White Wings: A Yachting Romance. By William Black. New York: Harper & Brothers.—Roy and Viola. By Mrs. Forrester. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.—The Wellfields. By Jessie Fothergill. (Leisure-Hour Series.) New York: Holt & Co.—Troublesome Daughters. By L.B. Walford. (Leisure—Hour Series.) New York: Holt & Co.—Brigitta. By Berthold Auerbach. (Leisure—Hour Series.) New York: Holt & Co.
There is a time appointed to read novels—a time which belongs, like that of other good things, to youth, when the real and the ideal merge into each other, and even the most practical beliefs turn upon the notion that the world was created for ourselves, and that the general system of things is bound to furnish circumstances and incidents which shall flatter our unsatisfied desires. It seems a pity that it should not fall to the lot of the critic to write down his impression of new books at this epoch, when he is most fitted to enjoy them. When romance and other delights have blankly vanished—" gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were"—he is scarcely fitted to trust the worth of his own impressions. Reading from mere idle curiosity or with critical intentions, and reading with delight, with eager absorption in the story and an eager desire to know how it turns out, are two different matters. The loss of this capacity for enjoyment of the every-day novel is not a subject for self-gratulation, coming as it does from our own absence of imagination and from narrowing instead of increasing powers. That period of our existence when we could read anything which offered should be looked back upon with a feeling of purely admiring regret, and in our efforts to master the novel of to-day we should endeavor to bring back the glory and the sweetness of the early dream.
It is not so very long ago that Mr. William Black's novels began to charm us. He did not take Fame at a single leap, but wooed her patiently, and suffered many a repulse. His first book, Ion; or, Marriage, was probably the very worst novel ever written by a man who was finally to make a great success. The Daughter of Heth achieved this result, and The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, A Princess of Thule and Macleod of Dar deepened, one by one, the witchery the first threw over us. The author's power was especially shown in investing his maidens with glamour and piquancy: Coquette and Sheila led their captives away from the suffocating dusts and the burning heats of life. Then his backgrounds were so well chosen—those mysterious reaches of the far northern seas, the slow twilights over the heaving ocean, the swift dawns, the storms and the lightnings, and the glad blue skies. Even the music of the bagpipes inspired lamentations only less sweet than notes of joy. Mr. Black still has lovely girls; his yachts still pitch and roll and scud over the tossed and misty Hebridean seas; there are the same magical splendors of air and sky and water and shores; the wail of the pibroch is heard as of yore—
Dunvegan! oh, Dunvegan!
Why, then, is it that his last book fails to do more than arouse dim memories of some previous enjoyment? Why are his violets without perfume? Why is his music vacant of the old melodies?
In Roy and Viola, on the contrary, Mrs. Forrester is seen at her best, and has given us a book of lively interest. The situation in some respects suggests that of Daniel Deronda: D'Arcy is a sort of Grandcourt cheapened and made popular, acting out his instincts of tyranny and brutality with more ostentation and less good taste. What is subtly indicated by George Eliot is given with profuse effect by the present writer. Viola, if not a Gwendolen, is yet an unloving wife. Sir Douglas Roy plays a somewhat difficult rôle—that of friend to the husband and undeclared lover to the wife—without losing our respect. He is in many ways a successful hero, and acts his part without either insipidity or priggishness. A genial optimist like Mrs. Forrester, as her old readers may well believe, sacrifices to a hopelessly unhappy marriage no lot which interests us. Disagreeable husbands die at an auspicious moment, and everybody is finally made happy in his or her own way, which includes the possession of plenty of money. The conversations are piquant, and the interest of the story is well kept up.
The Wellfields is a falling off from Probation, which in its turn was a distinct falling-off from Miss Fothergill's initial story, The First Violin. The characters are dim, intangible, remote, possessing no reality even at the outset, and as they progress becoming even more estranged from our belief and sympathy. Jerome is too feeble to arouse even our resentment, which we mildly expend on Sara instead for displaying grief for so poor a creature. When an author publishes one successful book, it should be a matter of serious thought whether it is not worth while to make such a triumph the crowning event of his or her destiny, lest Fate should have in reserve the tedious trials which await those who are compelled to hear that their sun has set.
Mrs. Walford's last book has, in a measure, retrieved a certain reputation for interest which her Cousins had lost. In Troublesome Daughters, however, one looks in vain for the fulfilment of the promise of Mr. Smith and her delightful Van: A Summer Romance.
In Brigitta we find enough of Auerbach's charm to like the story, simple as it is. It recalls his greater books only by the fidelity of the tone and the clearness of the pictures. Xander is well drawn, and the tragedy of his life, portrayed as it is by those few strong touches which reveal the real artist, is profoundly impressive.