| | | | "A WRITER of the school of Miss Austen" is a much-abused phrase, | applied now-a-days by critics who, it is charitable to suppose, have | never read Miss Austen's works, to any female writer who composes | dull stories without incident, full of level conversation, and concerned | with characters of middle life. The simple difference between the great | writer whose name is thus misused and those who are said to resemble | her is, that she has genius and they have none. In this great quality, | indeed, the writer now before us more nearly approaches Miss Austen | than any other of her so-called school. But because she has genius, | that is, because she is original, she belongs to no school but her own; | she is entitled to a separate place and a distinct description; and | whether we rank her high or low in the literary commonwealth, at | least we shall set her by herself as an independent author, not unlikely | to be imitated, but certainly free from the charge of being an imitator | herself. It is indeed only in the sense of imitation that such things as | schools can exist at all in literature. A great man will have a host of | servile followers, who will catch his peculiarities, and, at humble | distance, imitate his style; but this is hardly what is meant by persons | belonging to his school. It is also true that every great genius leaves | the impress of his mind upon the literature of his own period, and of | succeeding times, and that minds apparently the most dissimilar are | commonly or unconsciously subject to his influence. Wordsworth, for | instance, wrought a change in English literature; Mr. Tennyson is full | of him; and | | even the third Canto of "Childe Harold" owes not a little to the | "Excursion." Yet we should never think of calling Mr. Tennyson, as it | would be absurd to call Lord Byron, a poet of the schoo1 of | Wordsworth. Except, therefore, so far as a writer distinctly imitates, or | is unconsciously influenced by another, we doubt the existence of any | literary relation which justifies the phrase of belonging to a school. It | is a loose and inexact expression, which, having crept into modern | criticism, saves the trouble of minute analysis by the use of a vague | analogy, and, worthless for all critical purposes, may often seriously | mislead the literary historian. Conceive some future Sismondi, reading | English as a foreign language, and endeavouring to discover in the | poetry of Wordsworth and Southey any one common quality, which | might explain the fact of their contemporaries having been led to class | them together in a school! | | We shall not, therefore, assert the author before us to be a disciple of | Miss Austen; though undoubtedly her books, and the books of many | others also, would never have been written as they are but for the | existence of "Persuasion" and "Mansfield Park." Miss Austen taught | her countrywomen where to look for materials of fiction, and in what | style of writing the finest qualities of female intellect, delicate | observation, refined description, easy and graceful conversation, | simple and pathetic tenderness, might find their widest scope and most | legitimate development. The novel of character, as opposed to the | novel of incident, is that of which Miss Austen may be considered the | foundress, as perhaps her writings are the greatest example; and to the | development of character, and the interest thereby created, Miss | Yonge, the young lady now under review, has devoted herself, from | her earliest and most childish publications, to the beautiful and mature | tale which stands last in the list at the head of this paper. This is hardly | a fitting opportunity, nor, if it were, have we either time or space to go | into the question as to superiority between these two great divisions. | Perhaps, with Sir Roger de Coverley, we might arrive at the safe | conclusion, that "much is to be said on both sides." At present, the tide | is setting against incident and romance. We forget that it is possible | that stories of character may foster an. oversharpness of observation | towards others, and a morbid self-introspection, that may easily | degenerate into weak sentimentalism. We perhaps somewhat too | hastily discard books, which, without attempting to teach young | readers to be men, fill their minds with graceful fancies, and allow | them to become men, without thinking of themselves at all. Our | author's books, however, have this great merit, that though constantly | concerned with character, and often minute in its delineation, the | | moral intended to be inculcated is for the most part left to inference | and reflection; the facts speak for themselves, and the lesson, if | sometimes obvious, is never obtrusive. | | In this and in some respects besides, she resembles, as much as in | others she differs from, the great writer to whose school, as we have | said, she does not belong. Like Miss Austen, | her present power and genius could hardly have been gathered from | her first essays. "Margin Abbey" gave slight promise of "Emma" or | "Persuasion." The comparatively uninteresting and yet sharp-natured | characters in "Abbey Church" could hardly have been expected to | expand into the mingled strength and tenderness of "The Heir of | Redclyffe." Miss Austen's career was brief, though brilliant; we trust | that in this respect Miss Yonge's may be very different. She has | gradually increased in power from her earliest publication; and | beautiful as her last work is, there is no reason to believe it is the best | that she can do. With gifts like hers, and a life before her, we may | reasonably expect her to take her place in the foremost ranks of our | female authors. | | Her mode of producing effect, the means she employs to convey the | idea of the characters she creates, are such as must improve in ease | and power with exercise