10 December: Boreham on George Macdonald

King of the Kailyard
The richest vein of sentimental literature which, during living memory, has been given to the world, has been that which reveals the basic life and inner character of the Scottish people. It is to the everlasting credit of George Macdonald, whose birthday we mark today, that he pioneered this fascinating movement. He was followed in quick succession by others, who in some respects attained an ampler popularity than he himself enjoyed. William Black, Robert Louis Stevenson, S. R. Crockett, Ian Maclaren, Sir James Barrie, together with many minor men, strode out upon the track on the heels of Macdonald; but it was he who conceived the audacious design and revealed to the others the fabulous wealth of the mine that asked for exploitation.

He was a striking and picturesque figure. His dignified presence and his old-world courtesy constituted themselves a real adornment of every circle in which he moved: people who met him casually upon the street glanced over their shoulders in order that they might scrutinise more closely a personage so striking. At Aberdeen University he was considered far and away the handsomest man of his day. His fine profile, his princely bearing, his noble head, and his glorious jet-black hair invested him with an air of rare distinction. As the years multiplied, the impression deepened. The lure of his personality attracted to him the choicest spirits of his time.

Feminine Eyes Recognise Glint Of Genius
Macdonald played many parts—preacher, poet, novelist—but it is as a novelist that he must stand or fall. Here he is in a class by himself. Thackeray modelled himself on Fielding, and Dickens on Smollett, but George Macdonald walked in nobody else's footprints. He was an original. He had no master; he belonged to no school; he simply followed his own bent. He suffered the inevitable penalty. He found it difficult to persuade a publisher that his work, conforming to none of the recognised traditions, was of the right kind. The manuscript of his first novel, "David Elginbrod," went its weary ways from one publishing house to another: but nobody was willing to take the risk.

The literary advisers shook their grave heads dubiously. "Far too Scotch!" they averred, "an Englishman would never have the patience to read it!" Others declared that the emphatically religious atmosphere of the tale would only be appreciated by the very people who would be horrified and scandalised by the prominence, in the same pages, of a ghost story! It was, they all agreed, neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring. When the pontiffs and potentates had decided, for such a multiplicity and variety of reasons, to reject the manuscript, it fell into the gentler hands of a couple of cultured ladies. Mrs. Oliphant and Miss Charlotte Yonge, then at the height of their fame, declared bluntly that any publisher would be a fool to miss such a chance. Their judgment prevailed; the book appeared; and, within a few months, George Macdonald was acclaimed as one of the nation's most popular and most promising novelists.

Before he laid down his pen at the age of 81 he had completed more than a score of novels. He knew how to build up a really first-class story. His descriptions, graphic and colourful, are never tedious. His characters, especially his good characters, are finely drawn, compounded of flesh and blood; they throb with reality. Having once made their acquaintance, the reader seems to know them: he carries their images in his heart for ever afterwards.

Against this, however, Macdonald's work is disfigured by conspicuous defects. One of his most ardent admirers described him as a sanctified Bohemian. His most lamentable failure is with his villains. He tried again and again to adorn his pages with a really convincing blackguard; but it was of no use: the manufacture of scoundrels was not in his line.

Long Day Ends In Subdued Sunset
George Macdonald is the natural antithesis of Charles Reade. Charles Reade stakes everything on dramatic situations, and squanders very little energy on the development of his plot. Macdonald, on the contrary, spends all his strength in making the story flow pleasantly and well: exciting scenes and sensational denouements are not his forte.

He was not as strong as he looked. A martyr to asthma, a time came when he found sitting and reclining equally painful: he would pace the floor incessantly, smoking specially prepared cigarettes. Ultimately, his vigorous and creative brain completely failed him. For months he sat in strange silence.

One morning Mrs. Macdonald led her husband into the garden, and they sat together among beds of gay and fragrant blossoms. Moved by a sudden impulse, Mrs. Macdonald resolved to make one more attempt to lure him into speech. She was at the moment writing to her son, Dr. Greville Macdonald, the eminent throat specialist. "Dear," she exclaimed, turning abruptly to her companion, "I am writing to Greville: have you any message?" To her unbounded astonishment and delight, the old man's handsome face became suddenly luminous. Something of its former lustre returned to his eye. The lips moved, "Yes," he replied and paused, "Yes," and paused again. And then, after a long inward struggle, he added: "Give—him—my—interminable—love!"

The sentence is in every way characteristic: it reveals the spirit of the man. He deserves to live, and, in a sense, he will. For history finds a place in her pantheon, and holds a garland of laurels, for good and honest workmen who, though falling short of really dazzling genius, point a path along which more brilliant spirits may follow. Among such figures, the commanding and blameless personality of George Macdonald merits an outstanding place.

F W Boreham

Image: George Macdonald