Mehalah

by Sabine Baring-Gould

This grim novel is set in the salt marshes on the east cost of Essex. In that strange region where superstition is rife, the sadistic and passionate Elijah Rebow falls in love with the fiery gipsy-beauty Mehalah, though she is caught up in her own love affair, and vows to make her his wife. Mehalah is a powerful study of primitive characters, never agreeable, but always absorbing. Its strength is in the skill with which the romancer environs his fierce human creatures with an equally untamable nature.

Mehalah was one of Baring-Gould's first novels and created something of a sensation, being compared by many to Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights and described by Truth as "a bit of real original, violent, powerful, novel both in place and circumstance, and peculiarly impressive."

Genres: Romance, Classics

304 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1880

About the author

Sabine Baring-Gould was born in the parish of St Sidwell, Exeter. The eldest son of Edward Baring-Gould and his first wife, Sophia Charlotte (née Bond), he was named after a great-uncle, the Arctic explorer Sir Edward Sabine. Because the family spent much of his childhood travelling round Europe, most of his education was by private tutors. He only spent about two years in formal schooling, first at King's College School in London (then located in Somerset House) and then, for a few months, at Warwick Grammar School (now Warwick School). Here his time was ended by a bronchial disease of the kind that was to plague him throughout his long life. His father considered his ill-health as a good reason for another European tour.

In 1852 he was admitted to Cambridge University, earning the degrees of Bachelor of Arts in 1857, then Master of Arts in 1860 from Clare College, Cambridge. During 1864, he became the curate at Horbury Bridge, West Riding of Yorkshire. It was while acting as a curate that he met Grace Taylor, the daughter of a mill hand, then aged fourteen. In the next few years they fell in love. His vicar, John Sharp, arranged for Grace to live for two years with relatives in York to learn middle class manners. Baring-Gould, meanwhile, relocated to become perpetual curate at Dalton, near Thirsk. He and Grace were married in 1868 at Wakefield. Their marriage lasted until her death 48 years later, and the couple had 15 children, all but one of whom lived to adulthood. When he buried his wife in 1916 he had carved on her tombstone the Latin motto Dimidium Animae Meae ("Half my Soul").

Baring-Gould became the rector of East Mersea in Essex in 1871 and spent ten years there. In 1872 his father died and he inherited the 3,000 acre (12 km²) family estates of Lew Trenchard in Devon, which included the gift of the living of Lew Trenchard parish. When the living became vacant in 1881, he was able to appoint himself to it, becoming parson as well as squire. He did a great deal of work restoring St Peter's Church, Lew Trenchard, and (from 1883 – 1914) thoroughly remodelled his home, Lew Trenchard Manor.

Reviews

[James Giddings · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ooh! this book is a challenge to characterize. It depicts the "battle of the sexes" in a realistic historical setting where piratical thinking is the norm. The conflicts are relentless, making it a much harder book to like than one of Baring-Gould's later books (espcially "Kitty Alone"). I see it as based partly on the folk ballad "the Two Magicians" in which a male and female magician face off against each other again and again, taking on different forms, with the female magician ultimately surrendering to the male. Baring-Gould describes battles over power, money, and sex in a harsher way than he does in later writings, and there is a little of the repetitiveness (padding) that I noticed in his later novel "Urith". There are passages that are such masterpieces of description that I wish I coul conveniently copy them out and share them, but the e-book format makes that difficult.

[Lauren · Rating 4 out of 5]

Our lives are bound up together in one bundle, and the knife that cuts one string cuts the other also. Our souls are twins to love and to hate, to fondle and fight, till death us do part! Till death us do part!' repeated Rebow scornfully, 'Death can no more part us than life. We will live together and we will die together, and moulder away in one another's arms. The worm that gnaws me shall gnaw you. I think of you night and day. I cannot help it: it is my fate. I knew it was so the moment I saw you.

Mehalah is a strange but captivating novel that has by now been largely forgotten. And there’s something oddly compelling about that fact: one is forced to go in with no preconceived notions or critical consensus, taking a chance on a novel that may have been rightfully discarded or may be an overlooked gem. Mehalah, it turns out, is a little bit of both, compulsively readable but extremely bizarre and unsettling (often downright disturbing).

