Women Novelists of Queen Victoria's Reign: A Book of Appreciations
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MRS. GASKELL
Of all the novelists of Queen Victoria's reign there is not one to whomthe present writer turns with such a sense of love and gratitude as toMrs. Gaskell. This feeling is undoubtedly shared by thousands of men andwomen, for about all the novels there is that wonderful sense ofsympathy, that broad human interest which appeals to readers of everydescription. The hard-worked little girl in the schoolroom can forgetthe sorrows of arithmetic or the vexations of French verbs as she poresover "Wives and Daughters" on a Saturday half-holiday, and, as GeorgeSand remarked to Lord Houghton, this same book, "Wives and Daughters,""would rivet the attention of the most _blase_ man of the world."
With the exception of her powerful "Life of Charlotte Bronte," Mrs.Gaskell wrote only novels or short stories. The enormous difficultieswhich attended the writing of a biography of the author of "Jane Eyre"would, we venture to think, have baffled any other writer of that time.It is easy now, years after Charlotte Bronte's death, to criticise thewisdom of this or that page, to hunt up slight mistakes, to maintainthat in some details Mrs. Gaskell was wrong. To be wise too late is aneasy and, to some apparently, a most grateful task; but it would,nevertheless, be hard to find a biography of more fascinating interest,or one which more successfully grappled with the great difficulty of theundertaking.
As Mr. Clement Shorter remarks, the "Life of Charlotte Bronte" "rankswith Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' and Lockhart's 'Life of Scott.'" It ispleasant, too, to read Charlotte Bronte's own words in a letter to Mr.Williams, where she mentions her first letter from her future friend andbiographer:
"The letter you forwarded this morning was from Mrs. Gaskell, authoressof 'Mary Barton.' She said I was not to answer it, but I cannot helpdoing so. The note brought the tears to my eyes. She is a good, she is agreat woman. Proud am I that I can touch a chord of sympathy in souls sonoble. In Mrs. Gaskell's nature it mournfully pleases me to fancy aremote affinity to my sister Emily. In Miss Martineau's mind I havealways felt the same, though there are wide differences. Both theseladies are above me--certainly far my superiors in attainments andexperience. I think I could look up to them if I knew them."
For lovers of the author of "Mary Barton" it is hard, however, not tofeel a grudge against the "Life of Charlotte Bronte"--or, rather, thereception accorded to it. Owing to the violent attacks to which it gaverise, to a threatened action for libel on the part of some of thosementioned in the book, and to the manifold annoyances to which thepublication of the Biography subjected the writer, Mrs. Gaskelldetermined that no record of her own life should be written.
It is pleasant to find that there were gleams of light mixed with themany vexations. Charles Kingsley writes to Mrs. Gaskell in warmappreciation of the "Life":
"Be sure," he says, "that the book will do good. It will shame literarypeople into some stronger belief that a simple, virtuous, practicalhome-life is consistent with high imaginative genius; and it will shame,too, the prudery of a not over-cleanly, though carefully whitewashed,age, into believing that purity is now (as in all ages till now) quitecompatible with the knowledge of evil. I confess that the book has mademe ashamed of myself. 'Jane Eyre' I hardly looked into, very seldomreading a work of fiction--yours, indeed, and Thackeray's are the onlyones I care to open. 'Shirley' disgusted me at the opening, and I gaveup the writer and her books with the notion that she was a person wholiked coarseness. How I misjudged her! and how thankful I am that Inever put a word of my misconceptions into print, or recorded mymisjudgments of one who is a whole heaven above me. Well have you doneyour work, and given us a picture of a valiant woman made perfect bysufferings. I shall now read carefully and lovingly every word she haswritten."
Mrs. Gaskell's wish regarding her own biography has, of course, beenrespected by her family; but the world is the poorer, and it isimpossible not to regret that the life of so dearly loved a writer mustnever be attempted.
