The Press.
London, England, 1858-03-20 00:00:00

NEW NOVELS.

1. Wlurt you Will. An Irregular R'mance. Lon-

don : J. W. Parker and Son.
2. The Moors and the Fens. By F. G. Trafford.

Three Vols. London : Smith and Elder.
3. Wild Oats. By Lascelles Wramaii. London :

Brown.
4. Katherine; and the Moment of Fortune. Trans-
lated by Lady Wallace. Three Vols. London :
Bentley.
5. The Royal Sisters. By Mrs. Robert Cartwright.

Two Vols. London : Hope and Co.
1. INTERNAL evidence would probably lead a reader
to assign the authorship of this book to one of the
immaturer contributors to the late arford and Cam.
bridge Magazine, a periodical containing some essays
of striking merit, but, of which the tales and stories
could not be considered to have exhibited anything
like equal excellence. The latter displayed the usual
characteristics of undergraduate literature ;—a little
learning, a little more pedantry, much affectation and
some sentiment, an amiable wish to regenerate
society, and a great ignorance of real life, except as
viewed through the spectacles of Kingsley, Tennyson,
and Carlyle, not without occasional gleams of modest
doubt as to whether the writers themselves had
actually solved the problem of existence. The
volume before us is distinguished by all these marks
except the last, which is the chief reason for our
being inclined to speak unfavourably of it. The
author is not without elegance of mind, and has evi-
dently thought for himself, though after a somewhat
crude and superficial fashion. This would be of
little consequence, did he show any sign of diffidence
respecting his views. But his tone is one of such
entire self-complacency, and he seems so thoroughly
persuaded that he has said exactly the right thing on
every occasion, that one feels rather doubtful of his
further progress or improvement. It is probably
this temper which has led him to present his
materials in their present undigested form. An
author is of course at liberty to make his romance
" irregular," or anything else he pleases, provided he
can show that something is gained by it. But the
" irregularity" of this book, as it appears to us, is
simply a clumsiness of structure, which has no ad-
vantage but the questionable one of giving facilities
for the author's discursiveness on things in general,
and the decided defect of preventing a reader from
seeing any plan or purpose in the story till he is
half way through it. This is all very well in a book
like " Yeast," where even those who disregard the
social theories are interested by the scenes and cha-
racters ; but in "'What you Will " there is no such
vigorous portraiture or knowledge of human nature
as to justify a departure from established forms.
There is, indeed, a distant resemblance to Mr.
Kingsley's story, but the one before us is a much
milder " brew." Leonard Brown is but a pale reflec-
tion of Lancelot Smith ; and the characters have that
conventional stamp which usually results from an
attempt at powerful writing by a person of insuffi-
cient experience. The hero—if there is a hero—is a
young Oxford man reading and fishing in the
" Long" at a country village. He makes acquaint..
ante with the curate, who saves him from an accident
in the river, meets at his house with a ruined artist
( Mr. Westhope) and his daughter, and falls in love
with the latter, but finding himself overwhelmed
with L niversity debts, is obliged to take to art for a
livelihood, and engages himself as " designer" to an
ironfounder in a manufacturing town. After a period
of " truggles " the long-lost son of Westhope returns;
all is mile smopth, and the lovers happy. The
younger lesthope is of a class very well known to
novel-readers. They have always been scapegraces in

youth, or are victims V) some sort of love-affair
latter is the case here) ; wander over the world,
invariably have fevers in Central Asia. They r:
the proverb about " rolling stones," and the
which they gather, we are not told where
makes on their return an exceedingly downy
virtuous couples in distressed circumstances,
of whom they relax their general misanthropy
an equally worn-out type is the lady by whom
hope is disappointed. The fashionable woman
thirty-five, with smooth brow and glossy bi
parently impervious to sentiment, but nourishing
her heart the corroding canker of an early love
married to a highly respectable man much
than herself,—is not altogether new to us.
accused the author of affectation, and we
are borne out by the following extract.; :
If my reader wonders how a poor curate could
amassed the five or six hundred volumes that
walls of the little room—the bookshelves, to be s
of unpainted deal, the curate's own handiwork-
only inform him that Mr. Grey never bought new
and, indeed, scarcely ever read them ; but had picked
for inconceivably small sums, at many a musty -
the quaint and tarnished volumes which he did
a relish that never palled. Not, of course, that
recommend such a system to the world at large,
the world, much given to fiction and hot-pressed
and the general froth of the circulating library and
book club, would heed me if I did.
It is curious that most of the sneers at " the
circulating libraries " are to be found in
Does the author include his own work? As
" inconceivably small sums," it must be
good books always fetch their price, and if the
speaks from experience he is more lucky than
frequenters of old bookstalls. But it no dont,'
a " mellow" air to your writing to cry up of
and sneer at new ones. Or, imagine one
ance addressing another in the following
style :
My friend,—(so ran a letter which Mr. Grey
upon his table a day or two after) : I remember
certain Rabbinical fable, of which you may or
have heard—at any rate I will relate it for your
just as it was told to me long years ago, lying in
beneath the palms at night; a brilliant moon t
pouring down its clear opalescent light, and
through the chinks of the curtain which flapped
door in the cool niAt-breeze, and flashing upon art
accoutrements, whilst the fumes Lf fragrant Latakia
up from many pipes. . . . . .
Ile le Tabula narralter, do I hear you say? Well
say so or not, it is the fact. Aschemedai has regained
ring; and this letter is penned at a cigar divan -
Strand. Would you have me placed In a lonelier
than that 9

