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Mary Barton. Elizabeth Gaskell. 1848. 437 pages.

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell is one of my favorite books. I love, love, love North and South. Mary Barton was Elizabeth Gaskell's first novel. It shares some things in common with North and South: Gaskell's focus on lower classes, the working force, unions and strikes, etc. But it is also very different from North and South. At the heart of Mary Barton is a murder mystery. Our heroine, Mary Barton, loves the man suspected of murdering the mill owner's son. She knows he's innocent; she trusts in his innocence even when most everyone else doesn't. In fact, she's willing to go to great lengths to help acquit him. There are sections of this one that are quite lovely and very intense. Once the mystery begins, once the murder occurs, this book becomes a good read. It does have a slow(er) beginning. Half the book is spent on introducing the two main families of the novel, the Wilsons and the Bartons. The characterization is important in the end, but, this one certainly isn't plot-driven in the beginning! 

Jem Wilson has always only loved Mary Barton. He may not be rich. He may not live in a grand house. But his heart and soul have belonged to Mary Barton. And there's nothing he wouldn't do for the love of his life. Even if he feels that love is unrequited. On the day he proposed, Mary Barton refused him thoroughly. And, to poor Jem, it seemed rather cruel, heartless, and final. But readers know that hope remains. For on that very day Mary has a moment of revelation: she does love Jem, loves him more than anyone. But she doesn't feel it quite proper to chase Jem down and say that she changed her mind, that she wants to marry him desperately. So she waits and hopes praying that one day he'll come and ask her again.

Read Mary Barton

• If you enjoyed North and South, if you're a fan of Elizabeth Gaskell
• If you enjoy dramatic mystery novels with a touch of romance
• If you enjoy Victorian literature with plenty of detail and description

© 2013 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

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Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens. 1846-1848. 880 pages.


DOMBEY sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new. Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome well-made man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing. Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course) an undeniably fine infant, somewhat crushed and spotty in his general effect, as yet. On the brow of Dombey, Time and his brother Care had set some marks, as on a tree that was to come down in good time--remorseless twins they are for striding through their human forests, notching as they go--while the countenance of Son was crossed and recrossed with a thousand little creases, which the same deceitful Time would take delight in smoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of his scythe, as a preparation of the surface for his deeper operations.

I definitely enjoyed reading Charles Dickens' Dombey and Son. While I can't say that it's my new favorite Dickens novel, we had a lovely time together. Reading Dickens requires a time commitment, for the most part. While it's true that Oliver Twist is a quick and relatively easy read, the same can't exactly be said for Dickens' other novels. (Of course, excusing The Christmas Carol which is so easy to read it almost doesn't feel like a proper Dickens novel.) I don't mind committing my time, energy, effort to Dickens because I know that in the end it will prove worth it. He may take a couple of hundred pages to get going strong, but by the end, every little detail will come together and magic will happen. Such was the case with Dombey and Son.

How do I feel about Paul Dombey? If I had to choose just one word it would be infuriating. He's so proud, arrogant, narrow-minded, egotistical, pompous, cold-hearted, and cruel. He should not be allowed anywhere near women or children. It's no surprise that his first wife didn't "try" very hard to live. True, I'm speaking in jest for the most part, but Mrs. Chick, Dombey's sister, is not. The opening chapters provide ample opportunities for her to chastise her sister-in-law for dying. And Mrs. Chick does feel it was a weakness in her character that she allowed herself to die.

Dombey has a newborn son, named Paul, of course, what did you expect? He also has a daughter, Florence. It is in his relationship with Florence that the man's true weakness is revealed. For he is a horribly neglectful, sometimes cruel Father who takes great pride in the fact that his daughter is a nobody. That is in his eyes he has no daughter, a girl-child is of no conceivable use to him, so she just doesn't exist to him. He doesn't want anyone around him to act as if she exists either. She's not to be mentioned certainly, and not to be loved either, at least not in a way that's visible to him. For if he sees that someone else is loving and kind to him, it makes him who has no feelings (supposedly) feel guilty for not being a decent human being.

Florence is the heroine of this novel. She may be a little too good to be true--she's practically flawless. But she's good at providing contrast for every other character in the novel. Because without a doubt almost everyone else who plays a role in this thick novel is very flawed and very human. If Florence has a fault it is in being too kind, too

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The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Anne Bronte. 1848. 496 pages.

You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827.

What should YOU know about this one going in? Less than I did, I think. I had the misfortune (yes, I know it's my own fault) of reading the very quick introduction. (For the record, it wasn't the edition that is pictured on the left. Though that edition might have a spoilerish introduction as well. I do wish that introductions could be placed at the end of the book.) So I will do my best to make you curious about this one, but not ruin it for you...

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is told within a framework. We've got two narrators. Gilbert Markham is telling a friend about how he met this mystery woman in his youth. At the time of this telling, many years have passed. (Thus, the "You must go back with me to 1827" beginning.) This meeting, this acquaintance, isn't without mystery (and drama). He falls for a new woman in the community, a young woman with a son. Her name is Mrs. Graham. Her son's name is Arthur. Slowly--very slowly--he is starting to get to know her better. She's allowing him to visit her, walk with her. But as he begins to want to know her more, as he begins to picture his future with her in it...the rumors about her grow out of control. Who is she really? Is she worthy of his love? Is he doing the right thing by guarding her reputation and standing up for her within the community? Or is he being fooled?

