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George MacDonald


IT must be a very remote corner of America, indeed, where the writings of George MacDonald would not only be known but ardently loved. David Elginbrod, Ranald Bannerman. Alec Forbes, Robert Falconer, and Little Diamond have many friends by this time all over the land, and are just as real personages, thousands of miles west of New York and Boston, as they are hereabouts. Now there must be some good reason for this exceptional universality of recognition, and it is not at all difficult to discern why MacDonald's characters should be welcome guests everywhere.

The writer who speaks through his beautiful creatures of imagination, imploring us to believe that

"Every human heart is human.
That in even savage bosoms
There are longings, yearnings, strivings
For the good they comprehend not.
That the feeble hands and helpless
Groping blindly in the darkness
Touch God's right hand in that darkness
And are lifted up and strengthened—"

that writer, if he be a master of his art, like MacDonald, will be a light and a joy in every household, however situated.

It is pleasant, always, to hold up for admiration the authors who have borne witness to the eternal beauty and cheerful capabilities of the universe around us, whatever may be our own petty sufferings or discomforts; who continually teach us that Optimism is better than Pessimism, and much more moral as a conduct of life, and are lovingly reminding us, whenever they write books or poems, of the holiness of helpfulness. All MacDonald's pages are a protest against selfishness, and that mean and narrow spirit which would elevate our petty selves above our contemporaries, and arrogate to an individual catalogue all the virtues that are attainable by mortal acquirement.

Heine observes, somewhere, that we must not investigate too curiously the lives of prominent men. "They are, oftentimes," says the witty poet, "like the bright gleams of light which glow so brilliantly that we think they must be jewels hung on leaf and twig by king's children at play in the royal gardens—but if we search for them by day we find no glittering gem, but only a repulsive little insect, which crawls painfully away, and which our feet do not crush, only for some strange compassion." The personality of the author from whom these happily-chosen extracts have been made, will bear the closest inspection at any and at all times. As a novelist, an essayist, a poet, and a preacher, he stands always in broad sunlight, and no dark shadow ever rests upon the dial of his pure and healthy inspiration. Those of us who know the man, and love the sound of his pleasant voice, so full of tender sympathy with all that is best and strengthening in human life, on comparing notes, would not hesitate to claim for him the eulogy expressed in these beautiful old sixteenth century verses—verses embalming an exceptional character, and one which the abiding Wisdom of Poesy never ceases to hold up for our pattern, in all that exalts and dignifies the soul of man and woman.

"Within these woods of Arcadie
He chief delight and pleasure tooke
And on the mountain Parthenie,
Upon the chrystall liquid brooke:
The muses met him every day,
That taught him sing, to write and say.

* * * * *

A sweet attractive kind of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face,
The lineaments of Gospell bookes;
I trowe that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.

Was never eie did see that face,
Was never eare did heere that tongue,
Was never minde did minde his grace,
That ever thought the travell longe;
But eies and eares, and every thought
Were with his sweet perfections caught."

James T. Fields.

GEORGE MacDonald, preacher, poet, novelist and essayist, was born in Huntley, Aberdeenshire, in the year 1825. His father was at that time one of the proprietors of the Huntley Mills; and the annals of the little parish show that he was a lineal descendant of the MacDonalds of Glencoe those "Lords of the Isles" whose stern resistance to arbitrary rule form one of the most thrilling episodes in Scottish history.

The wild picturesqueness of that early home in the heart of Aberdeenshire, its snow-capped peaks, its mountain torrents, its lochs and its firths, its deep ravines, its dreary moors, must all have exerted a strong, moulding influence upon the impressible nature of the dreamy, enthusiastic boy. We can imagine him "going out to meet the spring," as he himself describes Hugh, in David Elginbrod, and finding in Nature "the grand, pure, tender Mother, ancient in years, yet ever young . . . From the depths of air, from the winds that harp upon the boughs and trumpet upon the great caverns, from the streams, from the flowers, she spoke to him. And he felt that she had a power to heal and to instruct; yea, that she was a power of life, and could speak to the heart and conscience mighty words about God and Truth and Love."

