"Tess" or "Jude." The "Hand of Marcellus of our tongue," tried his Ethelberta" is a delightfully quaint piece of humor. But Mr. Hardy's typical book is the "Woodlanders," where every tree is a character, and the people are a set-off to the summer. There is plenty of human nature in the "Woodlanders," some of it no better than it ought to be. But it is the background. The foreground is the woods and the fields. Perhaps nobody is quite a man or quite a woman. The feminine element in Mr. Hardy is his love of the country, which is neither the sportsman's love, nor the naturalist's, nor the poet's, but passion for the country as such, and that may be found in a hundred women before it will be found in one man. Mr. Hardy feels the cruelty of nature. He feels it so much that, as may be seen in "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," he can hardly bear to contemplate the country in winter. But he loves it, and his inimitably beautiful form of adoration is the secret of his power. In his later works Mr. Hardy has done what only the French nation can do with impunity. Much of the abuse lavished upon "Jude the Obscure" was foolish and irrelevant enough. The pity of it is much more prominent than the coarseness. It is, like "Tess," a powerful book, and no other living Englishman could have written it. But it is far below the level of the "Return of the Native" and the "Mayor of Casterbridge." Mr. Hardy's short stories, such as "Wessex Tales," and "Noble Dames," and "Life's Little Ironies," are very clever, all the cleverer because they are quite unlike his long ones. Short stories came from America. Was it "Daisy Miller" that set the fashion, or the "Luck of Roaring Camp?" To claim either Mr. Bret Harte or Mr. Henry James as a British novelist would be an insult to the Stars and Stripes. They have shown, and so has Mr. Anthony Hope, that the English language is suitable to short stories, as indeed to every other form of human composition except pentameter verse. But the English people do not take to them. Louis Stevenson, that "young 738 LIVING AGE. VOL. XIV. genius on them. But the "New Arabian Nights," though I am not ashamed to confess that I would rather read them than the old, do not reveal the author of “Kidnapped” and the “Master of Ballantrae." Stevenson is one of the very few really exquisite and admirable writers who deliberately sat down to form a style. He was singularly frank about it. He has told the public what he read, and how he read it, and a very strange blend of authors it was. In nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand the result would have been a disastrous failure. In Mr. Stevenson's case it was a brilliant success. Of course, every critic thinks that he would have found out the secret for himself. Certainly, Mr. Stevenson's are the most studiously elaborate works of art. But the art is so good that, though it can hardly be said to conceal, it justifies and commends itself. The reader feels as a personal compliment the immense pains which this humblest of geniuses has bestowed upon every chapter and every sentence of all the volumes he wrote entirely himself. It is said that his warmest champions belong to his own sex. For while he does, like Falstaff, in some sort handle women, and while Miss Barbara Grant, or the girl in the "Dynamiter," would have been the delight of any society it had pleased them to adorn, his writings teach that it is not the passion of love, but the spirit of adventure, which makes the world go round. The question whether the two influences can be altogether separated does not belong to a review of Victorian romance. There have been novels without women, even in French. Victor Hugo wrote one. Ferdinand Fabre has written another. But it is a dangerous experiment, or would be if it were likely to be repeated. "Weir of Hermiston," in which the eternal element of sex was revived, is surely one of the greatest tragedies in the history of literature. It is far sadder than "Denis Duval" or "Edwin Drood." Thackeray and Dickens had done their work. We know the full extent of their marvellous powers. a door. If there were ever any knockers in Thrums, there cannot be many left now. Mrs. Oliphant, who was a popular and successful novelist before Mr. Barrie was born, continues her wonderful activity. Few writers in any age have maintained so high a level over so large a surface. The "Chronicles of Carlingford" have for the modern novel-reader an almost mediæval sound. But the author of "Salem Chapel" and "Miss Marjoribanks" is still supplying the public with stories which are always full of interest and often full of charm. Miss Broughton has produced a great deal of work since "Cometh up as a Flower" impressed the hall and the parsonage with a vague sense that it was dreadfully improper. The imputation of impropriety without the reality is an invaluable asset for an English novelist. It is not, of course, Miss Broughton's sole capital. The "rough and cynical reader." always rather given to crying over cheap sentimentalism, has shed many a tear over "Good-bye, Sweetheart," and "Not Wisely but too Well." The very names are lachrymatory. Then, Miss Broughton is witty as well as tragic. She first discovered the possi but that cannot be said of Stevenson. latent in family prayers. She is an society. But their literary excellence is not far from the highest. They are complete in themselves. They are perfectly, sometimes forcibly, actual. There is an unvarnished truth about them which compels belief, and an original power which, once felt, cannot be resisted. A little more romance, a little more poetry, a little more humor, and Mr. Gissing would be a very great writer indeed. At nos immensum spatiis confecimus æquor, Et jam tempus equum fumantia solvere colla. It is impossible to attempt an exhaustive catalogue of contemporary novelists. The time would fail one to tell of Dr. Conan Doyle and Mr. Stanley Weyman, Lucas Malet also, and Mr. Anstey and Mr. Zangwill. Their thousands of readers testify to their popularity, and their praise is in all the newspapers. Mr. William Black, if he does not write so often, still occasionally delights the many admirers of "A Daughter of Heth" and "A Princess of Thule." Mrs. Clifford has shown in "Mrs. Keith's Crime" and "Aunt Anne" that a really imaginative writer needs no other material than the pathos of every-day life. But a word of recognition must be given to Miss Yonge, who has treated the problems of life in a commendably serious spirit. Dr. Whewell, who was at one time supposed to know everything, used to say that the "Clever Woman of the Family" was the first of English novels. He did not live to read "Robert Elsmere." One might be misunderstood if one suggested that Miss Charlotte Yonge was the spiritual mother of Mrs. Humphry Ward. Yet daughters are often more learned and usually less orthodox than their parents. Miss Yonge wrote stories, and even religious stories, without an exhaustive study of Biblical criticism as made in Germany. Mrs. Ward has indulged in something very like original research, and is certainly the most learned of female novelists since the death of George Eliot. Her novels are entitled to the highest respect for the evidence of industry which they always display. They are also an interesting "end-of-the-century" example of the art of separating instruction from amusement. The frivolous people who want to laugh, or even to cry, over fiction must go elsewhere. Mrs. Ward requires attention while she develops her theories. Since the publication of "Robert Elsmere" no unbelieving clergyman has any excuse for remaining in holy orders. "David Grieve" taught married people that neither husband nor wife has any right to talk in a style which the other cannot understand. From "Marcella" we learn political economy, and in "Sir George Tressady" the private life of the aristocracy is held up for the admiration of the middle classes. In the Early Victorian novel there may have been too much sentiment. In the Late Victorian novel there is apt to be too much of everything. The "smooth tale, generally of love," has become a crowded epitome of universal information. In "Sir George Tressady" we see the House of Commons in Committee, and tea on the terrace, and dinner in an under-secretary's room, and public meetings, and declarations of the poll. We may even notice a vast improvement in the evening papers, which report speeches delivered at ten o'clock. If novels are to contain everything, the world will not contain the novels, and all other forms of literature will be superseded. The Plan of Campaign was the subject of a very clever novel by Miss Mabel Robinson which actually bore that name. Mr. George Moore's "Esther Waters" is credited with having inspired the decision in Hawke v. Dunn. Miss Emily Lawless has kept Irish politics out of her sad and beautiful stories of Irish life. But Miss Lawless is an exception. She is no realist. When Nicholas Nickleby was employed by Mr. Vincent Crummles to write a play, it was made a condition that he should introduce a real pump and two washing-tubs. "That's the London plan," said Mr. Crummles. "They look up some dresses and properties, and have a piece written to fit 'em." It is the London plan still. But it is now applied to belonged to the past. It was his habit novels, and not to plays. HERBERT PAUL. IN KEDAR'S TENTS.1 thus to pay a visit to Toledo Cathedral whensoever his journeys led him to Castile. It was, moreover, his simple custom to attend the early mass, which is here historical; and, indeed, to walk through the church, grey and cool, with the hush that seems to belong only to BY HENRY SETON MERRIMAN, AUTHOR OF "THE buildings of a stupendous age, is in it SOWERS." CHAPTER XXIII. LARRALDE'S PRICE. "It is as difficult to be entirely bad as it is to be entirely good." To those who say that there is no faith, Spain is in itself a palpable answer. No country in the world can show such cathedrals as those of Granada, Cordova, Seville, Toledo, Burgos. In any other land any one of these great structures would suffice. But in Spain these huge monuments to that faith which has held serenely through war and