The books reveal a mind as delicately pure as a child's, wedded to thattrue mother's heart which is wide enough to take in all the needy.Looking, moreover, at that goodly row of novels--whether in the dear oldshabby volumes that have been read and re-read for years, or in thatdainty little set recently published in a case, which the risinggeneration can enjoy--one cannot help reflecting that here is "A LittleChild's Monument," surely the most beautiful memorial of a great loveand a great grief that could be imagined. It was not until the death ofher little child--the only son of the family--that Mrs. Gaskell,completely broken down by grief, began, at her husband's suggestion, towrite. And thus a great sorrow brought forth a rich and wonderfulharvest, as grief borne with strength and courage always may do; and theworld has good reason to remember that little ten months' child whoseshort life brought about such great results.
A question naturally suggests itself at this point as to Mrs. Gaskell'sbirth and education. How far had she inherited her literary gifts? Andin what way had her mind been influenced by the surroundings of herchildhood and girlhood? Her mother, Mrs. Stevenson, was a Miss Holland,of Sandlebridge, in Cheshire; her father--William Stevenson--was atfirst classical tutor in the Manchester Academy, and later on, duringhis residence in Edinburgh, was editor of the _Scots Magazine_ and afrequent contributor to the _Edinburgh Review_. He was next appointedKeeper of the Records to the Treasury, an appointment which caused hisremoval from Edinburgh to Chelsea; and it was there, in Cheyne Row, thatElizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson, the future novelist, was born.
Owing to the death of her mother, she was adopted when only a month oldby her aunt, Mrs. Lumb, and taken to Knutsford, in Cheshire, the littletown so wonderfully described in "Cranford." For two years in hergirlhood she was educated at Stratford-on-Avon, walking in the flowerymeadows where Shakspere once walked, worshipping in the stately oldchurch where he worshipped, and where he willed that his body should beleft at rest; nor is it possible to help imagining that the associationsof that ideal place had an influence on the mind of the future writer,doing something to give that essentially English tone whichcharacterises all her books.
After her father's second marriage she went to live with him, and hereducation was superintended by him until his death in 1829, when sheonce more returned to Knutsford. Here, at the age of twenty-two, she wasmarried to the Rev. William Gaskell, M.A., of Cross Street Chapel,Manchester; and Manchester remained her home ever after.
Such are the brief outlines of a life story which was to have such awide and lasting influence for good. For nothing is more striking thanthis when we think over the well-known novels--they are not onlyconsummate works of art, full of literary charm, perfect in style andrich with the most delightful humour and pathos--they are books fromwhich that morbid lingering over the loathsome details of vice, thosesensuous descriptions of sin too rife in the novels of the present day,are altogether excluded.
Not that the stories are namby-pamby, or unreal in any sense; they arewholly free from the horrid prudery, the Pharisaical temper, which makesa merit of walking through life in blinkers and refuses to know ofanything that can shock the respectable. Mrs. Gaskell was too genuine anartist to fall either into this error or into the error of bad taste andwant of reserve. She drew life with utter reverence; she held thehighest of all ideals, and she dared to be true.
How tender and womanly and noble, for instance, is her treatment of thedifficult subject which forms the _motif_ of "Ruth"! How sorrowfullytrue to life is the story of the dressmaker's apprentice with no placein which to spend her Sunday afternoons! We seem ourselves to breathethe dreadful "stuffy" atmosphere of the workroom, to feel the drearymonotony of the long day's work. It is so natural that the girl's fancyshould be caught by Henry Bellingham, who was courteous to her when shemended the torn dress of his partner at the ball; so inevitable that sheshould lose her heart to him when she witnessed his gallant rescue ofthe drowning child. But her fall was not inevitable, and one of thefinest bits in the whole novel is the description of Ruth's hesitationin the inn parlour when, finding herself most cruelly and unjustly castoff by her
employer, she has just accepted her lover's suggestion thatshe shall go with him to London, little guessing what the promiseinvolved, yet intuitively feeling that her consent had been unwise.
"Ruth became as hot as she had previously been cold, and went and openedthe window, and leant out into the still, sweet evening air. The bush ofsweetbriar underneath the window scented the place, and the deliciousfragrance reminded her of her old home. I think scents affect andquicken the memory even more than either sights or sounds; for Ruth hadinstantly before her eyes the little garden beneath the window of hermother's room, with the old man leaning on his stick watching her, justas he had done not three hours before on that very afternoon." Sheremembers the faithful love of the old labouring man and his wife whohad served her parents in their lifetime, and for their sake would helpand advise her now. Would it not be better to go to them?
