His Controversial Style. 383 anthropomorphisms of the Hebrew Scriptures, and little consonant with the more enlightened views which a better dispensation encourages." . . . "I may cite another instance of expressions evincing a similar narrow spirit, and seeming to imply ideas which might have been supposed exploded from the minds of philosophers," "popular dogmas, founded on a narrow literalism, which betrays its Judaical origin rather than any connection with the enlightening influences of Christianity." ... The lamented Hugh Miller seems to have been, in a peculiar degree, the object of his philosophic aversion; he says, over and over again, that Mr Miller belongs to "the Judaical School"that he is imbued with "the spirit of Sabbatism"—that when he said "the battle of the Evidences will have to be fought on the field of physical science," he was "in obvious apprehension for the issue, subversive as it must be of that Judaical theology which he adopted." And when these and similar statements failed to convince some of his more intelligent readers, he holds up his hands in utter astonishment that any one should be so stupid as to differ from him! "There are incessantly appearing speculations of this kind, the productions of a class of minds incapable of philosophical reasoning, yet ever discussing scientific subjects; on whom the force of repeated refutation is lost, and who are continually coming forward with revivals of thrice-rejected and exploded fallacies. . . . After the examination into which I have entered of the whole argument of Mr H. Miller's works, I can only add an expression of surprise that so leading and liberal a journal as the Edinburgh Review should have so far lost sight of all sound philosophy, and shown itself so far behind in the advance of enlightenment, as to introduce, in a recent article on the works of the author just named, a new attempt to revive the credit of Bible Geology."... "Such ideas, however, are fully in keeping with those of another writer in the same journal, who . . seems incapable of perceiving the nature of my arguments, or appreciating the grander bearings of physical philosophy; and to whose apprehension the simple principles of inductive generalisation and of natural theology, as I have endeavoured to expound them, appear startling "paradoxes!" (219). Mr Powell frequently sneers at the "Puritans;" we are fully persuaded that we only express a wish which will find a cordial response from many of the most intelligent and leal-hearted friends of the Church of England, when we say-Would that such men as OWEN, and CHARNOCK, and HOWE, occupied chairs at Oxford in the present critical times! VOL. XXXI. NO. LXII. 2 B ART. V.-1. The Recollections of Geoffry Hamlyn. By HENRY KINGSLEY. Cambridge: Macmillan and Co. 1859. 2. Stephan Langton. By MARTIN F. TUPPER, D.C.L., F.R.S. London: Hurst, Blacket, and Co. THIS is the age of classification. The highest philosophy of the day has announced that, by a more accurate examination of words, it has at last discovered the philosopher's stone. Men are classified; the birds of the air are classified; vermin are classified. Time has been reduced to an arithmetical formula; and we leave the metropolis at 8.10, and reach our moor in the heart of the barren hills at 3.45. Yet our accurate statistics of mortality have not taught us how to live; and though the Registrar has put Death into his blue-book, the grim enemy shears vigorously away. Births, deaths, marriages, christenings, buryings, railway accidents, steamboat accidents, accidents on the tops of coaches, popular facts, scientific facts, facts that are neither scientific nor popular-all are bundled pell-mell into the seething caldron, and stirred round and round with pathetic pertinacity. Only here and there does an accidental sceptic venture to inquire doubtfully, How shall these dry bones live? Though we own, sorrowfully enough, that the mess is not by any means a savoury one, and that all our averages and per-centages do not somehow seem to do us the good they ought, yet it is surely right at all times to respect the popular taste. Henreich Heinewittiest of mortals-had what he called "my own system of natural science, whereby all things are divided into those that may, and may not, be eaten." Our classification of the genus Novel-novels that interest, novels that instruct, and novels that bore is less summary, but sufficiently exhaustive. We were at one time of opinion, indeed, that the list might be further reduced, and that a searching analysis would unite the latter two. But this view, on reflection, we rejected; for by it, we saw, no place would be provided for those which do not instruct, but which do bore. We would have excluded, inadvertently, three-fourths of our romantic literature. We entertain little or no toleration, we confess, for any novel that does not belong to the first class. The novel that interests answers its vocation, and fulfils its design. Gray's definition of perfect happiness-a sofa and a novel-is about as feasible as any we are acquainted with, provided the novel neither instructs nor bores. A novel that bores stands self-condemned; and an "instructive novel" is commonly as tough and indigestible as Euclid. Male and Female Novelists. 385 Men ought to give up writing novels; it does not suit them; the masculine mind is framed on too didactic a model. It seizes every opportunity, however unsuitable, to lecture the universe. It never goes out for an airing, except on stilts. Sir Edward Lytton's subtle mimicry of passion is no doubt very masterly; but the mimetic, after all, is one of the lower branches of art; and when men-Englishmen at least-try to write truly and unaffectedly about the affections (the subject-matter of the modern novel), they fail signally. The spectacle of the hippopotamus wallowing in a washing-tub is not impressive. Women, on the other hand, have the knack of writing as they speak, in their natural voice. Their very weakness is in their favour. They write the most charming nonsense, and are not afraid. But the true explanation why a woman's novel is so much better than a man's, is to be found in the fact that she retains a closer hold upon life, and is more open to its subtle and intricate influences. Her uncritical and unembarrassed narrative travels into those remote nooks and crannies of the heart of which most men know nothing, and which the best men, perhaps, are not too anxious to explore. That "sacred fear" which fell upon Lancelot "He look'd, and, more amazed Than if seven men had set upon him, saw often seizes the strongest hearts. But neither the plea of strength nor of moderation will now avail our male novelists. They