You see I speak to you, T think of yon, as—my
And just for that reason I have left your side.
monarchs simply decapitate the brain into which
have poured the secrets of their hearts. And I.
fled. But as you know somewhat of me, and as
never possibly see me again, there is no reason
should not know more. My ideal man just now
animal who loves to impart." Grey, have you ever
grief? Aye, but let us define the word ere you answer
with a decided yes. Have you known what it
stricken down in the flush of youth, in the first
a brilliant career, by a blow which laid every hope
dust, and shattered every noble aspiration and y
Pshaw ! Why do I ask the question. I see no
convulsion on your brow ; no furrowed traces of
quake, that has rent and torn the heart beneath.
never die out. The sunset may gild them for a
with its glow; the kindly dews may wash them
and eve; but they cannot be washed away; they
be hidden.
It is a delightful thing to know botany, but
amiable accomplishment may be pedanticall.
obtruded :

The homely flower•stema of that twin sister to
foot, the tussilago petasites, have all disappeared,
only the broad round leaves are to be seen, lyii
upon layer, by every rivulet and brookside, catchit
tints from every passing cloud ;—those splendid
so graceful in curve, so lovely in colour, so pictnrestp
their bold indentations, which catch bright i •
sparkling light, and give the darkest and most
shadows; Leonard wondered to himself that sketchen
seldom used them.
We hope the author has some warrant for the'
ing astounding sketch of what Sir Leicester •
calls " an iron gentleman ":
" May I ask you, Mr. Brown," said the junior
in a soft and oily voice, " to come with me to my
room for a few moments ; where," he continued
bland smile, " we will have a little chat about the be
and the useful ; about art as applied to manufacture.
Leonard followed him, and they passed through,
dark passages, till they came to a door that was
His companion opened it .
" Merely a little bachelor apartment : my house
distance in the country," he said, lifting a heavy
curtain, and they entered a small room very lux;
furnished. Antique carvings were there; spoils, •
of some ruined church or abbey ; and old chinf,
bright bits of positive colour in the subdued light,
pleased the artist's eye. The place was full of
arm chairs, of the latest American invention ; for our
atlantic cousir.s seem to have the monopoly of
lounging, dressing•gown-and-slipper comfort.

ve-affair (the
world, and
They reverse
nd the moss
here or how,
;wny nest for
ces, in layette
nthropy. Of
whom West-
e woman of
ssy Bair, ap-
iourishing at
•ly love, anu
much older
is. We have
we think we
to could haves
that line the
be sure, are
liwork—l can
,zt new books,
lad picked up,
rsty bookstall,
did read with
, that I would
large, or that
ressed travels,
ry and country
r the froth of
1 in novels.
As to the
be said that
. if the writer
ty than most
doubt gives
up old books
ne acquaint-
ing gushing
r. Grey blind
tuber me of a
iy or may not
your benefit,
ng in my tent,
eon the while
and stealing
lapped at the
pon arms and
Latakia curled
Well, if you
s regained his
divan in the
teller solitude
IS—roy friend.
r side. Asian
to which they
nd I—l have
el as you will
?twin why you
now is " an
fon ever felt a
ou answer me
It it is to ho
first onset of
r hope in the
.nd yearning ?
e no scars of
s of an earth-
mth. For they
'or a moment
them at morn
they cannot
but the most
pedantically
it to the colt's•
ared, and now
• lying layer
;if
inilaelettntocuhiu
sirpti edosdgi
qielluectfairdveeesl
in
sketches so
or the follow-
stet Dedlock
unior partner
to my private
tinned with a
t the beautiful
(facture."
hrough many
t was locked.
house is sonic
Davy crimson
ry luxuriouglY
possibly,
china, giving
light, which
of sofas and
for our trans.
of a sort of
rt. Leonard