fashion, through thought and thoughtlessness, are to be found in all the great cities. And the queen of them all is Toledo. If the Christian faith be, as some state, a mistake, then those who built Toledo Cathedral were mistaken to good purposes, and for us, who follow and cannot do likewise in architecture, it may be wise to make, at all events, the same mistake in faith, Father Concha, that sour-visaged philosopher, had a queer pride in his profession and in the history of that Church which is to-day seen in its purest form in the Peninsular, while it is so entangled with the national story of Spain that the two are but one tale told from a different point of view. As a private soldier may take pleasure in standing on a great battle-field, noting each spot of interest-here a valley of death, there the scene of cavalry charge, of which the thunder will echo down through all the ages-so Concha, a mere country priest, liked to pace the aisles of a great cathedral, indulging the while in a half-cynical pride. He was no great general, no leader, of no smallest importance in the ranks; but he was of the army, and partook in a minute degree of those victories that 1 Copyright, 1896, by Henry Seton Merriman. self a religious service. Concha was passing across the nave, hat in hand, a gaunt, ill-clad, and somewhat pathetic figure, when he caught sight of Sir John Pleydell. The tall Englishman paused involuntarily and looked at the lean Spaniard. Concha bowed. "We met," he said, "for a moment in the garden of General Vincente's house at Ronda." "True," answered Sir John; "are you leaving the cathedral? We might walk a little way together. One cannot talk idly-here." He paused and looked up at the great oak screen, at the towering masonry. "No," answered Concha gravely; "one cannot talk idly here." Concha held back the great leathern portière, and the Englishman passed out. "This is a queer country, and you are a queer people," he said presently. "When I was at Ronda I met a certain number of persons-I can count them on my fingers-General Vincente, his daughter, Señora Barenna, Señorita Barenna, the Englishman, Conyngham, yourself, Señor Concha. I arrived in Toledo yesterday morning. In twentyfour hours I have caught sight of all the persons mentioned here in Toledo." "And here in Toledo is another of whom you have not caught sight,' said Concha. "And I have conceived the strange fancy that Frederick Conyngham, when he first came to this country, set such a pebble in motion at the summit of a very high mountain. It has been falling and falling silently ever since, and it is gaining in bulk. And you and General Vincente, and Estella Vincente, and Señorita Barenna, and Frederick Conyngham, and, in a minor degree, myself are on the slope, in the track of the avalanche, and are sliding down behind it. And the general and Estella and yourself and Conyngham are try ing to overtake it and stop it; and, reverendo, in the valley below is the monarchy of Spain and the Bourbon cause." Father Concha, remembering his favorite maxim, that no flies enter a shut mouth, was silent. perhaps, know one thing, and that I and nothing else. Concha reflected while they walked along on the shady side of the narrow street. It happened to be the street where the saddlers live, and the sharp sound of their little hammers on the leather and wood came from almost every darkened doorway. The padre had a wholesome fear of Esteban Larralde and an exaggerated estimation of that schemer's ability. He was a humble-minded old man, and ever hesitated to put his own brain against that of another. He knew that Sir John was a cleverer man than Larralde, deeper versed in that side of human nature where the seams are and the knots and the unsightly stitches, older, more experienced, and probably no more scru "The pebble was a letter," said Sir pulous. John. "And Larralde has it," he added after a pause; "and that is why you are all in Toledo, why the air is thick with apprehension, and why all Spain seems to pause and wait breathlessly." "Will the avalanche be stopped, or will it not? Will the Bourbons, than whom history has known no more interesting and more satisfactory race, except our own Stuarts-will the Bourbons fall, Señor Padre?" "Ah!" said Concha, whose furrowed face and pessimistic glance betrayed nothing-"ah!" "You will not tell me, of course. You know much that you will not tell me, and I merely ask from curiosity. You, "Yes," said the priest, "I can tell you that. Larralde lodges in the house of a malcontent, one Lamberto, a scribbling journalist, who is hurt because the world takes him at its own valuation and not his. The house is next to the little synagogue in the Calle de Madrid, a small stationer's shop, where one may buy the curse of this generation, pens and paper." "Thank you," said Sir John, civilly and simply. This man has, no doubt, been ill painted, but some may have seen that with different companions he wore a different manner. He was, as all successful men are, an unconscious actor, and in entering into tue personality of the companion of the moment |