CRITICAL NOTICES

OF

WORKS ON INDIA AND THE EAST PUBLISHED DURING THE QUARTER.

The Wife and the Ward; or, a Life's Error. By Lieutenant Colonel Edward Money, Turkish Service, (late Bengal Army), Author of " Twelve Months. with the Bashi-Bazouks." London: Routledge. 1859.

Most Indian Novels are trash. Till the appearance of " Oakfield," which is perhaps more a series of conversations than a novel, there was nothing to redeem their character. Their one merit of humorous and graphic description was, to the mere English reader, always lost or obscure, from the numerous Hindustani words with which it was besprinkled. In truth we see not how a pure Indian novel can succeed with any but the very limited class of old Indians. The character of Indian scenery and associations, the nature of Anglo-Indian Society, and above all, the dense ignorance that exists as to Indian facts and the spirit of Indian life, render it impossible that such a work'should succeed, or if it were to do so, could be appreciated. In the first there is the predominance of the vast and unchanging, the fact that nature is of a type altogether different from that of the cold West, and the utter absence of any sympathetic cord between it and the heart of man. These remove it from that class of circumstances which have given to the works of such writers as Mary Mitford and Frederika Bremer their charm. Such may excite the sense of the sublime but cannot rouse the emotion of the beautiful. Again, Anglo-Indian Society is divided into so few classes with well defined but generic features, and moves with such unvarying uniformity, that the novelist looks in vain for characters to paint and incidents to narrate, and in their absence commits the error of either relating the. silliest small-talk and describing the most common-place event, or of falling back on his own creative powers, and thence evoking the most monstrous fancies or the most ludicrous caricatures. There are the usual types of the military, the civilian, and the adventurer class, with a sprinkling of East Indians and natives, and there the dramatis persona end. Regimental life wearies, civilian small-talk is either too trifling or too obscure, the adventurer, the East Indian, and the native are introduced only to fill up the Scenc, a JUNE, 1859. d

battle is described, a Ball is painted, hunting life is sketched, it may be that the voyage, or a visit to England are depicted, and the whole story is told in a most unartistic style. But even if such materials as these were admirably suited as the groundwork of a novel, the result when wrought up would be neither understood nor appreciated. The English public would not understand it, even were it divested of all Indianisms in expression, because it is a picture of a life of which they know nothing, which is to them totally strange, which, in fact, they cannot form a conception of until they have lived it themselves. And the Anglo-Indian reader would not appreciate it, because he knows it too well, in all its phases and varieties, because too often he has felt the bitterness of it and longs for the day when, shaking it off, he shall return to the honesty, the joy and the intellectual excitement of English Society. The solitary pleasure that he feels in reading an Indian novel, and that pleasure is of the lowest kind, is to see how far the experiences recorded agree with his own.

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Yet it is true that genius could overcome these defects, and do for English life in India what Thackeray and Anthony Trollope have done for the various phases of that in England in our own day. Thackeray, himself an Indian in so far as he is of Calcutta origin, has done little more than look at the comic side of the military variety of Anglo-Indian life in his "Tremendous Adventures of Major Gahagan." Arnold, while producing a most pleasant book in his "Oakfield," has not attempted to put its materials to use by exercising the power of conception and artistic skill in plot; while Lang has never written a book without leaving in the readers of its clever dialogue but monstrous caricatures, a feeling that he has abused the powers which he undoubtedly possesses.

Lieutenant Colonel Money, then, need not despair if he has failed in a field which so few have attempted to cultivate, and none with success. We regret that his book is a failure, and all the more that he shews capabilities of a somewhat higher order than the ordinary run of hack story-writers. But his book is deficient in plot, in the delineation of character, in style, and to a certain extent in descriptive power.

It is deficient in plot. From the title, the alliteration in which, we suppose, attracted the Author, we should expect something very different from what is given us. The wife is not introduced till far on in the volume, and is unceremoniously sent off to Patna long before its close. She hardly maintains the position given her by the author, and very soon surrenders all attempts at carrying out that policy of reducing her husband to subjection, which was her declared object in marrying him. So afraid is the author that his readers will not sufficiently admire Marion, that he is forced distinctly to state she is his heroine, instead of allowing that to appear from the way in which he works out both character and incident. You rise from

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reading the volume with the feeling that it is not a unity, that it consists merely of separate dialogues or sketches, and these in themselves not well done. In fact the volume contains two books. The first is the story of Life in an Indian Cantonment or the Wife, and the second might be termed the Nana Sahib or the Ward. These two no more constitute one story than the Caxtons and My Novel of Bulwer, or Esmond and the Virginians of Thackeray.