W

glanced at the picture-covered walls. What was it he saw
there, which made him turn away with a shudder? Alas !
for art, when it serves but to minister to base passions,
and is the harlot-slave of a depraved fancy! Here was a
person, well to do in the world, in appearance a gentleman,
who daily breathed an atmosphere of moral poison, whose
room was filled with pictures, " earthly, sensual and
devilish ;" the refuse sweepings of the common sewer of
Paris and Rome; the dregs of the cup of shame tilled to
the brim and overflowing. Can such things indeed be?
Alas, they are. The hot blood swept indignantly through
the young man's veins and tinged his cheek ; and a mingled
feeling of pity and contempt filled his heart for the un-
happy wretch who was chatting so pleasantly and cheer-
fully on that comfortable sofa. Let me say at once that
the firm of Skillet, Kettle and Co., will appear no more on
our stage.

We trust not, indeed. However, that there is better
stuff in the author than this, will be seen by any
reader who survives to the last few chapters. Here
the story flows more easily and intelligibly, and
some of the descriptions are not without pathos. Of
the more reflective portions, the following is a good
specimen. It describes Brown's first attempt as an
al tilt 7-

Historical painting! High art! This was the goal at
which he would aim henceforth. Yes, he would produce
a picture of world-wide fame ; a picture that should live
through long years, and bring him wealth and honour.
" Let me see, what shall be the subject? Shakspeare and
the poets, or history, past or present? Well, it will be time
enough to think of that presently." And so he abandoned
the practical, as was his wont, and let the fancy loose to
wander at will over untrodden fields of triumph. At any
rate he bought some mighty rolls of canvas; and thee,
then he strolled through the National Gallery, perhaps as
an incentive and spur to his determination. Now had he
been a man of great genius, it is probable that he would
have gone to work in quite another way. But being a man
of talents rather than of genius, fanciful rather than
Imaginative, he must needs set down with the determina-
tion of painting a great picture, not wholly for love's sake,
not that there was an impulse within which must find a
voice and declare itself, but rather looking onwards to the
result, in vague longings and powerless aspirations ; and
not in such a way has the work of great men been wrought
out. And so when Leonard reached home again, and bad
put up his easel in his little garret room, he set to work
to think out his subject. He tried to develop it gradually,
as an unimaginative man generally does. He did not see
it present before his eyes a living and actual fact, an
entire whole, from which nothing could be abstracted, to
which nothing could be added without injury. He made
it np by piecemeal. He made a dozen sketches of separate
figures, and then put them together as best he could.
The result was unsatisfactory, of course, even to himself.
Had there been more of this kind of writing the
book would have been a remarkable one. The
author can do much better if he likes, and when he
is less contented with his own work than he seems
to be at present, be will probably produce something
really worth reading. When that time arrives, none,
we can assure him, will be more ready than ourselves
to bestow the praise which we have felt compelled to
withhold from his present effort.
'2. This is one of the most original novels we
have lately met with, and it has this remarkable
feature,—that the style is intensely commonplace and
flatulent, while the matter and the characters appear
either faithfully studied from nature, or, where they
are not so, to have been carefully elaborated in the
author's imagination, with as much regard to pro-
bability as that method of construction permits.
We do not recollect a book with so much sap and
substance at its core, clothed in such a quantity of
dead wood and useless vegetation. We cannot fancy
a reader of average education, at any page of the
book (as is ot'ten said while reading), saying to him-
self, " Well, I could oat have expressed that so
forcibly." All is fluent, level, and penny-a-liner-ish.
But the characters really show a great deal of power,
and such as may achieve very great success if the
author will only pursue the method which Virgil,
Pope, Rosuseau, and Bishop Butler are said to have
employed, and condense every volume he writes into
two-thirds at most of its bulk. His book is at pre-
sent much longer than the generality of three-
volume novels, and is expanded to that size by
matters which could very well be spared. The
" Moors " aro those of Scotland, the "Fens " those
of Lincolnshire. The heroine is brought up among
the former, the hero in the latter, in an ancestral
mansion like Poe's " House of Usher." He is the
elder son of a baronet, rich, but almost withont
natural affection, and more entirely a miser than any
character we remember in the whole compass of
fiction. Taking after his sire in some respects, the
eldest-born determines to stay at home to protect his
own interests, while the younger brother goes to
seek his fortune in the world. Here, however, a
technical error must be noticed. Legal mistakes
are frequent with novelists, but we hold it pedantic
to criticise them unless they materially affect the
story. In the one before us we observe a slip of
each kind. In one instance two relations, expectant
of a bequest, are called in to witness a will their
attestation to which, though the author is evidently
unaware of it, would invalidate their legacy. This,
if it had stood alone, we should not have mentioned,
for nothing turns upon it. But the other instance is