The second narrator is the woman. Here readers meet Helen Huntingdon, Mrs Graham's real name. We learn her story through her journal. We learn her story alongside Gilbert--for she indeed gave this journal to him after some drama, tantrums, and tears.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is a novel about unhappy marriages. Helen's marriage isn't the only unhappy account. It is just one of many presented in Anne Bronte's dark novel. It highlights the lack of rights for women--for married women especially. It also could serve as a cautionary tale. Of how serious marriage is. Of how women should not rush into it. And how a pretty face, a handsome face, isn't enough to build a marriage on. That character is EVERYTHING. That marriage has to built on more than desire, more than infatuation. How can a young girl know if her suitor is worthy of her love? How can a young girl discern the truth of the matter? What if she's being deceived? What if he's merely a flatterer? Or a womanizer? Or a drunkard? Or a gambler? Or just after her money? How can she know who to trust? And deception doesn't just work one way. How can HE know her true character as well? How does he know that she loves him, that she cares for him, respects him? How does he know she isn't just after his money, his estate, his title?

When I tell you not to marry without love, I do not advise you to marry for love alone--there are many, many other things to be considered. Keep both heart and hand in your own possession, till you see good reason to part with them; and if such an occasion should never present itself, comfort your mind with this reflection: that, though in single life your joys may not be many, your sorrows, at least, will not be more than you can bear. Marriage may change your circumstances for the better, but in my private opinion, it is far more likely to produce a contrary result. (293)

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Gaskell, Elizabeth. 1848. Mary Barton. Penguin English Library. 488 pages.

There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants as 'Green Heys Fields,' through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields being flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these common-place but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town, he left but half an hour ago.

Jem Wilson has always only loved Mary Barton. He may not be rich. He may not live in a grand house. But his heart and soul have belonged to Mary Barton. And there's nothing he wouldn't do for the love of his life. Even if he feels that love is unrequited.

On the day he proposed, Mary Barton refused him thoroughly. And, to poor Jem, it seemed rather cruel, heartless, and final. He dramatically declares:

'And is this the end of all my hopes and fears? the end of my life, I may say, for it is the end of all worth living for!' His agitation rose and carried him into passion. 'Mary! you'll hear, may be, of me as a drunkard, and may be as a thief, and may be as a murderer. Remember! when all are speaking ill of me, you will have no right to blame me, for it's your cruelty that will have made me what I feel I shall become.' (175)

But even though he'll never have Mary as his wife, when Mary's aunt, Esther, asks him to watch out for her, to take care of her, he can't quite refuse. You see, Esther fears for Mary. Fears that Mary Barton is in love with a dangerous man, a rich man who is out to seduce her. His rival's name is Harry Carson. And he seems to have it all. But his luck is about to run out.

Mary Barton was Elizabeth Gaskell's first novel. And it's so much more than a suspenseful love story. (Despite my description, this one is told mainly through the eyes of Mary Barton. Though at times it is told from other perspectives. John Barton, Mary's father, plays a large role in this one.) It's a novel about social class and economics. Of the haves and the have-nots. The Bartons and the Wilsons and almost everyone else of note in the novel are living at the poverty level. Below it more like it. Death from starvation, death by disease, these are very real concerns. Life isn't easy or pretty. It's one hardship after another after another. (It's enough to get you down and keep you down.) John Barton takes these losses poorly. He becomes angry and bitter. He blames the rich for all his problems. Is his anger justified? You be the judge!

One of the strengths of the novel is characterization. We meet Mary Barton, her family, her friends, her community. We meet so many different characters. Characters that are so easy to care about. (For example, Job Legh, Margaret Jennings, and Will Wilson. I particularly enjoyed Job!) All her characters have depth and substance. It's a very human book. The novel is also rich in detail and is very atmospheric.

What I wasn't expecting--and you may not be expecting either--was how rich this one was spiritually. It has some definite spiritual tones and by the end especially its rich spiritual significance really stands out. Something you don't find in just any classic.

I'm happy to be a part of the Elizabeth Gaskell blog tour. To see the rest of the bloggers on tour, visit The Classics Circuit

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Michael Sedano

Imagine yourself a resident of Baghdad in March 2003. It is the eve of the United States invasion. You know your own military’s weakness is the perfect foil for the invader’s fabled power. Some of your men in uniform will fight fiercely, but they will surely die. You know your nation’s political leadership engenders little loyalty from a restive citizenry, so you hold no hope for massive resistance when the invaders raise their flag from the conquered rooftops. A feeling of dread begins to seep into your every waking thought. The first bombs drop, the first tanks turn the corner, and everything you feared turns out as you foresaw, only it’s worse because all these fears are real, and they’re happening to you.