It also fails in the delineation of character. Now and then it seems as though Beatrice Plane would really be wrought up into something, but expectation is continually disappointed She and Ensign Hoby have the elements of something in them, but the author lacks power to evolve them. Edgington is very tame, and beyond these none stand out from the mass or possess any well-marked individuality. .Colonel Money is ever introducing himself to help on the story where it seems to hitch, or to elucidate some feature of his actors which the reader himself would never discover otherwise. Such expressions as these should never be found in a novel. At this point in our tale we would wish to pause- we know not how we shall succeed now that we are about to enter stormy seas in which the remainder of our history lies;" "that our hero thought all this in the order in which it is stated we do not affirm, but the ideas here embodied in words were continually present to him &c." He apologises for declaring Marion to be his heroine by saying "We had not intended this; the character would, we thought, require no description—it would declare itself as the tale proceeded. So we thought: and we should have acted consonantly had not diffidence stepped in” &c. This ad misericordiam, appeal to his readers will not do in a novelist. Had the writer got Marion out of the way, before the Cawnpore massacre, had the Wife been butchered, had he himself escaped, and afterwards married the Ward and her fortune, we are sure every reader would have risen up from the book more pleased, and historic truth would not have been violated.

It is deficient in style and descriptive power. Few purely military men write well, at least without freely using colloquialisms, and being guilty of violations of idiom. Colonel Money is nc exception; he speaks of syces taking their matinal meals, of the encampment both human and bestial taking their breakfasts, of a solar topee, and of three of the hunters of which Captain Edgington is one. The only scene in the description of which he really succeeds, is that of the 'pig-sticking,' but he miserably fails, as who would not, in depicting the Cawnpore entrenchment and subsequent boat-massacre. We give both below, and will connect them with the main outlines of his story.

The scene opens with the Mess in which we find Ensign Hoby amusing his confréres with a succession of descriptions of the characters of ladies

from their names. The station is Dinapore, and a young lady-afterwards the Wife-has just come to it. Her name is Beatrice Plane, and Hoby depicts a Beatrice as cold and tyrannical, a formalist and a prude. So Beatrice Plane afterwards turns out to be, under the teaching of her mother, the Judge's wife of Patna. Captain Edgington sees Beatrice and falls in love with her wondrous beauty. He finds a rival in the Colonel of his regiment, but finally succeeds in winning the hand of the lady. In the course of the progress of the story to the point of their marriage a steeple chase is described, in which Edgington is winner, and a Ball at which he discloses his love and is accepted. Shortly after marriage he sets out on a pigsticking expedition, and his wife accompanies him. Of the party there is the Patna Magistrate and his wife, an Indigo Planter and his wife, an old Civilian and a young Indigo Planter. The sport is very well described, The pigs are started from the long thick grass, and rush forth in different directions. Captain Edgington and the young Planter pursue one, and after running him till his wind is exhausted, the following occurs :—

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Edgington glanced at his companion at his side, as they now momentarily neared the infuriated pig, which could be seen champing its huge white tushes, and looking back in the way boars do look when they mean mischief. Our hero was pleased with his survey; the young indigo-planter looked all determination, and was holding his mare well together, though he carried his spear in a way that showed he was as yet new to the sport.

Edgington did not even know his name; but he knew this was his first pig-sticking expedition, and how anxious he must, therefore, be to get the first spear. Wishing to give him that pleasure, and hoping to have other opportunities for the honour himself before the day was out, he said,—

"Do you ride up and give the first spear, and I'll follow behind. See, you can catch him now if you push on, for he's nearly run out."

The young indigo-planter, a boy of nineteen, did not reply, but with that courago and love of sport which is so general in the Anglo-Saxon race, he closed his heels on his horse's sides, and dashed forward to encounter single-handed the enormous boar before him, quite forgetful at the moment that he had not the slightest idea which was the best way to do it.

He was not long in catching the pig in its then blown condition, and when somo fifty paces in its rear, he dashed forward, and sought to spear it in the back. But the boar, who had no idea of running any farther, stopped short in his carcer ere young Black reached him, and facing round, awaited his antagonist with eyes full of rage, and the white foam covering his tushes, as he ground them together. The impotus which the mare had on her, as she dashed forward at her rider's bidding, was so great, that even if Black had wished it, which he truly did not, he was powerless to stop her. He, therefore, passed at full speed close to the now stationary boar, and, inexpert in the use of the weapon he held, merely pricked him slightly in the shoulder as he did so.

