by Ellen Wood
“The house in which I am now living is like the family, a typical one of its class, and was built by an ancestor near the site of the original one; and a good deal of the old brick and timber having been used again, it presents a much more antique appearance than it can really lay claim to. The polished oak landing and stairs look strangely out of keeping with the red quarried hall-floor; but in the wide whitewashed kitchen (evidently built in the days when eight or ten men and women farm-hands sat down every day to share in the contents of the huge baking-oven) everything is in harmony, from the great open fireplace, where one can sit in the chimney-corner and watch the smoke ascend straight up towards the sky, to the half-circular oak screen or settle, and vast oak sideboard with its array of cider jugs and cups.
“To speak of Worcestershire without mentioning cider would certainly be to describe the play of Hamlet with the part of Hamlet left out.
“What would the dwellers in a non-cider-drinking county say to the cellars of this house having contained at one time forty hogsheads, each of 100-gallon capacity, and two of 200- gallon, all filled with that delectable beverage one autumn, and emptied before the next?
“Yet such is a fact; and when one has seen a little of the habits of the people, it ceases to be a wonder. Summer and winter, day and night, beginning directly after breakfast, the cider is always flowing, and it is a matter of the barest civility to offer a jugful to every one who passes through one’s yard. But if you wish to see it in full flow, just be about the yard on hunt days, when there is a ‘find ‘ or a ‘kill’ near the house.
“Every man, whether he be acquainted with the master of the place or not, by virtue of that freemasonry which seems to exist alike amongst hunting men and cider-drinkers, crowds into the yard or garden, and has a good pull at the fine old Worcester mugs and loving cups, which are refilled as fast as emptied from the buckets brought up out of the cellar!
“One finds not only excellent old furniture, but exquisite antique china and silver in common use amongst these people. I see on the tables, every day, tea-sets and silver-ware which nouveaux riches and curiosity-mongers would gladly buy for drawing-room ornaments.
“I do not recollect that Mrs. Henry Wood dwells much on scenery in her novels, excepting in so far as it is necessary to the working out or setting of a story—’ word-painting’ had not become the fashion in the days when her style was formed, — but what descriptions she does give us are very clear-cut and distinct, and generally intensely Worcestershire.
“If I were asked to describe one or two typical bits of the scenery of this county, I could not do better than refer the questioner to the pictures of his home, in the tale of Francis Radcliffe, for one kind, and to the opening chapters of Trevlyn Hold for another. The ‘ setting’ of Dene Hollow and The Shadow of Ashlydyat is also singularly good; and with the neighbourhood of the latter I am well acquainted. But the old, old house surrounded by lofty elms, with their hundreds of cawing rooks, that formed ‘Selina Radcliffe’s home,’ is as truly a photograph from nature as any that was ever taken; and one only fails to localise it exactly because the counterpart is met with so many times in dear, pretty Worcestershire.
“Mrs. Henry Wood has indeed conferred a distinction upon her county, which can never be too thoroughly recognised or too greatly appreciated. — S. M. C.”
Every word here bears directly upon the subject, and testifies to the fidelity of the stories. The article seems to bring Johnny Ludlow and all his surroundings still more vividly before us; to lift him still more into the realms of actual existence; it is the impartial testimony of an eye-witness, who has studied the matter on the very spot, and decided that people and places, manners and customs of Worcestershire life — from the impulsive squire, and homely, true-hearted Sir John, to Miss Timmens, the village schoolmistress, and Lee, the humble postman — are all true pictures of the life described.
As the stories appeared from time to time, the secret of their authorship was well kept; the slightest whisper never transpired. Friends would occasionally say to her: “Mrs. Wood, who is the author of Johnny Ludlow?” And she would laugh and reply: “That is a secret that will no doubt some day be known”; and none suspected that the writer stood before them.
The stories had been appearing for some years when a certain number of them were gathered into book form, and published anonymously as a First Series. The press received the book with the highest praise, some critics declaring they had not suspected the existence of a writer of so much power, none imagining for a moment that they referred to the author of East Lynne.
But the mystery caused various people to claim the authorship. Amongst these was one who, in the course of a trial at a fashionable watering-place, declared upon oath that he was the writer of Johnny Ludlow. This could not be treated as a mere dishonest boast. The lawyers conducting the case were communicated with, and the author of the assertion had publicly to retract his statement. He wrote to the papers declaring that what he had said was untrue, and that he had never written one line of Johnny Ludlow. At the same time he sent a letter to the still unknown author, through Messrs. Bentley and Son, begging for mercy — which he received.
We may cite these Johnny Ludlow papers as another proof of Mrs. Wood’s fertility of invention. For twenty years they appeared in rapid succession. The tax upon the inventive powers necessarily grew greater as the stories multiplied. Yet to the end there was no falling off in vigour and freshness. Caramel Cottage, one of the last, is also one of the best. The stories form a crowd and company of living people, standing out separately and distinctly each from the other. Six volumes in all, equal in length to six novels, five of which have appeared.