"She put on her bonnet and opened the parlour door; but then she saw thesquare figure of the landlord standing at the open house door, smokinghis evening pipe, and looming large and distinct against the dark airand landscape beyond. Ruth remembered the cup of tea that she had drunk;it must be paid for, and she had no money with her. She feared that hewould not let her leave the house without paying. She thought that shewould leave a note for Mr. Bellingham saying where she was gone, and howshe had left the house in debt, for (like a child) all dilemmas appearedof equal magnitude to her; and the difficulty of passing the landlordwhile he stood there, and of giving him an explanation of thecircumstances, appeared insuperable, and as awkward and fraught withinconvenience as far more serious situations. She kept peeping out ofher room after she had written her little pencil note, to see if theouter door was still obstructed. There he stood motionless, enjoying hispipe, and looking out into the darkness which gathered thick with thecoming night. The fumes of the tobacco were carried into the house andbrought back Ruth's sick headache. Her energy left her; she becamestupid and languid, and incapable of spirited exertion; she modified herplan of action to the determination of asking Mr. Bellingham to take herto Milham Grange, to the care of her humble friends, instead of toLondon. And she thought in her simplicity that he would instantlyconsent when he had heard her reasons."
The selfishness of the man who took advantage of her weakness andignorance is finely drawn because it is not at all exaggerated. HenryBellingham is no monster of wickedness, but a man with many finequalities spoilt by an over-indulgent and unprincipled mother, andyielding too easily to her worldly-wise arguments.
Ruth first sees a faint trace of his selfishness--she calls it"unfairness"--when, on their arrival in Wales, he persuades the landladyto give them rooms in the hotel and to turn out on a false pretext someother guests into the _dependance_ across the road. She understands hisselfish littleness of soul only too well when, years after, she talks tohim during that wonderfully described interview in the chapter called"The Meeting on the Sands." He cannot in the least understand her. "Thedeep sense of penitence she expressed he took for earthly shame, whichhe imagined he could soon soothe away." He actually has the audacity totempt her a second time; then, after her indignant refusal, he offersher marriage. To his great amazement she refuses this too. "Why, what onearth makes you say that?" asked he....
"I do not love you. I did once. Don't say I did not love you then; but Ido not now. I could never love you again. All you have said and donesince you came to Abermouth has only made me wonder how I ever couldhave loved you. We are very far apart; the time that has pressed down mylife like brands of hot iron, and scarred me for ever, has been nothingto you. You have talked of it with no sound of moaning in your voice,no shadow over the brightness of your face; it has left no sense of sinon your conscience, while me it haunts and haunts; and yet I might pleadthat I was an ignorant child; only I will not plead anything, for Godknows all. But this is only one piece of our great difference."
"You mean that I am no saint," he said, impatient at her speech."Granted. But people who are no saints have made very good husbandsbefore now. Come, don't let any morbid, overstrained conscientiousnessinterfere with substantial happiness--happiness both to you and tome--for I am sure I can make you happy--ay! and make you love me too, inspite of your pretty defiance.... And here are advantages for Leonard,to be gained by you quite in a holy and legitimate way."
She stood very erect.
"If there was one thing needed to confirm me, you have named it. Youshall have nothing to do with my boy by my consent, much less by myagency. I would rather see him working on the roadside than leading sucha life--being such a one as you are.... If at last I have spoken out tooharshly and too much in a spirit of judgment, the fault is yours. Ifthere were no other reason to prevent our marriage but the one fact thatit would bring Leonard into contact with you, that would be enough."
Later on, a fever visits the town, and Ruth becomes a nurse. When shehears that the father of her child is ill and untended she volunteers tonurse him, and, being already worn out with work, she dies inconsequence. The man's smallness of mind, his contemptible selfishness,are finely indicated in the scene where he goes to look at Ruth as shelies dead.
