A Novel. By Charles Gibbon. Blackie and Sons.
Success has produced upon Mr. Gibbon the effect that it always does produce upon true men: it has animated him to painstaking effort. 'For Lack of Gold' is a piece of very genuine workmanship, and its effect upon us is that we have to restrain our strong inclination to eulogize instead of criticize. The defect of the story is that the painful tension is too great; it wants the relief of quiet scenes and composed feelings. Angus and Annie are in a chronic agony. Shakespeare understood the tragic art better; strong passions can be only occasional, and 'Lear' without the fool would be too painful. This, however, is almost the only fault we have to find. The writing is good, and the little descriptive bits evince the keen and careful eye as well as the skilful hand of an artist. The beautiful and tender touches with which the work is inlaid—the genuine pathos of even the most intense feeling is very powerful; the well-regulated freedom of the artist's hand—the carefully-studied tone of the dialogue—the constructive skill of the plot—the fine moral atmosphere of the whole—even the humour of the mere Scottish dialect—all are accessories essential to the best work, but in one or more of which even very good work is sometimes lacking. But the prime quality of every novel is its characterization, and in this Mr. Gibbon has been eminently successful. The conception of Annie's character, and of the blind instinct of noble, self-sacrificing love that always guides her rightly even when she seems to be acting most fatally, are very able and beautiful. Angus, again, in another way exhibits the same characteristics, the difference being chiefly that between man and woman, for in love it is true that the superiority is with the woman. Angus's mother is after the type of Robert Falconer's mother,—a fine Scottish matron, full of Calvinism and stern tenderness. Annie's father, and Dalquherrie, the evil geniuses of the piece, are also well conceived; they exhibit two natural, types of selfishness. Nor must we omit to mention that strange compound of incontinence, soldierliness, eccentricity, and fidelity,—the Deil—a creation worthy of Scott.
Altogether we congratulate Mr. Gibbon on a second very marked success, which bids fair to place him, as a describer of Scottish forms of our common humanity, at no very great distance from George Macdonald.
The Beautiful Miss Harrington. By Holme Lee, Author of 'Basil Godfrey's Caprice,' &c. Smith, Elder, and Co.
The accomplished writer who passes by the pseudonym of Holme Lee has added to her reputation by this novel. It is written with great care and felicitousness of style, with perfect taste, and much delicacy of conception. As might be expected, it is pure as the driven snow, and very life-like in delineation. It professes to be written by one of the principal actors in the tragic story, the wife of the rector of the parish in which the history developes itself, and every complication of event and thought, and all the balancings of motive reach the reader through the heart and mind of this one individual. She is a nimble, strong-minded little woman, with an abhorrence of shams, and an outspokenness at times quite astonishing. This old, old story of love arrested by family pride and selfishness, and ending in cruel disappointment and perverse conjugal relations, in a semblance of madness, in cruel suspicions, fever, and death, has often been told, but not often from the standpoint of a sympathetic, loving spectator and intimate friend of the suffering heroine. The only drawback is, that we are never admitted to the secret heart of any masculine actor in the drama; we are never introduced into the privacy of the lover, or the father, or the grasping heir-at-law of the 'beautiful Miss Barrington.' The presumed biographer is always present, or quoting extracts from Felicia Barrington's letters, or relating the gossip of her friends or her enemies. We question whether poetical justice is altogether done, either to the selfish father, the long-suffering husband, or to the sneaking, hypocritical reptile who is the marplot of Felicia's happiness. There are so many ways in which the machinations of her enemies might have easily been disappointed, that it is evident that Holme Lee repudiates the position of being 'privy councillor to Providence,' to use one of her own expressions. Felicia does conquer world, flesh, and devil after a fashion, and her cruelly-used, high-minded, but intolerably blundering lover, notwithstanding his gentleness and his Victoria Cross, his forbearance and patience, deserves his fate; but then, after he has intentionally broken the tender heart of the heroine, he provokingly consoles himself with another love. We are not sure that a ward in Chancery and heiress of entailed estates could have conferred on her husband such powers as the wife and daughter of Mr. Barrington successively entrusted to him; but let that pass. We thank Holme Lee for her fascinating story, the moral of which is,—let young lovers be true to their plighted word, though fathers, guardians, duennas, family dignity, titled suitors, death's heads and cross-bones all demand instant and precipitate repudiation.
In that State of Life. By Hamilton Aïdé. Smith, Elder, and Co.
There is not much to be said about Hamilton Aïdé's little story. The plot is slight. Maud, the stepdaughter of Sir Andrew Herriesson, a pompous, irascible, narrow-minded baronet, is goaded into clandestinely leaving his house, after refusing a wealthy match upon which he was beset. She answers an advertisement, and becomes an under lady's maid, with a stipend of twenty pounds a year, to Mrs. Cataret, whose son falls in love with her, and, after a due amount of difficulty and fuming, marries her. The story is told in a simple, straightforward way, and the characters are well delineated, especially that of the vivacious half-French Mrs. Cataret, and of noble-hearted John Miles, the curate. If the story does not encourage ill-used baronets' stepdaughters to run away, it may, harmlessly enough, fill up an idle hour.
Squire Arden. By Mrs. Oliphant. Hurst and Blackett.