All that I knew of the novel at the outset was that Mehalah has often been compared to Emily Brontë’s masterpiece, Wuthering Heights, and I can see why. Both take place in a desolate, wild part of the country almost completely removed from the protections and comfort of civilized society. Both invoke the supernatural through ghostly apparitions. Both feature characters who are emphatically not the sort of proper, respectable people one expects to find in a Victorian romance. And, most fundamentally, both are centered around extremely toxic relationships built on violence, obsession, possessiveness, and destruction. “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same,” says Catherine of Heathcliff; “Our souls are twins to love and to hate, to fondle and fight, till death us do part!”, Elijah tells Mehalah.

Where the comparison fails is that Mehalah is no Catherine. Wuthering Heights is so captivating in part because Catherine and Heathcliff are equally obsessed with one another—an obsession that is passionate, abusive, and destructive—and wield equal power over one another. But Mehalah is vehemently not in love with Elijah. She does not even passionately hate him (Baring-Gould understands that the opposite of love is not hate, but apathy tinged with disdain). Moreover, he exercises complete financial and legal control over her. It is not a battle of the wills, but is completely one-sided in terms of both passion and power. In short, Mehalah is about a destitute, powerless young woman being relentlessly stalked by a violent, possessive older man (here, Baring-Gould invokes perhaps the most foundational Gothic trope: that of a beautiful, virtuous lady resisting the seduction of a malevolent older man). If I did have to compare it to another Victorian novel, I’d be tempted to pick Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles with the caveat that I am only familiar with the novel by reputation.

Putting aside Wuthering Heights, I do think Mehalah is a solid work of Victorian fiction that is well written, compelling, and wildly different from anything else I’ve read from this period. Perhaps not quite on the same level as the acknowledged masterpieces of the period, but certainly worth reading for those interested in the characters and themes.

The prose is often beautiful and atmospheric, and quite easy to read. Baring-Gould loves metaphor, and taken in another context many of Elijah’s passionate declarations of love would be quite romantic. There’s some lovely, evocative nature writing, especially in the opening chapters. The setting of the Cornish “saltings” is barren and desolate as befits the tone of the novel, and Baring-Gould paints a picture that is as beautiful as it is bleak. Tragic folk tales of dead lovers whose ghosts continue to haunt the area are woven into the story and perfectly complete the atmosphere. He does occasionally tend toward repetition, though, especially in dialogue: there are several scenes where it feels like the characters are just saying the same thing over and over and over again for an entire chapter. Still, the novel never drags as the plot moves fairly quickly.

Speaking of plot, there are a few “twists” that are fairly predictable (namely, that it was Elijah who stole their money, stole their sheep, and finally burned down their house in order to bring Mehalah under his control), but those twists aren’t really the point: Mehalah is decidedly character-driven. Mehalah herself is fiery, stubborn, principled, proud, a bit impulsive, but kind-hearted and easy to love. Over the course of the novel, she is beaten down and increasingly disillusioned about love and life—especially in regards to George, who she idolizes (and idealizes) until it becomes clear that he is, in fact, utter garbage, a realization that crushes her. Seemingly everyone to whom she turns for help turns her away: the curate will not give her work but tells her to marry; her mother’s cousin is unwilling to cross his overbearing wife to lend Mehalah money; her own mother not only fails to protect her but also relentlessly presses her to marry Elijah; the bailiff is ready to throw her in debtor’s prison; even George, upon finding that Mehalah believed him to be dead and had been essentially forced to marry Elijah, not only does not help her, but has the gall to be angry at her and do all he can to hurt her by telling her he’ll just marry someone else, too, so there. Elijah, meanwhile, is a chillingly accurate portrayal of a stalker who believes he’s owed Mehalah’s love simply by virtue of wanting her. His violence and sadism makes for some deliberately uncomfortable moments. My criticism here, and probably my main complaint with the novel, is that the characters may be well-developed and vibrant, but they are also more or less stagnant, which makes the novel feel a bit one-note.