He was "disturbed" by the distress of the old servant Sally, and saying,"Come, my good woman! we must all die," _tries to console her with asovereign_!!
The old servant turns upon him indignantly, then "bent down and kissedthe lips from whose marble, unyielding touch he recoiled even inthought." At that moment the old minister, who had sheltered Ruth in hertrouble, enters. Henry makes many offers to him as to providing forRuth's child, Leonard, and says, "I cannot tell you how I regret thatshe should have died in consequence of her love to me." But from gentleold Mr. Benson he receives only an icy refusal, and the stern words,"Men may call such actions as yours youthful follies. There is anothername for them with God."
The sadness of the book is relieved by the delightful humour of Sally,the servant. The account of the wooing of Jeremiah Dixon is amasterpiece; and Sally's hesitation when, having found her proof againstthe attractions of "a four-roomed house, furniture conformable, andeighty pounds a year," her lover mentions the pig that will be ready forkilling by Christmas, is a delicious bit of comedy.
"Well, now! would you believe it? the pig were a temptation. I'd areceipt for curing hams.... However, I resisted. Says I, very stern,because I felt I'd been wavering, 'Master Dixon, once for all, pig or nopig, I'll not marry you.'"
The description of the minister's home is very beautiful. Here are a fewlines which show in what its charm consisted:
"In the Bensons' house there was the same unconsciousness of individualmerit, the same absence of introspection and analysis of motive, asthere had been in her mother; but it seemed that their lives were pureand good not merely from a lovely and beautiful nature, but from somelaw the obedience to which was of itself harmonious peace, and whichgoverned them.... This household had many failings; they were but human,and, with all their loving desire to bring their lives into harmony withthe will of God, they often erred and fell short. But somehow the veryerrors and faults of one individual served to call out higherexcellences in another; and so they reacted upon each other, and theresult of short discords was exceeding harmony and peace."
The publication of "Ruth," with its brave, outspoken words, its fearlessdemand for one standard of morality for men and women, subjected theauthor to many attacks, as we may gather from the following warm-heartedletter by Charles Kingsley:
"_July 25, 1853._
"I am sure that you will excuse my writing to you thus abruptly when you read the cause of my writing. I am told, to my great astonishment, that you had heard painful speeches on account of 'Ruth'; what was told me raised all my indignation and disgust.... Among all my large acquaintance I never heard, or have heard, but one unanimous opinion of the beauty and righteousness of the book, and that above all from really good women. If you could have heard the things which I heard spoken of it this evening by
a thorough High Church, fine lady of the world, and by her daughter, too, as pure and pious a soul as one need see, you would have no more doubt than I have, that, whatsoever the 'snobs' and the bigots may think, English people, in general, have but one opinion of 'Ruth,' and that is, one of utter satisfaction. I doubt not you have had this said to you already often. Believe me, you may have it said to you as often as you will by the purest and most refined of English women. May God bless you, and help you to write many more such books as you have already written, is the fervent wish of your very faithful servant,
"C. KINGSLEY."
"Mary Barton," which was the first of the novels, was published in 1848,and this powerful and fascinating story at once set Mrs. Gaskell in thefirst rank of English novelists. People differed as to the views setforth in the book, but all were agreed as to its literary force and itsgreat merits. Like "Alton Locke," it has done much to break down classbarriers and make the rich try to understand the poor; and when we seethe great advance in this direction which has been made since the dateof its publication, we are able partly to realise how startling thefirst appearance of such a book must have been. The secret of theextraordinary power which the book exercises on its readers is,probably, that the writer takes one into the very heart of the life sheis describing.
Most books of the sort fail to arrest our attention. Why? Because theyare written either as mere "goody" books for parish libraries, and arecarefully watered down lest they should prove too sensational andenthralling; or because they are written by people who have only asurface knowledge of the characters they describe and the life theywould fain depict. "David Copperfield" is probably the most popular bookDickens ever wrote, and is likely to outlive his other works, justbecause he himself knew so thoroughly well all that his hero had to passthrough, and could draw from real knowledge the characters in thebackground. And at the present time we are all able to understand theIndian Mutiny in a way that has never been possible before, because Mrs.Steel in her wonderful novel, "On the Face of the Waters," has, throughher knowledge of native life, given us a real insight into the heart ofa great nation.