used to console themselves with the assurance that, though the works of their lady-rivals were at once more readable and more lively, they yet wanted-power. Charlotte Brontë's novels, in which the flood-tide of passion sweeps through the dreariest abysses of the soul, and stirs them tumultuously, repelled that plea, and the indictment has latterly taken another shape. Women, it is said, can write powerfully, but they cannot write moderately. They are always in hysterics or heroics. Their pages bristle like a porcupine's back with points of admiration or contempt,-are sown with the most emphatic italics and the largest capitals. They want fairness, temperance, impartiality. Their prejudices are inveterate: they either worship the curate, or, behold-he is an angel of darkness! Men, we know, never hate causelessly, nor reason illogically, nor love foolishly, nor judge intemperately. These charming caprices are exclusively feminine. Our wives and sisters cannot ascend "the quiet seats above the thunder" in which their lords habitually recline. A very pretty theory as it stood; only, unhappily for its currency, the past season has witnessed the debût of Adam Bede. Of that book-of the subtle insights it manifests, and of the large charities it teaches-too much has been already made. Too many leading articles and leading journals have called Aristides "just." With Caliban's stolid heaviness we contrive to unite the fickleness and caprice of Ariel; and the notoriety-especially if he has been too notorious, which commonly happens to the favourites of a dull race, who can neither like nor dislike with fit temperancewhom the arbitrium popularis auræ has wafted to the Happy Islands in the spring, is "bleached by the sea-waves, and eaten of sea-birds," ere the autumn be well advanced. We add, then, no stone to the cairn which has been raised in its honour; we refer to it as to a piece of historical evidence only; and we venture to affirm that the hand which could depict the oldfashioned rector and the Methodist girl, with an even love and an equal sympathy, must have been guided by a singularly fair, candid, and unimpassioned intellect. Much meditating upon these things, as the old orator would have said, we arrive at the conclusion that women, as a general rule, are quite on a level with their lords; and that on one point only do they manifest inferiority, if inferiority it can rightly be called. For, of that mature and somewhat involved reflectiveness, which, with its dash of scorn and sadness, gives a rare charm to the gracious Cynic who wrote The Newcomes, they have no share; and we sometimes fancy that its absence in them accounts for the instinctive antipathy which the sex in general bear to Mr Thackeray. The reason ordinarily assigned is manifestly inadequate. It is not the libel which they dislike: no pretty woman dislikes to hear her pretty countrywoman criticised; for she feels that the criticism is not directed against her own charms, and that a tacit reserve of homage to herself is always implied; but the tone of thought, the temper of mind, the vein of character, is essentially unfamiliar and unintelligible. There is no knowledge, and consequently no sympathy. They read his books as they would read an unknown tongue (and if it were the fashion to read Arabic or Sanscrit in drawing-rooms, they-meekly obedient to its decrees-would do so dutifully, although they did not understand a word), and then marvel at the bright intelligence men detect, and the keen relish with which the precious morsel is devoured. But, after all, a social treatise or a Spectator essay would be a better vehicle than a novel for Mr Thackeray's gospel-at least in the hands of any other man. Mr Thackeray, of course, stands by himself, the curiosa felicitas of the highest reach and ripe maturity The Instructive Novel. 387 of a most genuine art defies criticism. And it has to be remembered besides, that though the spirit of his writings be in the main discursive and didactic, yet its expression is essentially dramatic. Among the social forms into which the principles he satirises shape. themselves among us, he is most at home. It is not with Malice and Uncharitableness, as they figure in the old Moralities, but with the mode in which Mr A. or Mrs B. manifests the malice and uncharitableness that permeate our society, that he can deal effectively. When another man, with the same habit of mind, would write an essay on hypocrisy, Mr Thackeray turns instinctively to Becky Sharp. Though we do not relish, as we have said, the "instructive novel," yet we cannot honestly join in the cry which has been raised against the writers who use the novel to promulgate their peculiar views on morals or politics. If a man has got something to say which he wishes people to attend to, it is quite natural that he should appropriate the popular form. The world will read arguments cast into a dramatic shape, while it obstinately declines to have anything to do with moral essays or political treatises. But the reader has a good right to complain; and, perhaps, a paternal government might find means to prevent him from suffering. If he contract to buy a novel, he is entitled to get a novel; and if an essay on political economy or a volume of old sermons be substituted in its place, then a fraud of some kind. has been practised. The evil is becoming a serious one; and a few of Louis Napoleon's "press-warnings" might do no harm. Violet and Ianthe does not certainly indicate, with due precision, ascetic views of a High Church tendency, on daily penance and wax candles; The Brother's Niece is not necessarily associated with muscular Christianity; and a financial argument on the vices of competition could hardly be expected in The Bloody Tryste. All round the Mahogany is the title which a modern writer would naturally assign to a historic disquisition on the Arthurian legends; but even a modern reader may be disquieted when he finds that the social evil and the Aristotelian logic usurp its pages. At the same time the nuisance has a tendency to cure itself. Society, when it wants amusement, will cease to read romance, and will turn to Mr Spurgeon's theology or Mr Tupper's philosophy. The novel will become forbidden ground to the idle and the frivolous, to any, in short, except serious readers. The evil was not so bad at first. Novel-writing was really the vocation of those who began the practice: they had a genuine insight into character, and their descriptions of men and things were often admirably picturesque. The interpolated scolding did not spoil the interest. We forgave the bad logic and the intemperate language in Alton Locke, because its men were men |