Also noteworthy is that, despite writing such a compelling female character as Mehalah, Baring-Gould is certainly a product of his time. He makes it clear that he believes all women hate one another and are constantly in competition, a bit of a strange fixation, in addition to the usual sexism that one can expect from Victorian fiction. There’s also a fairly upsetting portrayal of a “madman” character, and while I don’t think Baring-Gould intends to condone the way he is treated, the depiction itself is disturbing.

Finally, let’s talk about the ending. I don’t think Baring-Gould expects readers to feel sorry for Elijah…because that would be insane. It’s dubious enough that Mehalah decides to forgive Elijah for all he has done to her (though not to George) simply because she feels guilty for accidentally blinding him while he was actively assaulting her: does Baring-Gould actually believe that Mehalah needs to atone and learn to love him? I like to think this is not the case. The ending, in which Elijah drowns himself and Mehalah so they will be together forever, indicates that Baring-Gould does not believe that Elijah could (or deserves to be) reformed—and is also a completely believable end to a relationship between a stalker and his victim.

Overall, Mehalah paints a bleak portrait of human nature and of a society in which a woman like Mehalah is unable to escape her circumstances. I will definitely be reading more from this author!

Some favorite passages:

Between the mouths of the Blackwater and the Colne, on the east coast of Essex, lies an extensive marshy tract veined and freckled in every part with water. It is a wide waste of debatable ground contested by sea and land, subject to incessant incursions from the former, but stubbornly maintained by the latter.

Thereafter a purple glow steals over the waste, as the sea lavender bursts into flower, and simultaneously every creek and pool is royally fringed with sea aster. A little later the glass-wort, that shot up green and transparent as emerald glass in the early spring, turns to every tinge of carmine.

The water was still, as no wind was blowing, and it reflected the sky and the stars that stole out, with such distinctness that the boat seemed to be swimming in the sky, among black tatters of clouds, these being the streaks of land that broke the horizon and the reflection.

The wind had risen, and was wailing over the marshes, sighing among the harsh herbage, the sea-lavender, sovereign wood, and wild asparagus. Not a cloud was visible. The sky was absolutely unblurred and thick besprint with stars. Jupiter burned in the south, and cast a streak of silver over the ebbing waters. The young people stood silent by each other for a moment, and their hearts beat fast. Other matters had broken in on and troubled the pleasant current of their love; but now the thought of these was swept aside, and their hearts rose and stretched towards each other. They had known each other for many years, and the friendship of childhood had insensibly ripened in their hearts to love.

Look up at the sky. Do you see, there is Charles' Wain, and there is Cassiopæa's Chair. There the Serpent and there the Swan. I can see every figure plain, but your landsman rarely can. So I can see every constellation in the dark heaven of Mehalah's soul, but you cannot. You would be wrecked if you were to sail by it.

Her dark eyes were fixed dreamily on the dying fire—they were like the marsh-pools with the will-o'-the-wisp in each. They did not see the embers, they looked through the iron fireback, and the brick wall, over the saltings, over the water, into infinity.

Indeed they had known each other, so far as meeting at rare intervals went, for many years; she had not seen enough of him to know him as he really was, she therefore loved him as she idealised him. The great cretaceous sea was full of dissolved silex penetrating the waters, seeking to condense and solidify. But there was nothing in the ocean then save twigs of weed and chips of shells, and about them that hardest of all elements drew together and grew to adamant. The soul of Mehalah was some such vague sea full of ununderstood, unestimated elements, seeking their several centres for precipitation, and for want of better, condensing about straws. To her, George De Witt was the ideal of all that was true and manly.

She brooded now on the past. She wished for nothing in the future. She had no care for the present

She thought of Elijah's words, she thought of the horrible iterations in the barrow on the hill, the embracing and fighting, embracing and fighting, loving and hating, loving and hating, till one should conquer of the twin but rival powers.

'We already understand each other,' he said, pausing in his walk. 'We always did. I can read your heart. I know everything that passes there, just as if it was written in red letters on a page. I understand you, and there's nobody else in the world that can. I was made to read you.

That is what makes ghosts to ramble. Ghosts are those that have married the wrong ones, wandering and waiting, and seeking for their right mates. Do you hear the piping and the crying at the windows of a winter night? That is the ghosts looking in and sobbing because they are out in the cold shivering till they meet their mates. But when they meet, then that is heaven.