Brilliant trash may succeed for two or three seasons, but unless thereis in it some germ of real truth which appeals to the heart andconscience it will not live. Sensationalism alone will not hold itsground. There must be in the writer a real deep inner knowledge of hissubject if the book is to do its true work. And we venture to think that"Mary Barton," which for nearly half a century has been influencingpeople all over the world, owes its vitality very largely to the factthat Mrs. Gaskell knew the working people of Manchester, not as aprofessional doler out of tracts or charitable relief, not in anydetestable, patronising way, but knew them as _friends_.
This surely is the reason why the characters in the novel are sointensely real. What could be finer than the portrait of Mary herself,from the time when we are first introduced to her as the youngapprentice to a milliner and dressmaker, to the end of the book, whenshe has passed through her great agony? How entirely the reader learnsto live with her in her brave struggle to prove her lover's innocence!One of the most powerful parts of the book is the description of herplucky pursuit of the good ship _John Cropper_, on board of which wasthe only man who could save her lover's life by proving an alibi.
But it is not only the leading characters that are so genuine and sotrue to life. Old Ben Sturgis, the boat-man, rough of speech but withmore heart than many a smooth-tongued talker; his wife, who shelteredMary when she had no notion what manner of woman she was; Job Legh, whoproved such a good friend to both hero and heroine in their trouble, andwhose well-meaning deception of old Mrs. Wilson is so humorouslydescribed; John Barton, the father, with the mournful failure at theclose of his upright life; old Mr. Carson, the rich father of themurdered man, with his thirst for vengeance, and his tardy but realforgiveness, when he let himself be led by a little child--all these areliving men and women, not puppets; while in the character and the tragicstory of poor Esther we see the fruits of the writer's deep knowledge ofthe life of those she helped when released from gaol.
But Mrs. Gaskell looked on both sides of the question. In "North andSouth," published in 1855, she deals with the labour question from themaster's standpoint, and in Mr. Thornton draws a most striking pictureof a manufacturer who is just and well-meaning--one who really respectsand cares for the men he employs. The main interest of this book lies,however, in the character of the heroine, Margaret, who is placed in amost cruel dilemma by a ne'er-do-well brother whom she shields. By farthe most dramatic scene is that in which, to enable Frederick to escape,Margaret tells a deliberate falsehood to the detective who is in searchof him. The torture of mind she suffers afterwards for having utteredthis intentional lie, and the difficult question whether under anycircumstances a lie is warrantable, are dealt with in the writer's mostpowerful way.
In 1853--the same year in which "Ruth" was published--the greatest ofall Mrs. Gaskell's works appeared, the inimitable "Cranford." For humourand for pathos we have nothing like this in all the Victorianliterature. It is a book of which one can never tire: yet it canscarcely be said to have a plot at all, being just the most delicateminiature painting of a small old-fashioned country town and itsinhabitants. What English man or woman is there, however, who will notread and re-read its pages with laughter and tears?
Cranford is said to be in many respects the Knutsford of Mrs. Gaskell'schildhood and youth, and there is something so wonderfully lifelike inthe descriptions of the manners and customs of the very select littlecommunity that one is inclined to believe that there is truth in theassertion. They were gently bred, those old Cranford folk, with their"elegant economy," their hatred of all display, and their consideratetact. There is pathos as well as fun in the description of Mrs.Forrester pretending not to know what cakes were sent up "at a party inher baby-house of a dwelling ... though she knew, and we knew, and sheknew that we knew, and we knew that she knew that we knew, she had beenbusy all the morning making tea-bread and sponge-cakes!"
There is an air of leisure and peacefulness in every page of the book,for there was no hurrying life among those dignified old people. "I hadoften occasion to notice the use that was made of fragments and smallopportunities in Cranford: the rose-leaves that were gathered ere theyfell to make into a pot-pourri for some one who had no garden; thelittle bundles of lavender-flowers sent to some town-dweller. Thingsthat many would despise, and actions which it seemed scarcely worthwhile to perform, were all attended to in Cranford."