At an early age he entered the University of Aberdeen, and after his graduation he studied for the ministry at Owen's college, Manchester, and at Indiana college, in Highbury, London.

Upon taking holy orders, he became a leader of the "Independents" and preached for some time in the counties of Surrey and Sussex.

In the year 1855, he published his first book, a dramatic poem entitled Within and Without, and this was soon followed by A Hidden Life. Of these two poems, an able critic says, "We can find nothing in the subsequent writings of MacDonald of which the substance (by which we mean more than the germ) is not to be grasped here." Aside from the fine dramatic passages in Within and Without, there are many minor poems incidental to the scenes, such as the sonnet,

"And weep not though the beautiful decay,"

and the sweet child-poem,

"Little white lily sat by a stone,"

that have already become classical.

In 1857, MacDonald travelled on the continent, and visited Algiers before his return home. Possibly to the bewitching atmosphere of the East, as well as to these months of enforced leisure, is due the fresh kindling of his imagination which bore fruit the following year in his publication of Phantastes, that beautiful Faerie Romance which received so many warm encomiums from Dickens. In this wonderful story of the man who went out to seek his ideal, and ended by being glad at having lost his shadow, the symbols are easily interpreted, and the whole allegory is full of dainty touches and fine episodes.

In the interval that followed, before the publication in 1863, of his first novel, David Elginbrod, many charming poems and thoughtful essays from the pen of MacDonald occur in the periodical literature of the day. Among the poems may be mentioned Light, which reminds one strongly of Wordsworth's Ode to Immortality; and Somnium Mystici—an exquisite dream picture of the soul laid asleep in the world beyond, awakened for the new life, and trained through successive stages of discipline for the coming of the Son of Man, in whom all beauty and all love are seen to be consummated.

The Portent, published in 1864, is a highly imaginative romance, founded upon the old Scottish belief of the Inner Vision or Second Sight. As a story it is unsatisfactory, but it is an original, masterly production—fulfilling throughout its own natural conditions —and by some critics it is considered MacDonald's best work.

In 1865, Alec Forbes of Howglen, was published; and in the two following years, Adela Cathcart, Dealings with the Fairies, The Disciple and Other Poems, and Unspoken Sermons, revealed still more clearly the growing power of a writer whose name was now well known on both sides the water.

When, a few years later, he visited the United States, it was no stranger, but an honored and dearly-loved friend, whom we welcomed to our shores; and the remembrance of his kindly face and "cheerful words" as he spoke to us in church and lecture room comes up vividly before us, as we write.

In Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood, and its sequel, The Seaboard Parish, we begin to realize the intense sympathy of MacDonald, not only with the soul of Nature, but also with the great throbbing heart of humanity.

As some writer has happily expressed it, ''Of all life considered as a chain ; of its actions and reactions; of life as an ascent of pulsations up to the Divine, MacDonald has an electrical consciousness; and it runs through all his writings. This gives his imagination a buoyancy which permits him to lay burdens on light wings — but they float, and we are deeply impressed, though the brightness of the page is not for a moment dimmed."

The breadth and manliness of tone and sentiment, the deep perceptions of human nature, the originality, fancy, pathos, the fresh out-of-door atmosphere, everywhere apparent—above all, the earnest, wholesome, but always unobtrusive religious teaching, that underlies all his writings, give to the works of George MacDonald a certain magnetic power that is indescribable.

Robert Falconer, published in 1868, is one of the most powerful novels of the nineteenth century; and yet as we peruse some of the later works of the author, St. George and St. Michael, for instance, Wilfred Cumbermede, Malcolm, Marquis of Lossie, and Sir Gibbie, the steady growth of the writer's abilities incline us to think that the best work of George MacDonald is yet to come.

E. E. B.

we have some books you can read about him...


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