I heard a preacher say once, that God made every man of a lump of clay and a drop of spittle, and that He made always two at a time. He couldn't help it. He has two hands and ain't right and left handed as we, but works with both, and then He casts about the men He has made, anywhere. Hasn't He made all things double? Have not you two hands and two feet and two eyes? Is there not a sun and a moon, are there not two poles to the earth, and two sexes, and day and night, and winter and summer? and—' he went up before Mehalah, and with a burst of passion—'and you and me?'

I feel I have threads at every finger and threads to my knees and to my feet, all fast to you, and if I stir, I move you. I lift my finger, and you raise yours. I wave my hand up, and you throw up yours. You don't know it. I do. I know that I have but to rise up from my chair, and I lift you up wherever you may be, in your bed, in your grave, and then, if I draw in with my will, I wind up these threads, and you come, you come, from wheresoever you are, out of your bed in your smock, out of your grave in your shroud; doors are nothing, my will can burst them open; locks are naught, my will can wrench them off; the screws in the coffin lid and five feet of earth are nothing, I could draw you through all.

But the soul has its ichor as well as the heart, and when it is cut deep into it also drains away, and is left empty, pulseless, pallid.

Each was straining for the infinite, and for escape from thraldom; one with a broken wing, one with a broken brain, one with a broken heart. There was the wounded bird flapping and edging its way outwards to the salt sea. There was the dazed brain driving the wretched man in mad gambols along the wall to the open water. There was the bruised soul of the miserable girl yearning for something, she knew not what, wide, deep, eternal, unlimited, as the all-embracing ocean. In that the bird, the man, the maid sought freedom, rest, recovery.

'No, we shall use a ring such as has never been used before, because our union is unlike all other unions. Will this do?' He drew the link of an iron chain from his pocket.

These long flat marshes have nothing beautiful in them. The sea is not here what it is on other coasts, foaming, colour-shifting like a peacock's neck; here it is of one tone and grey, and never tosses in waves, but creeps in like a thief over the shallow mud-flat, and babbles like a dotard over the mean shells and clots of weed on our strand. There is nothing worth seeing here.

'I suppose there is something of truth in what he says over and over again, that he and I are different from others, and that there's none can understand us but our two selves.'

There is passion in us—and that is a spark of the divine. I do not care what the passion be, love or hate, or jealousy or anger, if it be hot and red and consuming so that it melts and burns all that opposes it, that fiery passion is of God and will live, live on for ever, in the central heart and furnace, which is God. When you and I die, Glory! and are sucked into the great fiery whirlpool, we shall not be burnt up altogether, but intensified. If I love you with fiery passion here I shall love you with fiery passion ten thousand times hotter hereafter; my passion will turn to glaring white heat, and never go out for all everlasting, for it will be burning, blazing in God who is eternal. If you hate me, you will be whirled in, and your fury fanned and raked into a fiery phrenzy which will rage on for ages on ages, and cannot go out, for it will be burning in the everlasting furnace of God. If I love, and you hate with infinite intensity for an infinity of time—that is Hell. But if you love and I love, our love grows hotter and blazes and roars and spurts into one tongue, cloven like the tongues at Pentecost, twain yet one, and that is Heaven. My love eating into yours and encircling it, and yours into mine, and neither containing nor consuming the other, but going on in growing intensity of fiery fury of love from everlasting to everlasting, that is Heaven of Heavens.'

I don't care if you die and I die, but parted we shall not be. You and I must find our heaven in each other and nowhere else.

I put a little plant once in a pot and filled the vessel with rich mould, and the plant grew and at last broke the pot into a hundred pieces, and I found within a dense mat of fibres; the root had eaten up and displaced all the soil and swelled till it rent the vessel. It has been so with my love of you. It got planted, how I know not, in my heart, and it has thrown its roots through the whole chamber, and devoured all the substance, and woven a net of fibres in and out and up and down, and has swelled and is thrusting against the walls, till there is scarce love there any more but horrible, biting, wearing pain. I cannot kill the plant and pluck it out, or it will leave a great void. I must let it grow till it has broken up the vessel. It grows and makes root, but will not flower. There has been scarce leaf, certainly no blossom, to my love. It is all downward, inward, clogging, bursting tangle of fibre.