Little or much though, it was still "first spear;" and as the blood trickled slowly from the non-important wound, and Edgington saw it, as he rode up to the scene of action, he called out,

"Well done, indeed! first spear and first blood are yours. Now be careful what you do, for that boar means mischief, and will fight to the death, if ever blue boar did so. Look out, for he's coming at you now!" he added, a moment later, as the pig, in a perfect paroxysm of rage, eyed the young planter and his horse, as they stood some seventy yards off, and putting his head slightly on one side, rushed at them with the speed of the wind.

It was but a moment, and Edgington, though he yelled out with all his might,

"Ride at him-don't wait from him !" was too late. The young planter heard him not, or, if he did hear him, had no time to act; for the boar was upon him at the same instant, and only too true in his impetuous charge, caught the bewildered mare on the fore legs with the whole of his ponderous weight, rolling her to the ground as a round shot would have done. As she fell, and the boar flew past her, the avenging tusk ripped open her belly, forming a long and deep incision as clear and defined as a razor could have done it.

The poor lad on her back of course fell with her, but did so cleverly, for he fell free of her, and sprung on his feet again the next moment. Beside him lay his mare, his poor mare, so dearly loved, kicking as she lay on the ground, with a portion of her entrails protruding through the wound. The savage boar who had caused the mischief stood some sixty yards off, again champing his now bloody tusks and preparing for another charge.

Edgington had, of course, seen, when too late to prevent it, the fatal onslaught, and he now saw the imminent danger the young planter was in. He was at his side almost as soon as the lad recovered his feet, and placing his Arab and himself, between the unhorsed horseman and the boar, said quickly,—

"Get further away, and don't stand near me at all. The boar will charge again directly. Never mind your mare; you can't take her with you, and it's as much as your life is worth to stand here if he charges again, and I miss him."

Thus admonished, the young indigo planter unwillingly left his poor mafc's side, and retired in the direction Edgington pointed out, which was neither behind nor at right angles to where our hero and his horse stood, but in a direction between those two points.

Edgington patted his Arab's neck, who scemed to return the caress, and gently pressed against the bit, as if impatient to get nearer the hog at bay. "You shall go directly," our hero muttered to his steed. "Bless him, I believe he'd stand on the boar, if asked to do so. Now for it, Mr. Pig," he added, laughingly; “ one of us must conquer before we leave this place, and it's time to commence operations."

So saying, he allowed his horse to advance at a foot-pace towards the boar, which, as we stated before, stood some sixty yards off; but the Arab had not moved far, when the hog, without further warning, came thundering down at him.

Edgington's good horse, from long practice, knew what was to be done, and he had, of his own accord, altered the foot-pace to a gallop in less time than it takes us to write it. The boar and he met half-way; but our hero took care to pass to the near side, as the pig shot by on the right. At that instant, with fatal precision, Edgington dug the spear in between the shoulders of his enemy, but with such force, in consequence of the speed at which they met, that he was quite unable to draw it out again; and the weapon was wrenched out of his hand, and carried off by the hog, the shaft standing in a sloping direction over his head, while the iron point stuck fast in his shoulders.

Neither Edgington nor the boar ran far after the encounter; and when our hero had reined in this steed and turned round, the pig was already standing a hundred yards off, watching him, with the spear sticking in his back, which oscillated like a pendulum placed topsy-turvy, on account of the leaden weight at the end.

Had not another spear been get-at-able, and our hero alone, without another pigsticker to help him, no course would have remained open but to endeavor to recover the spear, by making a dash at the boar, and wrenching it out of his back. But this proceeding always dangerous, on account of the leaden weight on the top of the shaft, which, on the smallest movement of the pig, may strike him who attempts it a serious blow-was not necessary on this occasion; for the unhorsed young indigoplanter still held his own spear, and, secing what had occurred, fearlessly advanced to offer it to Edgington.

Our hero did not, however, allow him to come far on his way, for he galloped up, and, taking it out of his hand, cautioned him to keep at a respectful distance. "There's lots of life in the animal yet," he remarked, " though I hope soon to finish him with this," fecling the point of the weapon as he spoke, to make sure it was sharp enough.

As he rode quietly back to the scene of action, the wild boar, who stood watching his every movement, was a sight which, could any painter transfer it cleverly to canvass, would make his fortune by the sale of his picture among the pig-sticking fraternity