The Sun.
London, England, 1864-01-28 00:00:00

LITERATURE,

The Rev, J. M. Bellew's Novel.
For Ever: A Story of English Country Life. By
a Clergyman. Three vole. Hurst and Blackett.
Although the real authorship of " For Ever"
appears to be only half anonymously hinted upon its
own title page, in the words, "By u Clergyman,"
we believe there is no reason for affecting any
mystery whatever about it. In point of fact, the
name of the Rev. J. M. Bellew as the writer of this
new three-volumed novel, or, as it modestly calls
itself, simply, this Story of English Country Life,
was actually advertised for some time by the pub-
lishers in their preliminary announcements of its
proximate appearance. And, now that we have
ourselves read the book, we certainly can-
not see any reason whatever for the conceal-
ment (even supposing that concealment were any
longer possible) of the author's identity—for
the withdrawal of his name (supposing it to
be yet in any way practicable) behind the mask
of the anonymous. The cat, now several weeks
since, was let slip out of the bag. And were it.
capable, even yet, of being caught and popped iu
again—pourquoi?—we should still know ail about
it. Vaguely By a Clergyman, therefore, means
specifically By the Rev. J. M. Bellew. As
was, in fact—W6 repeat—first announced to
us through advertisement. And wherefore
not ? After Rabellais, with his Gargantua
arid Pantagruel--after Swift, with his
Tale of a Tub, and his Travels of Gulliver—after
Sterne with his Uncle Toby and his Corporal
Trim in Tristram Shandy—after Maturin with his
Pour et Contre, and his Melmoth the Wanderer!
And, not only may we say after these and other cleri-
cal fictionists, but—now-a-days—when among Mr.
Bellew'aimmediatecontemporaries,we behold a popu-
lar novelist in the person of one of her Majesty's
own Chaplains, to wit, the Rev, Charles Kingsley,
the leader of what is grossly entitled the
school of Muscular Christianity, author, among
other well-known contributions to imaginative
literature, of that hot-blooded, highly spiced, almost
wholly voluptuous " Hypatia." Remembering
all which, it is surely the most natural circumstance,
all things considered, that so very " strong-minded"
a clergyman as the Rev. J. M. Bellew—Popular
Preacher, Public Lecturer, Theatrical Critic, Elocu-
tionist, Journalist, and what not (he already having
in each of those characters acquired for himself a
certain recognisable reputation in London circles)—
should add yet another feather (the feather end of
another goosequill) to those upon which he already
may (and with some show of reason) plume himself.
Dropping the name, however, of the individual
clergyman, to whose lively imagination novel
readers are now indebted for this Story of English
Country Life—a story entitled for no conceivable
reason whatever, saving that the two words are
the last two words of the narrative, " For Ever"
—we may henceforth drop into the half anony-
mous manner of the revised title page of the
book, referring to its author as A Clergyman. As
stories go, then, "For Ever" will be found to pos-
sess that most welcome attraction among all to the
devourers of fiction—interest ! Without being at
any time in the course of the whole story what one
could go so far as to designate actually en-
thralling—the book is, for the most part, deeply
interesting. Before saying another word about
it, however, it may be as well at once to
give a taste of our author's quality in regard to
his mere manner as a Novelist. And no better
illustrations of his manner could hardly be ad-
duced, we imagine, than those we shall here give
forthwith, by way of companion quotations. They
will serve two purposes, moreover, the particular
extracts we have thus selected for quotation. They
will indicate, not unfavourably, the mannerism of
our clerical novelist a 3 a narrator. And, while
doing this, they will serve to introduce the reader,
in one sense directly, in another indirectly, to the
young hero and the young heroine of the love
story, or rather of the love part of this same story of
English country life. Noscitur a sociis, says the
proverb. But, know them from the mere " sur-
roundings," even though these latter be what artists
term "still life," says our new novelist clergyman.
Taking this axiom of his as our guide, let us now
turn at once to an examination of this pretty little
peep into—

MARY LEE'S HOME. "NEST."