We can quite realise how Mrs. Wood delighted in this work. The scene was laid in her favourite county — her own county — Worcestershire. — Every place she describes, every house and village, every highway and by-way, every country sound, had been impressed upon her memory in childhood; the whole neighbourhood — an immense area — had entwined itself round her heart-strings. It also bears witness to her powers of memory. Very much of three counties is described with a minuteness almost bewildering; yet when the last Johnny Ludlow was written, more than half a century had gone by since Mrs. Wood had seen the places delineated.
With her characters it is less surprising. We forget places, but we do not forget our friends. To write of Johnny Ludlow was to go back to her early youth and restore friends and acquaintances from the dead. Some of course are imaginary, but many were portraits of people who had once lived and moved and had their being. If her pleasure was great, it must often have been bitter-sweet. Sir John and Lady Whitney, the Squire and Mrs. Todhetley, and a host of others — she had known them all intimately in days of old. To endow them as it were with a second life must have had in it something of the pain we experience in burning old letters. In the flames we see rising dead-and-gone faces — thoughts — episodes. It is a funeral pyre, of which our hearts are the victims. When the last flame has expired, and the ashes lie smouldering like so many of our dead hopes, we realise that the charm of life is over. Then is it “good-bye to youth,” as the Austrian Emperor remarked on his fiftieth birthday; and that means good-bye to all the glamour of existence; very much of it illusion no doubt, but a fool’s paradise in which we have fondly lingered, and would linger still. Yet the pleasure of writing Johnny Ludlow seemed to grow greater, not to diminish. And the brain never failed. It was loss of physical power that at last caused the pen to fall from the hand.
We have spoken of one who either personated Mrs. Wood, or took credit for her works. Others had occasionally done the same thing, though less publicly. Once, many years ago, a lady, Mrs. C — , came to Mrs. Wood in great distress.
The previous day an acquaintance, not knowing her to be Mrs. Wood’s friend, declared that she had written every one of Mrs. Wood’s books. “Of course I knew it to be impossible, but I was obliged to come and tell you,” exclaimed Mrs. C — , impulsively shedding tea
rs. Mrs. Wood, on the contrary, only met it with her quiet smile, declaring that such assertions could harm none but those who spoke them. On another occasion a person well known to Mrs. Wood was taking a common friend in to dinner at a country-house in Shropshire. Again unaware that the lady upon his arm was also acquainted with Mrs. Wood, he boldly declared that he did most of the editing of the Argosy, and had written quite half Mrs. Wood’s works. This gentleman, now in holy orders and a country vicar, has no doubt repented the error of his ways. On yet another occasion, Mrs. Henry Wood’s daughter was at a ball at the late Sir William Walker’s, when her host brought up and introduced a gentleman for the next dance. At the same time he made some flattering allusion to the author of East Lynne. When the dance was over, the young man went gravely up to Sir William and said: “That young lady cannot be genuine, or there is some mistake. She is not Mrs. Henry Wood’s daughter at all. I know the author of East Lynne intimately. She lives near my home in the country, and we often meet This young lady lives in London, and, I see plainly, knows nothing about the real Mrs. Henry Wood.”
Sir William, a little annoyed and a little amused, replied: “I assure you, sir, that whoever your Mrs. Henry Wood may be, she is not the author of East Lynne, who is my personal friend. And, further, allow me to say that the young lady with whom you have just had the honour of dancing is not here to-night as my guest under false colours.” Then leaving the young man in a state of unhappy perplexity, he went up to Miss Wood, and with much humour narrated the incident, laughingly advising her to enter an action for slander against her late partner.
Whilst mentioning mistakes and impositions, a bold one may be recorded. On this occasion it was not personating the writer or taking credit for authorship, but reproducing the work itself. Messrs. Savill and Edwards, who were blameless in the matter, were printing a penny weekly paper, which was being issued from some house in the Strand. A writer, whose name was well known, conceived the idea of taking East Lynne and bringing it out in this penny paper. Printers, proprietors, and editors knew nothing of the fraud. The title of the book was changed, and the name of every character; with that exception the text was word for word East Lynne. But the fraud was discovered, and Mrs. Wood’s solicitors wrote to Messrs. Savill and Edwards stating that if the story were not at once stopped, an injunction would be applied for. Not only was this done, but after that week the paper never appeared again. The title which replaced East Lynne was How could she do it? by the author of The Black Angel; and perhaps the author of The Black Angel had not to search very far for his hero.
A pleasanter coincidence than this had happened years before.
On one occasion, when living abroad, Mr and Mrs. Wood had come over on a visit to England, and were staying at a private hotel in Dover Street, Piccadilly, where they made the acquaintance of some charming people; a gentleman and his wife who were staying there at the same time. At this period Mrs. Wood was writing a series of letters called Ensign Tom Peppers Letters front the Seat of War, supposed to be written by a young officer in the Crimea. One morning the lady in question mentioned to Mrs. Wood that her husband had gone out for a magazine. “He is deeply interested in some letters that are appearing in Colburn’s New Monthly,” she said, “and can scarcely wait patiently from one month to another. We are both certain they are genuine” she emphatically added. Mrs. Wood, who seldom spoke of her writings to her most intimate friends, and never at all to strangers, could not help laughing at the singular situation, and in the impulse of the moment betrayed herself; and great was their astonishment at finding that the author of those masculine and realistic letters was none other than the calm and gentle lady whose acquaintance they had so recently made. This incident took place some forty years ago.