and time. She is in these, also, more like Miss | Austen than any other of our distinguished female writers. She does | not work by means of eloquent description and polished epigrams, | like Lady Georgiana Fullerton; nor by grand and striking scenes, as | Mrs. Marsh and Miss Mulock. Even the authoress of "Mary Barton" | and "Ruth," though she makes her incident subordinate to her | characterisation, yet develops character chiefly by incident, and that | sometimes of a startling and romantic kind. There is nothing of this | sort in Miss Yonge's writings. She scarcely ever describes, and her | incidents are always simple and ordinary. The effect she desires to | produce is the result of a vast number of little delicate touches, now in | conversation, now dropped by the way, in the most natural and | apparently inartificial manner. They are felt in the aggregate rather | than remembered in detail. Living and moving men and women, as all | her characters are; singularly distinct and varied, so that we should | know any of them if we met them in the street, and should never for a | moment mistake one of them for another, it would be difficult to say | why we knew them, by what peculiar feature we identified them, or to | what particular page of the author's books we traced our conception. | In some respects she reminds us of Richardson, the great master in | this kind. Tiresome as his novels are to read, the reiteration of his | minute strokes is wonderfully effective in the end; and with all their | defects, they | | leave a distinctness of impression, which we fail to receive from many | a more highly gifted and more attractive writer. We should do Miss | Yonge great injustice if we said simply that she wrote like Richardson. | If she has not his power, neither has she his tediousness nor his | vulgarity. But they agree so far as this, ~~ that in neither does there | appear to be any attempt to conceive a character upon principles of | philosophy, and develop it according to any theory of metaphysics. | Certainly in Miss Yonge there is no attempt at the philosophical novel. | She has studied character closely, and she gives her imagination free | and healthy play, and the result is a series of sketches, which are | indeed philosophical, but only because they are natural; and which | teach deep lessons, because they are pictures of that real life which has | enough to teach to those who will observe and listen to it. | | Although, however, her characters are thoroughly natural, and drawn | just as they would present themselves in actual society, they are not all | delineated with the same pleasure and satisfaction. There is an evident | delight in the drawing of some of them, a belief in their reality, an | enthusiasm for their goodness and beauty, which as clearly are not felt | for other characters. In this she widely differs from Miss Austen; and | if this heartiness and personal zest, revealed with perfect simplicity, | add a certain moral charm to her writings, in the severe judgment of | criticism they must be allowed to detract somewhat from her intellect | and genius. It is not, as we think, that Miss Austen was herself without | the enthusiasm which she can so abundantly kindle in her readers, but | she was too great an artist, and exercised far too severe a self-control, | to allow it to appear in her works. In the perfect mirror of her mind, | each image was reflected with entire and equal accuracy, and was | delineated by her language with the same unerring distinctness, the | same absence of all apparent effort, the same easy and tranquil | satisfaction. Narrative, description, conversation, succeed each other | with the same impassive serenity, and produce their powerful effect | almost as if they could not help it. Miss Austen's own character could | as little be gathered from her novels, as (to compare her with the | greatest) we can identify the man Shakspeare with the villany of Iago, | the wit of Falstaff, the cruelty of King Richard, or the purity of | Imogen. This will be always one great, though not the only test, of the | presence of genius and imagination. And in this respect it must be | confessed, there is a wide difference between the writings of Miss | Yonge, and those of the authors we have just mentioned. For it would | be easy enough to collect from her tales the temper of her mind and | the character of her belief, even if she had not distinctly | | recorded them in the two elementary historical works at the head of | this article. Nor, inasmuch as genius is not the most precious thing on | earth, nor artistic perfection the highest object, would we desire the | absence of her opinions, or the expression of them in a less decided | manner, however they may sometimes reveal the authoress in her | characters, and occasionally differ widely from those which we | entertain ourselves. Amiable, high-minded, profoundly religious, as | she shows herself to be, we can forgive prejudices which are never | low or mean, and admire an enthusiasm which is always lofty, if | sometimes uninformed. Her opinions are essentially of the past, and | she carries the principle of loyalty to the farthest point (perhaps | beyond it) at which it is consistent with independence and freedom. | Church and State, as in the old time, mutually absorb each other in her | creed; and the divinity of the sovereign, the religious duty of | submission, the probable sin of any resistance to authority, the danger | of an inquiring spirit, are amongst the prominent topics of her | teaching, whether direct, as in her historical judgments, or indirect, as | in the drawing of her imaginary characters. In her writing, indeed, | there is no offensive air of assumed superiority; reverence and | submission are not taught as virtues from which the teacher may | herself be free; nor is the Bible treated, as it is sometimes said