Who has not laughed over Miss Betsy Barker's Alderney cow "meekly goingto her pasture, clad in dark grey flannel" after her disaster in thelime-pit! or over the masterly description of Miss Jenkyns, who "wore acravat, and a little bonnet like a jockey-cap, and altogether had theappearance of a strong-minded woman; although she would have despisedthe modern idea of women being equal to men. Equal, indeed! she knewthey were superior."
Dear old Miss Matty, however, with her reverence for the strongersister, and her love affair of long ago, has a closer hold on the heartof the reader. The description of the meeting of the former lovers isidyllic; and when Thomas Holbrook dies unexpectedly, soon after, thewoman whose love-story had been spoilt by the home authorities reversesher own ordinance against "followers" in the case of Martha, themaid-servant, but otherwise makes no sign.
"Miss Matty made a strong effort to conceal her feelings--a concealmentshe practised even with me, for she has never alluded to Mr. Holbrookagain, though the book he gave her lies with her Bible on the littletable by her bedside. She did not think I heard her when she asked thelittle milliner of Cranford to make her caps something like theHonourable Mrs. Jamieson's, or that I noticed the reply:
"'But she wears widows' caps, ma'am!'
"'Oh? I only meant something in that style; not widows', of course, butrather like Mrs. Jamieson's.'"
In the whole book there is not a character that we
cannot vividlyrealise: the Honourable (but sleepy) Mrs. Jamieson; brisk, cheerful LadyGlenmire, who married the sensible country doctor and sacrificed hertitle to become plain Mrs. Hoggins; Miss Pole, who always with witheringscorn called ghosts "indigestion," until the night they heard of theheadless lady who had been seen wringing her hands in Darkness Lane,when, to avoid "the woebegone trunk," she with tremulous dignity offeredthe sedan chairman an extra shilling to go round another way! CaptainBrown with his devotion to the writings of Mr. Boz and his feud withMiss Jenkyns as to the superior merits of Dr. Johnson; and Peter, thelong-lost brother, who from first to last remains an inveteratepractical joker. One and all they become our life-long friends, whilethe book stands alone as a perfect picture of English country townsociety fifty years ago.
Mrs. Gaskell's shorter stories are scarcely equal to the novels, yetsome of them are very beautiful. "Cousin Phillis," for example, givesone more of the real atmosphere of country life than any other writerexcept Wordsworth. We seem actually to smell the new-mown hay as we readthe story.
Charming, too, is "My Lady Ludlow" with her genteel horror of dissenterssubdued in the end by her genuine good feeling. How often one has longedfor that comfortable square pew of hers in the parish church, in which,if she did not like the sermon, she would pull up a glass window asthough she had been in her coach, and shut out the sound of theobnoxious preacher! But, with all her peculiarities, she was the mostcourteous of women--a lady in the true sense of the word--and whenpeople smiled at a shy and untaught visitor who spread out herhandkerchief on the front of her dress as the footman handed her coffee,my Lady Ludlow with infinite tact and grace promptly spread _her_handkerchief exactly in the same fashion which the tradesman's wife hadadopted.
Among the short tragic stories, the most striking is one called "TheCrooked Branch," in which the scene at the assizes has almost unrivalledpower; while among the lighter short stories, "My French Master," withits delicate portraiture of the old refugee, and "Mr. Harrison'sConfessions," the delightfully written love-story of a young countrydoctor, are perhaps the most enjoyable.
In 1863 the novel "Sylvia's Lovers" was published, and although, by itsfine description of old Whitby and the pathos of the story, it has wonmany admirers, we infinitely prefer its successor, "Wives andDaughters." There is something very sad in the thought that this lastand best of the writer's stories was left unfinished; but happily verylittle remained to be told, and that little was tenderly touched in tothe almost perfect picture of English home life by the daughter who hadbeen not only Mrs. Gaskell's child but her friend. "Wives and Daughters"will always remain as a true and vivid and powerful study of life andcharacter; while Molly Gibson, with her loyal heart and sweet sunshinynature, will, we venture to think, better represent the majority ofEnglish girls than the happily abnormal Dodos and Millicent Chynes ofpresent-day fashion.
