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couragement to the young author. Mr. McCarthy was now Parliamentary reporter for the Morning Star, of which now defunct newspaper he afterwards became the Foreign Editor. Mr. Lucas, John Bright's brother-in-law, was then editor, and when he died Mr. McCarthy was asked to take the editorship. “Paul Massie" and "The Waterdale Neighbours,” Mr. McCarthy's two first novels, were produced during this time of newspaper work in London. “My Enemy's Daughter" was appearing in Belgravia, and simultaneously in America, when Mr. McCarthy went over to the States to commence his extensive wanderings there in 1868. This travelling throughout the States was principally undertaken by Mr. McCarthy for the purpose of studying American politics ; and when in America he took an appointment on the Independent, with the feeling that this would bring him into intimate connection with the political life of the country. Although a classical student, and a great lover of literature, and especially of German literature, yet Mr. McCarthy had always a decided leaning towards political life. In America he carried on his study of politics and his active literary work side by side, writing stories and articles for the Galaxy and other American magazines; but he never settled down there, preferring to move about as much as possible, in order to see all that could be seen, Everywhere his wife and children accompanied him, and there are many romantic episodes for them to look back upon. They went over to San Francisco, when the rails of the Pacific Railroad were only just laid, in one of the first trains, when there was a spice of danger about the journey. The Indians used to come down and gather about the train to look at the new travellers, and all along the line the soldiery had their camp fires, adding to the picturesqueness of the scene. Before travelling over the plains, they stopped at Omaha, and from there went on to Salt Lake City, where Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy made the acquaintance of Brigham Young and his large family. In an article in the Galaxy, Mr. McCarthy gave his account of Salt Lake City and its strange inhabitants. From thence he went on to San Francisco, and that never-to-be-forgotten moment came, in the journey over the wild prairies, when the conductor appeared and said, “ We have passed the last farmhouse.” The little band of travellers were then alone in the great plains, but for the soldiers who were camped here and there to guard the lines. Everything was so new, so deliciously fresh, that it gave another life to the travellers from the old country. On across the plains they went, and just dipped their feet in the Pacific, seeing and loving everything upon its shore, and then returned back by the way they came, having accomplished their purpose of looking at San Francisco, and being among the first travellers upon the new line. They spent the winter in New York, and went back to London the following summer.
It was pleasant enough in the old city life; but still London could not hold them long, for Mr. McCarthy had made engagements to lecture in America, and they had to return there almost immediately. This visit to the States brought them into the midst of a great excitement, for Mr. McCarthy was one of the negro's friends, and now when he returned there the negro was just emancipated. Mr. McCarthy went down south to Richmond and Charleston and other places, to feel and to see the freedom of the negro.
In “ Lady Judith” we have some fruits of the American tour. Even those persons who do not read novels might find an interest in the descriptions of New York and San Francisco, which are so vivid, so full of careful observation, so complete. How far description is in place in a novel is a matter of opinion, but Mr. McCarthy is not one of the essentially dramatic novelists : he does not pass you from one situation into another as if merely by the shifting of a scene; he does not hurry you through three volumes in agonising pursuit of a carefully hidden mystery. He dwells lovingly upon his subjects. In a novel of this quieter order, description, if really good, is acceptable, and the description of Broadway in “ Lady Judith ” is sufficiently racy to be conscientiously read, even by the “skipping" novel reader. Mr. McCarthy's great belief in America is thus expressed: “Europe is grown old, used up. No young man of rank can do anything useful, or take any high place, who has not seen and studied the republican States of America.” Here is a bit of the description of Broadway, which even a born New Yorker may read with some pleasure, for people seldom appreciate the beauties or eccentricities of their own cities : “Broadway is usually one of the brightest and most animated streets in the world. No two houses in all its vast length (and it is as if the Strand intersected London from end to end) are like each other; this side of the street is never like that. A huge building of white marble stands next to one of brown stone, both of the newest and most glaring hues; and then comes a quaint old Dutch-looking house of the days of Stuyvesant, and then again something little better than a shanty. On this side you are reminded now of the Rue de Rivoli ; cast your eyes across the street, and you see a scrap of the New Cut or a bit of Wapping. Here a side street runs across which seems borrowed from Liverpool ; a few yards on is another which, with its quiet uniform red-brick houses, its double row of trees, its cleanliness and its quaintness, appears to have been transplanted from Delft or Utrecht. Nearly everywhere along the line of Broadway the shop-fronts bristle and glitter with signs, and thrust out huge symbolical devices, and flutter with flags. There are more banners and insignia hung out on Broadway every day than might be seen in the Strand on the occasion of a royal pageant. A Chinese city is not more parti-coloured, bright, eccentric, fantastic in its devices to attract the attention of the passenger. To the European stranger this most practical and moneygrasping of all streets seems as if it were perpetually playing at a sort of Venetian carnival; a huge frolic, mask, and mummery. Only when the snow begins to come down with its sudden overwhelming power, and hides the heavens in grey and swallows up the street in whiteness, does Broadway cease to be brilliant, glittering, and bizarre.