to be, | as "a useful book for the lower classes." The entire sincerity, no less | than the good taste of Miss Yonge, preserve her from such grave | mistakes. But she is a thorough Tory. A radical in politics, or a | dissenter in religion, would receive small mercy at her hands. So | hearty and thoroughgoing is her sympathy with characters whom she | admires, that her judicial faculty is, in some cases, suspended. It | would be, for instance, evidently dangerous, in discussing with her the | character of Charles I., to allude to Strafford, or to suggest a doubt as | to the perfect honesty of the Naseby letters. In this, and other matters, | she acts upon her own principles; believing what she has been told, | she can see no reason why other people should not hear and believe it | also. Generally she has been told what is true, and has lived in | communion with authorities, which we, at least, are not disposed to | question. Mr. Keble's religious poetry, for example, is ever present to | her mind, and is perpetually quoted by all her good characters; and the | class of books with which she is most familiar, and the thoughts of | which we find occasionally reproduced in her own, are such as that | admirable person, as we trust also our own readers, would thoroughly | approve. From the writings of one thus educated, and of a mind thus | naturally reverent and devout, it is impossible to rise without feelings | of hearty liking for the author, and respect for her character and | opinions. We are not | | now speaking of qualities purely intellectual. With these she has, | indeed, been abundantly gifted; but the possession of intellect alone is | no guarantee against its abuse. | | It may be, however, and we think it is so, that the existence of feelings | and opinions so strong as hers may, to some extent, interfere with the | confidence which we ought to have in | anyone who undertakes to | instruct our children in the history of their own, and in that of other | countries. True, that elementary history has, for the most part, been | written hitherto with as much irreligion as falsehood. The spirit of | Hume, and the influence of his great but untrue work, has been widely | and fatally felt. Well might a distinguished man exclaim, that "history | must be re-written on Church principles!" But in historical tales and | youthful histories, he has lately been taken more literally at his word | than he would have himself approved, For history ought not to be | written for any special purpose. The temptation, already to most minds | strong enough to distort and misrepresent facts in favour of their own | opinions, and to judge too hardly of the characters of those who are | opposed to them; becomes absolutely irresistible if it presents itself | clothed in a religious garment, and recommended by the most solemn | sanction. Strong feeling and determined opinion are not the best | qualifications for an historian, nor ought history to be made the | vehicle for conveying views. The views may be right, and history may | be consistent with them, but history must not be written for the | purpose of enforcing them. | | The historical works of Miss Yonge are, to some extent, obnoxious to | this line of observation. Written by a person of very definite views, | they bear, throughout, the impress of the author's opinions; she neither | conceals nor disguises them, and the teacher who uses her volumes | has, therefore fair and ample warning; nor, as we said of her stories, | do her sentiments ever appear in a shape that is offensive, or | inconsistent with the most entire uprightness and sincerity. They | appear scarcely at all in the "Landmarks of History," a book of | remarkable ability and value. For a luminous and interesting sketch of | ancient history, accurate enough for use in schools, and lively enough | to keep the dullest classes awake, we know of no book to he compared | to it. It is by no means easy, as anyone must know; to tell the requisite | amount of facts in a small volume, and to avoid an amount of dryness | which shall make the volume unreadable. Heeren and Keightly have | tried and failed. Without attempting quite so much, Miss Yonge has at | least perfectly succeeded. Her book is full of facts, accurately stated, | and is so written as to be agreeable reading to anyone who may take it | up. Throughout it, moreover, the judgments are as fair as the narrative | | is lively. Her purity and moral elevation have preserved her from the | snares of hero-worship, while the romance and imagination of her | nature have left no noble action unnoticed, nor any lofty character | uncomprehended, or without due honour. Nor are we about to deny to | the "Kings of England," the book most open to the remarks we made | above, the praise to which it is justly entitled, of being, upon the | whole, the best introduction to English history which has hitherto | appeared. The most popular youthful history has been, of late years, | that bearing the name of Mrs. Markham, and the "Kings of England" | is more original and independent, better in tone, and far more to be | relied upon than those clever volumes. As in the "Landmarks of | History," the narrative is clear and the style vigorous; and as in that | book, an interest almost personal is created and maintained by the skill | with which the annals of a period are connected with the lives of the | leading men, and history is treated as a series of remarkable characters | no less than as a succession of events. This book, therefore, is also a | good one; and we have spoken of Miss Yonge's historical deficiencies | only because we feel she might have made it better, and because, in | recommending it on the whole, we by no means desire to subscribe to | all the political opinions or personal judgments expressed in the | course of it. Great liberality should always be exercised in these | matters, and it is to the credit both of the Committee of Council and of | the Episcopal School Association in America, that they should have | concurred in adopting a book, from the whole of which those bodies | must occasionally differ, as widely as they do from each other. They | have, however, set an example which, in our humble measure, we | desire to follow. | | It is not necessary to qualify, even so far as this, the terms of | approbation in which we can speak of the whole series of her works of | fiction. They differ, indeed, in merit and in ability. They are written | with various objects, and are not all addressed to minds of the same | age or class. Yet they have all a family likeness; are stamped with a | common character, and marked with the same literary excellences and | defects; the defects gradually disappearing, and becoming more and | more faint and unimportant, as her judgment matures and her powers | strengthen. The first in our series, "Langley School," was, we believe, | published after "Abbey Church," but is the slightest in construction, | and addresses the most youthful audience. It is a set of sketches of | character from the girls and boys in a village school, each character | affording some moral lesson of warning or encouragement. There is | just so much connected story as may supply a kind or framework, as it | were, to keep the book together. The grace and life of it are | remarkable; with all its simplicity it is never | | bald, and though there is really nothing which a young child could not | understand and enjoy, the truth and nature of it, and occasionally the | tenderness of feeling, are such as children of larger growth may | appreciate and admire. There is a sketch of a gentle yet high-spirited | boy, one Philip, which, though little more than an outline, seems to be | the first idea of the most perfect and beautiful character in the "Heir of | Redclyffe." | | We confess to having thought "Abbey Church" unsatisfactory when | we first read it years ago; nor, on reperusing it for the purpose of this | article, have we found reason to distrust our early impression. It is | more than a child's book, and is very clever, the characters well | imagined, and keenly discriminated; the dialogue generally vivacious, | and the moral teaching at once sensible and elevating. Yet the result is | not pleasing. There is an over-sharpness of observation, a want of | repose in the conversations, and an occasional pedantry in the display | of various learning (as, for instance, in making two young girls | discuss early history, through some pages, when undressing for the | night), which all reveal the unpractised author, wanting in ease and | self-restraint, and wanting, consequently, in the power of | commanding the attention of the reader and attracting his sympathies. | Yet, if a comparative failure, it was a failure of great promise, and | such as none but a writer of power would have been able to make. | | Considerable improvement was manifest in "Scenes and Characters," | her next publication. A greater variety of character, more humour, a | better constructed and more elaborate plot were to be found, blended | with all the talent and good feeling which, in spite of its many | deficiencies, had separated the earlier and less successful production | from the crowd of books written for young children, which the press | has so long teemed with. This was a striking book; and | no-one could | read the characters of "Honest Phyl" and "Lilias Mohun" without | feeling that the author had great capacity for such delineation; that she | was far, indeed, above the region of commonplace, and had thoughts | and an expression of her own. Perhaps, a little want of tenderness was | to be felt, even with the undeniably high and religious tone which the | book displayed. Too much prominence was given to acute remark and | a good-tempered censoriousness, ~~ the danger to which, as we have | observed, stories of this kind are peculiarly open. Through great part | of the volume, the children are induced to believe that their father is | about to contract a second and, somewhat ill-assorted marriage; and | though they are mistaken, and the misunderstanding gives rise to a | good deal of amusement and clever complication, we are not sure that | it was wise, in a youthful book, to represent children in such an | | attitude towards their parent; nor that some or the incidents can be | altogether defended in point of taste. In this book, however, as in the | former one, the very errors were such as none but a clever writer could | have committed; and were more than atoned for by numerous | charming passages of dialogue and reflection, such as none but a | woman of genius could have conceived or expressed. | | "Henrietta's Wish" was, we believe, the next of Miss Yonge's stories | which appeared in a collected form. No doubt could remain, after the | publication of this volume, of her power to assume and maintain a | high place in the literature of this country. The story is slight and | somewhat uninteresting, but the characters, the dialogue, the | tenderness and beauty of many of the scenes are remarkable. A gentle, | religious person, the mother of Henrietta and her brother, is | over-persuaded by her children, especially her daughter, to give up a | quiet secluded life, which is suited to her health, and go to live amongst | the relations of her dead husband, where she is liable to be constantly | excited, and to have a terrible disease increased, which is already | preying upon her. Her son ~~ fond of her, indeed, but impatient of her | control, and wilful and high-spirited ~~ gets thrown out of a gig, and | has a concussion of the brain, which nearly costs him his life. | Henrietta, also wilful and overbearing, adds to her discomfort, and | brings on fresh accesses of her malady. She dies, leaving her son | much the better for the discipline he has undergone; but Henrietta | quite unchastened. With the gradual improvement of her character the | book concludes. The mother and her children, her brother-in-law, | uncle Geoffrey, and his wife and daughter, are a set of characters that | would do honour to any novelist; so distinct and striking in | themselves, and combined into so harmonious a picture. The thorough | knowledge of country life and amusements which is displayed, the | zest with which the play of youthful character is entered into, the | reality and vigour of the conversations, are delightful. The manner, | too, in which, without exaggeration or improbability, the mind of the | reader is impressed with the great importance of keeping watch over | our smallest actions, and the serious practical evils which follow from | ungoverned tempers, makes the book as useful as it is uncommon. | How sweet and tender is the following scene. It is just before the death | of Henrietta's mother, when her brother Frederick is recovering from | the danger which his wilfulness had brought on him. | | | | | | | Space precludes us from giving other passages, some pathetic, | | some playful, from this admirable story, which certainly showed a | great advance in Miss Yonge's literary power. "Kenneth," a story of | the French retreat from Moscow, appeared about the same time; a | book, as it seems to us, of still higher merit, and justly deserving the | popularity which we believe it has attained. It was Miss Yonge's first | attempt at the use of exciting incidents and deep tragedy; her only | effort, as far as we know, to delineate the sterner scenes of history; to | leave English scenery, and English homes, and draw materials for her | fictions from her great knowledge and wide experience. We hope it | may not be her last. A person who can write as the author of this book | writes, of French society and manners, and who has in her dialogue | caught so much of the spirit of the best French authors, should not | allow so profitable a mine to remain unworked. | | The story is a curious one. Two young children lose their father, a | Scottish Colonel, Lindesay, in the Russian service, at the battle of | Borodino. Their mother, a silly, but nobly born French woman, | marries a French officer of Napoleon's army during their hostile | occupation of Moscow. The Frenchman, irritated with Kenneth's | sullen opposition to him, leaves him behind in the retreat, after | knocking him down with his pistol, and his little sister Effie, clinging | to him in his trouble, is deserted also. In their desolation they are | noticed by Ney, and commended by him to a Colonel de Villaret and | his nephew Louis, one of those gentle chivalrous characters Miss | Yonge delights in. They share the horrors of the retreat, and Louis dies | of starvation, feeding Effie with his last morsel. Nothing can be better | than this scene: ~~ | | | | | They escape; and after many difficulties they arrive in France, where | Ney's patronage promises a distinguished and successful career to | Kenneth in the French army, But he will not join Ney in his desertion | of Louis XVIII.; and resisting a11 the persuasions of his French | friends, and the desires of his gentle and affectionate, but unheroic, | little sister, he comes to London to his uncle and begins life afresh in | this country. There is, perhaps, less of elaborate character in this | volume than in most of Miss Yonge's stories; incident being more | relied upon than is usual with her: yet some of the persons are | beautifully sketched; the two orphans, Louis and his mother, Madame | de Chateauneuf; and though slighter, General de Villaret and Ney | himself are very well drawn, The teaching of the story is as usual | practical and good, and never obtruded on us in a sermonizing | fashion. The whole of Kenneth's miseries and trials arise from a want | of dutifulness towards his mother, whom he treats with a contempt | and rudeness which her silliness accounts for, but does not justify. | | In spirit and variety, however, "The Two Guardians" is certainly a still | further advance. Here again the scene is laid in English society, and | chiefly amidst country life: the growing up of a family of boys and | girls; the different effect upon two orphans of their two guardians, one | a young high-principled soldier, the other an ordinary somewhat | vulgar man of the world; the influence of one high and noble character | upon everyone brought within the sphere of her influence; these are | the sources upon which Miss Yonge draws in this volume. There is | still a want of plot; but the characters are selected from a wider sphere, | and painted with a bolder hand. Nothing can be finer than the | conception of the heroine Marian ~~ an upright, truthful character; | wanting in tact, and not free at first from grave faults; yet full | | of deep feeling and true religion; strongly consistent; winning her | way, and inspiring hearty affection by her goodness, her real kindness, | and her entire honesty. Lionel, the blind boy, and Caroline his sister, | have both a pathetic interest; and Gerald, Marian's brother, is a picture | from the life of a good-tempered and clever, yet somewhat selfish and | consequential, Eton boy. But, in truth, a few short sentences cannot by | any means do justice to the completeness and delicacy of her | delineation; and the fine shades of alteration which circumstances and | even lapse of time effect in youthful characters, can hardly be | expressed in criticism, and must be studied and appreciated in the | book itself. Few volumes will better repay a careful and critical study. | | We have now arrived at the last and by far the ablest of her | compositions, of which it is difficult to speak in terms which will not, | to those who have not yet read it, appear exaggerated and impossible. | It is not