No one in his day has done more to popularize the romanticism, now decadent, than Mr. Gilbert Parker; and he made way for it at its worst just because he was so much better than it was at its worst, because he was a poet of undeniable quality, and because he could bring to its intellectual squalor the graces and the powers which charm, though they could not avail to save it from final contempt.  He saves himself in his latest novel, because, though still so largely romanticistic, its prevalent effect is psychologistic, which is the finer analogue of realistic, and which gave realism whatever was vital in it, as now it gives romanticism whatever will survive it.  In “The Right of Way” Mr. Parker is not in a world where mere determinism rules, where there is nothing but the happening of things, and where this one or that one is important or unimportant according as things are happening to him or not, but has in himself no claim upon the reader’s attention.  Once more the novel begins to rise to its higher function, and to teach that men are somehow masters of their fate.  His Charley Steele is, indeed, as unpromising material for the experiment, in certain ways, as could well be chosen.  One of the few memorable things that Bulwer said, who said so many quotable things, was that pure intellectuality is the devil, and on his plane Charley Steele comes near being pure intellectual.  He apprehends all things from the mind, and does the effects even of goodness from the pride of mental strength.  Add to these conditions of his personality that pathologically he is from time to time a drunkard, with always the danger of remaining a drunkard, and you have a figure of which so much may be despaired that it might almost be called hopeless.  I confess that in the beginning this brilliant, pitiless lawyer, this consciencelessly powerful advocate, at once mocker and poseur, all but failed to interest me.  A little of him and his monocle went such a great way with me that I thought I had enough of him by the end of the trial, where he gets off a man charged with murder, and then cruelly snubs the homicide in his gratitude; and I do not quite know how I kept on to the point where Steele in his drunkenness first dazzles and then insults the gang of drunken lumbermen, and begins his second life in the river where they have thrown him, and where his former client finds him.  From that point I could not forsake him to the end, though I found myself more than once in the world where things happen of themselves and do not happen from the temperaments of its inhabitants.  In a better and wiser world, the homicide would not perhaps be at hand so opportunely to save the life of the advocate who had saved his; but one consents to this, as one consents to a great deal besides in the story, which is imaginably the survival of a former method.  The artist’s affair is to report the appearance, the effect; and in the real world, the appearance, the effect, is that of law and not of miracle.  Nature employs the miracle so very sparingly that most of us go through life without seeing one, and some of us contract such a prejudice against miracles that when they are performed for us we suspect a trick.  When I suffered from this suspicion in “The Right of Way” I was the more vexed because I felt that I was in the hands of a connoisseur of character who had no need of miracles.

I have liked Mr. Parker’s treatment of French-Canadian life, as far as I have known it; and in this novel it is one of the principal pleasures for me.  He may not have his habitant, his seigneur or his cure down cold, but he makes me believe that he has, and I can ask no more than that of him.  In like manner, he makes the ambient, physical as well as social, sensible around me:  the cold rivers, the hard, clear skies, the snowy woods and fields, the little frozen villages of Canada.  In this book, which is historical of the present rather than the past, he gives one a realizing sense of the Canadians, not only in the country but in the city, at least so far as they affect each other psychologically in society, and makes one feel their interesting temperamental difference from Americans.  His Montrealers are still Englishmen in their strenuous individuality; but in the frank expression of character, of eccentricity, Charley Steele is like a type of lawyer in our West, of an epoch when people were not yet content to witness ideals of themselves, but when they wished to be their poetry rather than to read it.  In his second life he has the charm for the imagination that a disembodied spirit might have, if it could be made known to us in the circumstances of another world.  He has, indeed, made almost as clean a break with his past as if he had really been drowned in the river.  When, after the term of oblivion, in which he knows nothing of his past self, he is restored to his identity by a famous surgeon too opportunely out of Paris, on a visit to his brother, the cure, the problem is how he shall expiate the errors of his past, work out his redemption in his new life; and the author solves it for him by appointing him to a life of unselfish labor, illumined by actions of positive beneficence.  It is something like the solution which Goethe imagines for Faust, and perhaps no other is imaginable.  In contriving it, Mr. Parker indulges the weaker brethren with an abundance of accident and a luxury of catastrophe, which the reader interested in the psychology of the story may take as little account of as he likes.  Without so much of them he might have made a sculpturesque romance as clearly and nobly definite as “The Scarlet Letter”; with them he has made a most picturesque romantic novel.  His work, as I began by saying, or hinting, is the work of a poet, in conception, and I wish that in some details of diction it were as elect as the author’s verse is.  But one must not expect everything; and in what it is, “The Right of Way” satisfies a reasonable demand on the side of literature, while it more than meets a reasonable expectation on the side of psychological interest.  Distinctly it marks an epoch in contemporary noveling, and mounts far above the average best toward the day of better things which I hope it is not rash to image dawning.