Now, because "the nest" owed its peculiar beauty entirely
to Mary Lee—for her elder sister seamed naturally too
indolent and undemonstrative to care about the matter—and
that Mary Lee's inner life has much to do with my story, I
must be allowed to delay the progress of events by a brief
description of the scene of many future incidents—of much
thought, much joy, and much sorrow—all of which, to my
eyes. are dimly shadowed out in the ensemble of that little
room as we enter it unseen by the side of Mrs. Lee.
Like all the rooms in the rectory, it was wainscoted half
way up the walls, with black oak in panel. Above the
panelling, which might have had a sombre effect had it not
shone by dint of age and labour as though it had been a
skilfully arranged series of steel mirrors, was a warm crim-
son and gold paper, on which hung some half dozen artists'
proofs of pictures by old masters. Murillo's heavenly
Madonna was there, and the " Madonna Colle Stelle," and
Raphael's " Holy Family," and " The Three Marks" of
Annibal Caracci. The west end was taken up by a large bay
window looking out across the garden on the opposite tor,
with the sea for an everchanging background. Opposite
the white granite fireplace was an oriel window deeply
recessed, and set round with crimson seats. Here was
Mary Lee's peculiar abode. The window ledges were a
blaze of geranium and verbena, and perfumed with the
sweet odour of mignionette and heliotrope. The window,
she herself, having an artistic talent, had filled with quarrys
bearing all kinds of quaint devices and emblems, and sur-
rounded with a bolder of bright colours.
Here she was sitting at a low table as her mother en-
tered, and from the open casement could see the stately
church tower, the white cottages and homesteads bordering
on the shining fields of wind-ruffled corn, and the misty
summits of the great and mysterious moor looming heavily

in the far purple distance,
As, literally, a companion picture to which glimpse
of Mary Lee's belongings at Moorcombe Rectory,
turn we now to this hurried glance through the
suite of rooms at St. Ord's, in the University of
Oxford, the suite of rooms there set apart as—

WILLIAM ASHE'S COLLEGE CICAMBEItS.
The larger room is wainscoted nearly half-way up with
dark, tawny oak, above which there is a rich flock paper of
crimson and gold ; the carpet is Turkey—we trust that our
young friend will take it with him to Cleveborough, when
he finally returns thither, for the paternal dining room
carpet is less handsome, and was possibly less costly. Thero
is a small regiment of rather rickety mahogany chairs, evi-
dently bought in from a former tenant; they are, however,
covered with new crimson damask and bound with
gold cord. The owner's special armchair was rather a
curiosity ; it had a mechanical apparatus whereby the sitter
could raise or lower it and screw it into any conceivable
and desirable shape. There was a reading desk, candle-
sticks, and foot-stool attached, which were similarly move-
able; so that it became quite a small amusement to " put
Ashe's chair through its facings," and the reviews were
numerous enough to produce a general shakiness and creaki-
ness, which were by no means conducive to the well-work-

ing of the machine.
The walls were covered with pictures—one or two tole-
rable water-colours of the Lake district. we noticed, and a
good engraving of Raphael's Holy F141:0Y, and a represen-
tation of Henley Regatta, and a rather unnecessMadonna
arily un.-
draped young lady reclining on a bank, and the
Celle Stelle, and Landseer's "Life in the Old Dog Yet
rate,"
and so on. The books—all gorgeously arrayed in elabo
bindings—are also various: Aristotle, and Adam Bede,
and Gibbon, and Buckle, and the Idylls of the Kings, and
Owen's Palmontology, and Kant, and Hooker, and Darwin
are all to be found in that curiously cared
andv bookcase a
key bugle.
. There
is a piano, with a pile of songs upon it,
Over the chimneypiece is an armoury of whips, spurs, foils,
walking-sticks, and pipe stems. The windows are full of
flowers, and the room is a perfect museum of Spierian nick-
nacks of every conceivable variety of uselessness.
The " third room" has a low settee running round it.,
and on its centre table is a chaos of ook and papers.
Hero the owner apparently does his `Leading ;" for ho
does read, and his friends put him down as a probable
"second," whilst he himself studiously disclaims all in-
tention of going in for honours.
The bedroom is merely remarkable for its smallness;
there is just room for a low truckle bed, and a washingstand,
and a chest of drawers, and a huge tin bath upreared
against the wall. How the proprietor contrives to dress
when the bath is not in that position is a mystery which
we do not pretend to fathom.
And now, having got a fair general notion of our
friend's likings, dislikings, habits, and general tendencies,
let us pause awhile in our description, and allow the
actors to appear on the scene.
William Ashe and Mary Lee, of course, being—
hence, indeed, our selection of the foregoing extracts
as companion quotations—the young lovers of the
narrative. The Villain of the Book is Witham
Ashe's reputed father (in reality his uncle), Martin
Ashe, of Alsery Barton, and, before the end of the
story 1V1.P., for Cleveborough. Before tho end of the