Now put yourself into the same frame of mind, except the year is 1847 and you are living in Mexico City. The Yankees have already stolen Texas, the evil clown Santa Anna having held a state funeral for his dead leg, now has gone into hiding to avoid battle. Only poorly armed rasquachi soldiers stand in the way of General Scott’s invading giants. The Yankees have bombarded Veracruz. The Yankees have overwhelmed Puebla. The Yankees are in the Zócalo about to raise the stars and stripes above the Palacio Nacional.

Such parallels are inescapably part of the ambiente of Ignacio Solares’ Yankee Invasion, a Novel of Mexico City. Such is the bad P.R. the United States has earned from its many years of military adventures in foreign lands that the novel doesn’t need to make the parallels explicitly. Solares feeds the flames an anti-Yankeeism in this historical novel, so it is not a novel for “my country right or wrong my country” tipos. Solares doesn’t waste a lot of tears for Mexicanos, either. One of the key side characters, Father Jarauta, stands for fighting against the Yankees and the Mexicans who support them. Moreover, the story comes to us ten years after the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo has ceded half of Mexico into US control, and 1848 was a long time ago.

Solares uses the invasion as backdrop for the story of a courageous surgeon, a troubled writer, and an indictment of an inept government, then as now. We hear about war but see precious little. Much of the battle action takes place in hearsay narrative, in rumor, in newspaper reportage. And this is a good thing because readers who are Veterans of the U.S. military do not want to read about Mexicans—or anyone—killing GIs or Marines, whether from the halls of Montezuma or the banks of the Euphrates.

The medico is Dr. Urruchúa. He’s troubled that his patients die with regularity after childbirth and other procedures. He’s frustrated that a few tragos of rum are all he can offer a patient about to feel the doctor’s saw cut into an amputation. Urruchúa suspects that washing hands and instruments might alleviate virulent infection, and ruminates that hypnotism could be useful in surgery. The doctor is a genuine hero. During the battle for Mexico City, the doctor goes from hospital to hospital without food or rest tending to wounded. A grievously wounded Yankee gets as good as the doctor can give—just as Yankee medicos tend to wounded Mexicans.

Among the doctor’s closest friends is Abelardo, the frustrated writer. Dr. Urruchúa theorizes Mesmer’s treatments could reduce Abelardo’s chronic depression, not just an amputee’s. But the best the doctor can offer his friend is some pills and a sympathetic ear.

Abelardo experiences hallucinations borne of his depression. He sees colors and auras, contemplates suicide as his one sure cure, and perhaps the best way to escape the consequences of the Yankee invasion. But unlikeable Abelardo is a man of inaction, preferring to discuss politics with his other rich friends than take up arms in defense of la patria.

Abelardo’s story is at once comic and frustrating. Comedy grows from his relationship with Magdalena, his wife, and two women whom Abelardo refers to as the true loves of his life. Magdalena hectors the frustrated writer to stitch together the drawersful of newspaper clippings and scribblings, along with Dr. Urruchúa’s notes, Abelardo has collected over the years. She’s heard bits and snippets of the history throughout their married life and Magdalena’s fed up with the story’s sketchiness. She, too, wants details on the two women, daughter and mother.

This novel, in fact, is the result of Magdalena’s goading urgency. But, in the end, Magdalena refuses to accept Abelardo’s version of events. To the reader’s frustration, Abelardo acknowledges that Magdalena is probably correct, telling her that many details are pure fiction or wishful thinking. In Abelardo’s untrustworthy mind, there’s no difference. Still, history has a concrete referent for much that transpires. The U.S. did invade. Chapultepec was taken. Mexico City was occupied. The trains ran on time, as it were, from United States administrative reforms. And maybe--given its dismal leadership and powerless easily riled plebe--Mexico got what it deserved, the invasion and loss of half its former territory.

Readers will find Yankee Invasion, A Novel of Mexico City, a worthwhile endeavor because the twisted story of the two women is deliciously salacious without being dirty, because the patriotism of the troubled primera clase Abelardo is sincere and genuine, because the underlying satire of Solares’ costumbrismo takes big bites out of Mexican pride, because the narrative is fun as it swings like Abelardo’s moods between straightforward historical account to confessional first person elements when Abelardo steps out of the narrative to address his readers directly, because of its imaginative structure.

Imagine yourself in the assembled masses. The occupying authority summoned attendance to hear the victory proclamation. U.S. cavalry and infantry clean up their appearance as well as possible, a few hours removed from the bloody battle to occupy el Castillo de Chapultepc and fight their way to the seat of government. An officer reads an English language proclamation—pendejo, the people think, screw you and whatever you’re saying in your foreign language. One GI is honored to haul the U.S. flag up the pole. A shot sounds from a nearby rooftop. The sniper’s aim drops the Yankee in his tracks. The crowd explodes in frenzy, pulling invaders to the ground, beating them with brooms and hammers and stones, tearing their dirty uniforms from bleeding corpses. You’re running for your life away from the carnage when a dying Yankee grabs your ankles. In desperation you pull a knife and thrust it into the Yankee’s body again and again until you smell his last breath. It is your own personal moment of triumph. If it happened. Ni modo, there’s a novel in it.

That's the first Tuesday of August. August, my birthday month, my anniversary month! But it's a Tuesday like any other Tuesday, except You Are Here. Thank you for visiting La Bloga.

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