that the "Heir of Redclyffe" is a faultless work. On the | contrary, a critical inspection, and a thoughtful judgment, will detect | many artistic errors in the conduct, and some considerable | improbabilities in the incidents, of the plot. The characters, as always, | are not all delineated with the same amount of clearness, nor with | equal pleasure. Nor is the style, though in general excellent, free from | those defects which, strangely enough in so well-educated a writer as | Miss Yonge, are frequently to be met with in her pages. But it is a | book of unmistakeable genius and real literary power; a book to make | men pause and think, to lift them out of themselves and above the | world, and make them, unless they are hard-hearted and cold-natured, | the wiser and the better for their reading. A great man said of Sintram | that it was like a very solemn sermon. The life and death of Guy, and | the widowhood of Amy, in the "Heir of Redclyfle," are more affecting | and far more practically useful than the run of moral treatises or pulpit | exhortations. No-one can | read of these two characters without longing | to be like them. Some at least will turn their longing into serious | effort. "And when I rose I found myself in prayer" would be no | unfitting sentence for the frame of mind in which most readers of any | religious feeling will close this striking book. | | The justice of these general remarks will be more apparent as we | proceed to an examination of the book itself. It commences with the | death of old Sir Guy Morville, and the entrance | | of his grandson, young Sir Guy, his heir and successor, into the family | of Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone; Mr. Edmonstone being his guardian. | Three daughters, Laura, Amy, and Charlotte, and a son, Charles, make | up the family. Philip Morville is a distant cousin, a descendant of the | brother of the first Morville baronet, between whom and the baronet | there had been a deadly feud. He, however, stands now next in | succession to the property to the young Sir Guy, and is, throughout the | story, his enemy and contrast. Indeed, the whole plot turns upon the | relentless prejudice and dislike which Philip feels for Guy, and which | he perpetually and hastily displays. Guy is one of the most beautiful | and elevating characters to be met with in fiction. Philip, clever and | finely conceived, is intensely disagreeable. In Guy, the last of a long | line of fierce and unprincipled men, is represented the grand picture of | a man of noble nature, aware of his own faults of temper and | waywardness, and heartily struggling against them with single-minded | pure devotion, utterly unconscious of his own beauty and holiness; | feeling only the cloud of wrath always ready to overtake him, and | oppressed, sometimes even to melancholy, with a sense of the | multiplied misdeeds of his forefathers, and the expiation that may be | exacted from their descendant. High-spirited, unselfish, courteous, | clever, but with imperfect education, full of pure passion and refined | enthusiasm, glowing with youthful energy and fresh imagination, | without a trace of self-consciousness, full of humility and profoundly | religious, Guy is a type, but the very best example, of that character | which Miss Yonge delights to paint, and which might convince even | Mr. Digby, that his perfect hero does not belong exclusively to the | ages of faith or chivalry, nor to the communion of the Roman Church. | | Philip, on the other hand, is the pattern boy and man, who won prizes | at school, who never made a mistake or was guilty of a fault, who | gave up his college education for the sake of his sister; learned, | accomplished, judicious, temperate, always looked up to in his family, | taking the lead in almost every circle where he is known, he is | wrapped-up in self-esteem, manages | everyone he comes near, | interferes and overbears without stint or mercy, and though not | without good points, is, at bottom, an unsufferable coxcomb. Such a | nature as Guy's he is, of course, unable to comprehend: while Guy's | want of book knowledge and entire simplicity arouse his contempt, | the superior wealth and position of the young baronet excite his envy, | and, unconsciously to himself, poison his feelings towards him, and | warp his judgment. Everything that Guy does he distorts and judges | harshly. Guy's sharp temper he provokes and worries, his cordiality he | repels, his simplicity he patronises, his goodness he | | suspects, his gentleness he outrages, his happiness, for a time, he | mars. On these two characters, and the lovely one of Amabel | Edmonstone, turns the chief interest of the "Heir of Redclyffe." | | Our readers shall see the externals of Guy as Miss Yonge has drawn | them: ~~ | | | In the family of his guardian Guy lives; occasionally showing signs of | temper and wilfulness, but almost always on provocation from Philip. | Charles Edmonstone, the son of his guardian, is a very interesting | character. He is a cripple, with a very painful disorder; shrewd and | clever, and excessively intolerant of the influence of Philip, whom he | entirely sees through; but selfish and impatient himself and given to | indulge a satirical and provoking disposition. He soon yields, | however, to the fascination of Guy's character, and becomes heartily | attached to him, to his own great benefit. With Charles, with Amy, | and with Mrs. Edmonstone, a good, kind person, he speedily becomes | at home. To her, as to a mother, he confides his difficulties and makes | his confessions. It must be remembered that he is a young boy about | eighteen years old, has been brought up by a grandfather, whom he | loves most tenderly, and that he has still a very violent temper. The | passage which follows is a specimen of this portion of his life, and | will give some notion of