“Now, however, the snow has ceased to fall, and it is frozen over and forms a hard, white, gleaming pavement. Snow in London is soon merely a grey and dingy sort of mud; in New York it sparkles for weeks, bright as a sugary crust on a wedding-cake. The air is intensely clear, the sky is as blue as that of the Ægean Sea ; the sun is brilliant. There is summer in the heavens, and winter on the earth. It is cold, to be sure—it ought to be piercingly cold; but somehow the atmosphere is so exbilarating, the sunlight is so radiant, the sky is so glorious in its azure, that one forgets to be chilled, and is delighted with the whole condition of things. The street rattles and rings with the tinkling sleigh-bells; for nothing on wheels, except the staggering little city omnibuses, can now be seen along Broadway. Tiny basketsleighs with one horse, bigger and more pretentious sleighs with two, with three, with four horses, glide along with jingling bells and gay caparisons with silver-embossed housings and gorgeous buffalo robes. The English traveller looking on can hardly believe that this sort of thing means business. It seems like some fantastic piece of Christmas revelry or a scene from a play. Nay, it hardly looks like a living reality of any kind. The radiant sun, the laughing sky above, the hard and gleaming snow beneath, the almost interminable stretch of incongruous street and the never-ceasing rush of odd, brilliant, picturesque vehicles, become bewildering to him.
Such, however, is the commonto New Yorkers the common-place—appearance of Broadway in the winter.”
“Dear Lady Disdain" contains a piece of description of another kind, but which is worthy of one of the modern American humourists. It is the account of an innocent English youth who, “having utterly failed in London, thought he must be qualified to succeed in New York. His idea was to give lectures and write books-poems especially. He soon found that every second person in America delivers lectures, and that every village has at least three poets—two women and one man.” After a lecture delivered at a very little hall, where the "public did not rush in," a chance opens up for him in the shape of a lecturing engagement at a city, which, being only twenty years old, was obliged to be economical, and content itself with some young lecturers mixed in with the stars. So our young friend goes away to the city full of enthusiasm, and any very young man who is meditating a lecturing tour in America may as well read “ Dear Lady Disdain " to find out something about what his experiences will be like. First he will find, if he goes far enough, that he is welcomed as a great English orator ; secondly, he will probably find that his lecture is about something which does not interest his audience. “You don't understand our people here,” says a friendly adviser to the young lecturer. "In places like this they have forgotten all about the effete aristocracies of Europe and don't care, as they would say, a snap one way or the other. I suppose an English village audience wouldn't care much for a lecture on the dangers of our Third Term system. Half our folks have no other notion attaching to England than the thought that your Queen is an excellent woman and a pattern mother.” This is a good piece of writing, showing real political knowledge and insight. “Dear Lady Disdain,” which is one of the best known of Mr. McCarthy's novels, is in itself simply a love story; but it is finely flavoured with pictures of American life. The emotions and motives of comparatively ordinary people are well worked out by Mr. McCarthy, and perhaps the most vivid impression left on one's mind by “Dear Lady Disdain ” is made by her relations with her father. There is something thrilling in the scene where she at last sees that father, who has always worn a mask of gentle manners and culture, to be what he really is—a passionate, vulgar, selfish man. Indeed, in those emotions and relations between persons who are not in themselves extraordinary, but belong to the same types as the folk of everyday, Mr. IcCarthy shows his possession of that
power of portraiture which is especially appreciated in the modern novelist. In “Miss Misanthrope" we have quite a different style. True there is the inevitable love story of all romancists told in much the same manner as the love story of “Dear Lady Disdain ” or “ Lady Judith.” But quite another interest runs through “Miss Misanthrope," which will have led many people, who professedly do not care for love stories, to read it. Mr. McCarthy, having studied the modern “art for art's sake” school from the interior of its circle, has come out and depicted its follies with a satire which is immensely amusing, because it is so quiet and literal. “Nature," says the poet of “Miss Misanthrope "_"Nature is the buxom sweetheart of ploughboy poets. We only affect to admire Nature because people think we can't be good if we don't. No one really cares about great cauliflower suns, and startling contrast of blazing purple and emerald green. There is nothing really beautiful in Nature, except her decay, her rank weeds, and dank grasses, and funereal evening glooms." “We are satisfied,” he says, further on, “ that the true artist never does have a public or look for it. The public can have their Tennysons, and Brownings, and Swinburnes, and Tuppers, and all that lot. lot !' broke in Miss Blanchet, mildly horrified, 'that lot! Browning and Tupper put together!' My dear Mary, I don't know one of these people from another. I never read any of them now. They are all the same sort of thing to me. These persons are not artists; they are only