CHAPTER XXIV
“And hear at times a sentinel
Who moves about from place to place,
And whispers to the worlds of space,
In the deep night, that all is well.”
WE have given an extract from an unknown critic upon Johnny Ludlow, and venture upon another short analysis of some of Mrs. Henry Wood’s other works, by one of the ablest critics of the day.
We do so because Dr. Japp, with keen perception of a writer’s thoughts and motives, the mental idiosyncrasy which must inevitably lead to certain given results in given writers, seems to enter into and understand Mrs. Wood’s power and individuality more accurately than many, and to have bestowed much thought upon the matter.
The article, which appeared in the pages of a periodical, does not pretend to be exhaustive, or to go profoundly and elaborately into the whole list of works, or to touch completely even upon any one of them. But as far as it does go it is true and appreciative, and suggestive; placing certain thoughts and problems before the reader and allowing him to work out the argument for himself. This surely is one of the true ends of reviewing, which should be based upon broad principles, and include every side of an author’s merits as well as defects. The inevitable tendency of criticism is to search for and dwell upon shortcomings, but Dr. Japp’s criticisms are broad and generous, and if he does not spare the flaws in a writer, neither does he withhold praise; so striking a just balance.
“There are fashions in books as there are fashions in dress,” remarks the article in question. “We are sometimes inclined to wonder nowadays at the tastes and the patience of our ancestors, who would pore with delight over the somewhat tedious epistolary pages of Richardson, or even over the more concentrated passages of Jane Austen, to which her keen knowledge of character and motive within a widened range imparted new accesses of interest. Yet it is not too much to say that probably the readers of the end of next century will wonder as much at some of our predilections.
“The truth is that, just as the sciences oscillate, so do tastes and appetites, even in the refined sphere of literature of the fictitious kind. One school overdoes its speciality, and people get sated and demand an indulgence in the very opposite. And so the pendulum swings. Sometimes all the rage is for realism, and the realists out-Herod Herod; and then once more comes in fantasy, extravagance, and all manner of caprices and eccentricities.
“We owe something to the writers who manage to unite the two tendencies, and as it were stand on the happy mean, and secure permanence, combining realistic and faithful portraiture with invention and incident, mystery, surprise, and sensation; imparting new interests to everyday affairs; and who, while catching hold of the sublime, ethical principles that penetrate all life, manage to invent as well as to represent, and so reveal to us the very spirit and secret meaning of the life amid which we move.
“These are the writers who have the most chance to live. Mr. Anthony Trollope was a great photographer, but he sometimes lacked invention as he lacked Ethos, and it told upon his books, as it is likely to tell upon their permanent hold. Mr. Charles Reade sometimes overdid the Ethos, and was besides too egotistical and too little dramatic, however dramatic he was in style and form; and he is likely to lose considerably with the future on this score. George Eliot was a very great artist, but she too was over-reflective, and despised a little what is ordinarily called action or movement “Mrs. Henry Wood combined in a remarkable degree these two powers or qualities — realistic portraitures of men and women, with invention, construction, and surprises. She successfully used sensational elements for moral ends, and so at the most fitting moment met a great need and corrected a vicious tendency, hardly otherwise corrigible. It is because we believe her remarkable merits and services in this regard have hardly yet had full recognition — her invention, as seen in some of her less successful works, having been dwelt on too much to the exclusion of those in which both elements were happily united — that we would endeavour to justify the position we would thus claim for her as novelist, the best of whose work has not only been a source of delight and elevation to the present generation, but is likely to hold its place for many generations to come.
“It is one of the highest proofs of creativ
e power that the artist can afford to wait — to let the characters develop themselves. ‘Raw haste, half-sister to delay,’ is just as ruinous here as in matters of practical conduct.
“So much is this a sine qua non in fiction that a ‘retarding element’ is often introduced, and indeed sought for and desiderated by the critics, which is, at the best, simply a kind of artificial expedient to supply the place of the other — an attempt to make mere trick of artificial construction do the work of insight into life and its morale.
“One of the true tests of success is the sense of sympathy and toleration — the power of impressing the reader with a complete belief in the reality of the characters on the author’s part, as though they had been lived with, observed, patiently ‘put-up-with,’ and had sometimes amused, and sometimes vexed and irritated.
“The result is that they affect you precisely as the author feels that they affected her. This implies a close attention to the minutest details of conduct, habit, and idiosyncrasy. This gave the sense of reality to Jane Austen and Miss Ferrier: it also gives force and attraction to the stories of Mrs. Henry Wood.
“But in her case you find also a new order of agencies brought into play.
“She is apt at incident, situation, and sensational surprise. Her plots are completely thought out — very seldom do loose threads appear; and yet in the most successful and popular of her novels there is no sense of inharmoniousness. The characters are caught up, involved in the most unexpected circumstances of mystery and crime; but each retains the dominant characteristic, only modified, it may be, as to its energy and the manner of expression.