Philip, Mrs. Edmonstone, and Charles, as | well as Guy: ~~ | | | | | This goes on, and Philip becomes more and more unjust and blind, as | Guy becomes gradually more self-controlled, and, is able to act more | steadily upon the high principles which he never wilfully, for a | moment, deserts. Guy is becoming gradually very fond of Amy, and | she of him. Philip fancies that he is falling in love with Laura, the | other sister, to whom he is himself attached. He makes a secret | engagement with her, and urges her to discourage Guy. Just at this | time a ball is given by Philip's regiment, from which Guy absents | himself, because he finds it interferes with his reading. Philip chooses | to believe it is out of pique with Laura; and when Guy goes to explain | to the Colonel of the regiment, he behaves as the following passage | will show. Guy and Amy are conversing: ~~ | | | | | Guy goes to Oxford, and, at last, declares his love to Amabel and is | accepted. It is no easy matter to escape, in love scenes, from | sentimental commonplace; the gracefulness, the deep, tender purity of | the love of Guy and Amy are a triumph of Miss Yonge's powers. But | their happiness is overclouded by Philip's meddling impertinence. Guy | had wished to give a thousand pounds to a Sisterhood of Mercy, and | had aided his mother's brother, a loose, second-rate musician, with a | cheque, which the unc1e parts with to a notorious gambler, who gets it | cashed in the presence of Mrs. Henley, Philip's sister, at a provincial | town, near to which Guy is spending his long vacation with an Oxford | reading party. This, and the request for the thousand pounds, Philip | persuades Mr. Edmonstone into believing as proofs that Guy is | gambling and dishonest. A letter is written, on the receipt of which, at | first, Guy's indignation is extreme. He writes, however, quietly; but, | asserting his innocence, declines explanation. Mr. Edmonstone, under | the influence of Philip, breaks off his engagement with Amy. We pass | over the transactions of the few months during which this cloud | continues. They are not the best part of the book. They provoke and | weary our patience by a succession of misunderstandings, | | which would not, in fact, occur in real life, and would be explained in | a moment if they did. Their being necessary to the story does not | make them natural. Nor does the example of Miss Burney, who carries | this kind of manoeuvre to its extreme, by any means tend to reconcile | us to its use. | | It is true that in the case before us the misrepresentations to which | Guy is obliged to submit, and the disruption of intercourse which | follows, tend greatly to the illustration of the characters of Guy | himself, and Philip, and Amabel, and give occasion to some of the | most stirring and beautiful incidents in the volumes. While Guy is | spending an Oxford vacation at Redclyffe, he saves the crew of a | shipwrecked vessel from a dangerous rock, and the whole scene is | described with a reality and spirit seldom to be met with in the | writings of even more celebrated persons than Miss Yonge. Indeed it | is to be observed throughout this story, that the descriptions of | scenery; and especially of the sea-coast, are in the highest degree vivid | and imaginative. We cannot give the scene of the shipwreck, but | let our readers study this passage from a later portion of the story: ~~ | | | | | But this is by the way. The doubts are at last dispelled, Guy's character | is appreciated, Philip's influence overturned, and the marriage he had | striven so hard to prevent is allowed to take place. Beautiful indeed is | the picture of their humble trust and resignation throughout their | difficulties; not a common-place word or thought interferes with the | perfection of a conception which can be scarcely matched in its | singular purity and refinement. This is a piece of love-making when | Guy comes back, and just before his marriage. Our readers must agree | with us that it is exquisite: ~~ | | | | | They are married; and they go to Italy, and there they meet Philip, | unchanged, and offensive as ever. But he has lost his power of | irritating Guy, who is too happy, and has become too perfect to mind | his ways. From the gentle Amy he draws on one occasion a dignified | rebuke; but he hardens his heart, and repels the cordial affection which | Guy, with heroic forbearance, tries to tender him. He goes, against | Guy's warning, into a feverish district, and catches a fever, of which, | but for Guy's constant care and nursing, he would certainly have died. | As he recovers Guy sickens; Amy has to nurse him, and attend to | Philip too: but Guy has no strength of constitution, he fades gradually | away, and dies commending Philip to his wife, and leaving the reader | (we speak for ourselves) half indignant at the loss of such a character, | yet full of admiration at a picture so full of the noblest lessons, in | which virginal innocence, and high manly spirit, a simple and | profound religion and a pathetic tenderness, are blended in most | harmonious proportions. | | Before Guy's death the scales fall from Philip's eyes; he sees himself | and he sees Guy as they really are, and his remorse is deep and | earnest. It is a noble scene where he asks Guy's forgiveness, and Guy | tells him he has had it long ago; but the most touching, perhaps, is the | passage we extract where he is dying, with Amy watching him. Amy | is with child, which will explain the early portion of it. | | | | | understand apart from the book itself. For here, as we observed was | her way; Miss Yonge works by delicate and imperceptible touches, | the effect of which is very great, but which hardly admit of | description. The sustained dignity, the quiet, steady elaboration of her | design, are altogether uncommon. | | After the death of Guy, Amy calmly orders everything that has to be | done; she goes in her bridal dress to the funeral (a hint from Undine | which has been exquisitely made use of by Miss Yonge), she consoles | Philip, and goes quietly home to her father's without shedding a tear. | She is calm and composed, but for a long time sleepless; and at last | her gentle nature breaks down, and she gradually recovers her tone. | All through the winter she labours to soften matters in her home, and | to make them feel more kindly towards Philip, whose conduct about | Laura has been discovered, and who is the subject, on her account and | on Guy's, of general indignation. Her little girl is born at last, and | Philip becomes the possessor of Redclyffe. He, meanwhile, is deeply | and sincerely penitent; and his remorse, added to the feeble state of his | health from repeated attacks of fever, well-nigh breaks him down. She | hears of his being very ill, and persuades Charles to go with her to | nurse him. As Philip's nurse, she first sees Guy's Redclyffe, she goes | calmly through his cherished scenes, looks at his sea, stands upon his | cliffs, floats in his boat, gazes on his picture, and, breaking into a | flood of tears, plays on the piano he had bought for her, and which she | never saw before. The intense feeling of these passages, the entire | unselfishness, the still, profound, yet thoroughly self-controlled pathos | of Amy's character, are perfectly indescribable. The sweet austerity of | the lesson reminds us of the verses of "Laodamia," or of some grave, | severe, yet lovely picture of Fra Angelico, or Blake, or Flaxman. | | And so it continues to the end. With unwavering flight Miss Yonge | pursues her object; and not by what is called strong writing, nor | spasmodic style, not by thrilling scenes or violent emotions, but with a | serene and almost stern composure, she delineates the gradual | purification of Philip's character, the elevation of Charles from cynical | selfishness to earnest and warm-hearted self-denial, the very slow and | almost imperceptible recovery of Amy's cheerfulness, with a lasting | tinge of sweet yet unrepining melancholy, that increases, if possible, | the interest she excites. All this is shown, not in words, but by | inference, to be the effect of Guy's beautiful example; so that he | pervades the whole story almost more than in his life, and to the very | last page of it is made to be a living influence. "One for papa and one | for mamma," are said to be Amy's first words each morning as she | kisses her child; and the thought of him is | | never absent from her, while with her large fortune she goes back into | her father's house, and resumes all her gentle, useful ways, though not | her gaiety. This is her last conversation with her brother. Charles after | the marriage of Laura and Philip, at which she attends: | | | | | We do not mean to say that everyone will acquiesce in the conclusion | of the book, nor that some portions of it are not open fairly to criticism | and question. There is a prejudice against stories, from the | Bride of Lammermoor downwards, | which do not award the largest measure of earthly happiness | to the best and highest characters. It is a feeling in | which perhaps most persons are tempted | to indulge, and which seems to have for its foundation a righteous | longing after the fitting and the just. But it is in truth a weakness, | which a consideration of God's ordinary dealings would suffice to | correct, and a sincere faith would prevent altogether. Sir Walter Scott, | in his Preface to his last edition of Ivanhoe, | has expressed himself on this subject in language, which while it | conveys our own judgment, does so with a force and beauty peculiarly | his own. says he, | he concludes, | | | Another objection to which the conclusion is more fairly open is, that | it is a fault of art, and seldom true to nature, to change the complexion | of a character, and having launched a man on one course, to bring him | into haven on another. not only in poetry, | but in truth; and the depth and reality of Philip's repentance, | considering his intense egotism and self-sufficient vanity, does not, | we must confess, approve itself altogether to our belief. We will not | say incredulus odi, but at least we are in | doubt whether Miss Yonge entirely convinces our judgment and | carries with her our sympathy. It is true, as in the case of the | misunderstandings, that his repentance and amendment were | necessary to her conception, to display the full influence of Guy, and | the entire development of the character of Amy. But this does not | necessarily make the change natural, and we cannot altogether feel | that it is. This conceded, it is described, we fully admit, with great | power, and excites for him considerable, and at last compassionate | interest. | | It may be objected also that it ends too quietly, and without that strong | and passionate emotion which the scenes of Guy's death and burial so | powerfully arouse. It does end calmly; and a story that deals with such | characters as Guy and Amy certainly ends most fitly in such a temper. | Peace and rest, whether in this world or in Paradise, is the true | element for beings so serene, so chastened, so devout, so innocent. | This is the true teaching of the whole book; this is the feeling which it | aims at producing and leaving upon the mind. No stir or tumult, no | earthly joy or worldly happiness, should be mingled with our | recollection of these heavenly characters. Peace, profound and | tranquil, is the result of the story; and the characters are such as | entirely harmonize with and produce it; such peace and such | characters as are described in the beautiful lines of Bernard of Clugny, | with which we will conclude, which symbolise the feelings upon our | mind when we closed the book, which, if it wants a motto, might | fairly print them on its title-page. | |