In Mr. Gibson's second wife the author has given us a most subtle studyof a thoroughly selfish and false-hearted woman, and she is made all themore repulsive because of her outward charms, her soft seductive voiceand her lavish employment of terms of endearment. Wonderfully clever,too, is the study of poor little Cynthia, her daughter, whose relationsto Molly are most charmingly drawn.
The story was just approaching its happy and wholesome ending, and thedifficulties which had parted Roger Hamley and Molly had justdisappeared, when death summoned the writer from a world she had done somuch to brighten and to raise. On Sunday evening, November 12, 1865,Mrs. Gaskell died quite suddenly at Holybourne, Alton, Hampshire, ahouse which she had recently bought as a surprise for her husband. Sadas such a death must always be for those who are left behind, one canimagine nothing happier than "death in harness" for a worker who loveshis work.
".... There's rest above. Below let work be death, if work be love!"
Her "last days," wrote one of those who knew her best, "had been full ofloving thought and tender help for others. She was so sweet and dear andnoble beyond words." That is the summing-up of the whole; and, afterall, what better could a long biography give us? The motto of all of usshould surely be the words of Mme. Viardot Garcia: "First I am awoman ... then I am an artist." And assuredly Mrs. Gaskell's life wasruled on those lines.
"It was wonderful"--wrote her daughter, Mrs. Holland, in a letter to methe other day--"how her writing never interfered with her social ordomestic duties. I think she was the best and most practical housekeeperI ever came across, and the brightest, most agreeable hostess, to saynothing of being everything as a mother and friend. She combined both,being my mother and greatest friend in a way you do not often, I think,find between mother and daughter."
Some people are fond of rashly asserting that the ideal wife and mothercares little and knows less about the world beyond the little world ofhome. Mrs. Gaskell, however, took a keen interest in the questions ofthe day, and was a Liberal in politics; while it is quite evident thatneither these wider interests nor her philanthropic work tended tointerfere with the home life, which was clearly of the noblest type.
The friend as well as the mother of her children, the sharer of all herhusband's interests, she yet found time to use to the utmost the greatliterary gift that had been entrusted to her; while her sympathy forthose in trouble was shown not only in the powerful pleading of hernovels, but in quiet, practical work in connection with prisoners. Shewas one of the fellow labourers of Thomas Wright, the well-known prisonphilanthropist, and was able to help in finding places for young girlswho had been discharged from prison. For working women she also heldclasses, and both among the poor and the rich had many closefriendships.
How far the characters in the novels were studied from life is aquestion which naturally suggests itself; and Mrs. Holland replies to itas follows: "I do not think my mother ever _consciously_ took hercharacters from special individuals, but we who knew often thought werecognised people, and would tell her, 'Oh, so and so is just like Mr.Blank,' or something of that kind; and she would say, 'So it is, but Inever meant it for him.' And really many of the characters are fromoriginals, or rather are like originals, but they were not consciouslymeant to be like."
For another detail which will interest Mrs. Gaskell's fellow workers Iam indebted to the same source:
"Sometimes she planned her novels more or less beforehand, but in manycases, certainly in that of 'Wives and Daughters,' she had very littleplot made beforehand, but planned her story as she wrote. She generallywrote in the morning, but sometimes late at night, when the house wasquiet."
Few writers, we think, have exercised a more thoroughly wholesomeinfluence over their readers than Mrs. Gaskell. Her books, with theirwide human sympathies, their tender comprehension of human frailty,their bright flashes of humour and their infinite pathos, seem to pleadwith us to love one another. Through them all we seem to hear theauthor's voice imploring us to "seize the day" and to "make friends," asshe does in actual words at the close of one of her Christmas stories,adding pathetically: "I ask it of you for the sake of that old angelicsong, heard so many years ago by the shepherds, keeping watch by nighton Bethlehem Heights."
[Signature: A E Bayly.
'Edna Lyall.']
MRS. CROWE. MRS. ARCHER CLIVE. MRS. HENRY WOOD
_By_ ADELINE SERGEANT