They can't understand the ways and workings of those that have souls. They are bodies, ruled by bodily wants, and look at all things out of bodily eyes, and interpret by bodily instincts all things done by those spiritually above them. But you understand me, and I understand you. Soul speaks to soul.

She could see into his heart as into clear water, to the ugly snags and creeping things at the bottom.

The George of her fancy, the ideal of truth and steadfastness, was dissolved, and had disappeared leaving a mean vulgar object behind from which she shrank. To him whom she had hated, with whom she had fought and against whom she had stiffened her back, she now flew as her only support, her only anchorage.

She saw only the falling to pieces into dust of an idol. Better had George died, and she had lived on looking upon him as her ideal of manhood, noble, straightforward, truthful, constant.

Whilst we are on the earth we cannot be united, because he intercepts the current which runs from my heart to yours, and from yours to mine. Although he might be far away, a thousand miles distant, yet the tide of your affection would set to him. The moon they tell us is some hundreds of thousands of miles from the ocean, and yet the water throbs and rises, and falls and retreats responsive to the impulse of the moon, because moon and earth are both in one sphere. As long as you and he are together in one orb, there is no peace for me, your love will never flow to me and dance and sparkle about me. I must look elsewhere for peace, elsewhere for union, without which there is no peace.

'Are you waking, Glory?' he asked. 'Hark, hark! the marriage bells are ringing, ringing, ringing, for you and me. Now Glory! now only is our marriage! now only, locked together, shall we find rest.' He took the iron chain, and wound it round her and him, tying them together tight, and then he fastened the padlock and flung the key into the sea. 'Once I turned the key in the lock carelessly, and he who was bound by this chain escaped. I have fastened it firmly now, it will not fall apart for all eternity. Now Glory! Now we are bound together for everlasting.'

[Fran2255 · Rating 2 out of 5]

They were not matching each other’s freak

[Jim Jones · Rating 5 out of 5]

I thought I had read all the major Victorian novels, but this one escaped me. In fact I had never even heard of it before picking it up in a 2nd hand book store. If you like Dickens, Hardy and the Brontes, you will love Mehalah. It's dark, obsessive, fatalistic--a Wuthering Heights set on the Marshlands of East Essex. I cannot praise this book enough!

[Aaron · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sabine Baring-Gould is a little known Anglican priest and novelist of the nineteenth and early twentieth century, with literary works ranging from religious writings to folk and gothic genres. Mehalah appeared in 1880, and is set in the desolate marshes of Mersea and the surrounding area. A lot of people, particularly students, liken the story to that giant of gothic romance, Wuthering Heights, but I am not inclined to enforce the association. One could suggest Wuthering Heights is almost a scene of domestic tranquillity in comparison. Although set in bleak, isolated conditions, there is no dramatic and romantic entanglement, unless the sustained persecution and victimisation of a young lady by her landlord can be considered as such. Let me also dispel another commonly accepted fallacy, there is nothing glamorous about abuse and I defy any attempt to glorify it.

The tale begins with a rather spooky description of the Ray where Mehalah and her sickly mother reside. With rent day fast approaching, their brutish new landowner, Elijah Rebow, has visited to remind them that that they now owe their livelihood to him. He tries to bully Mehalah into submission, yet she openly defies him and insists upon self sufficiency and independence. The central theme of the book is freedom and imprisonment, and the text swarms with corresponding imagery, not all of it subtle. The increasingly violent means of Rebow to secure Mehalah as his lover have a ring of the fairy-tale about them, as does the systematic trio of vows he wishes to enforce on her, namely to obey, cherish, and love. In addition to the dark and brooding main narrative, there is a host of ridiculous supporting characters to provide some comic relief. A modern reader might take umbrage with Baring-Gould's frequent and negative representations of women. With the exception of his main characters, women are portrayed as jealous, spiteful and vindictive harridans, whilst his men are largely hard-working, humble and brow-beaten.

Especially startling and strange to read was Mehalah's trip into Wivenhoe (spelt Wyvernhoe here) to obtain a loan from a distant cousin. Quite apart from the farcical outcome of the expedition, finding one's village of residence in an old novel was pretty amusing. It seems like the place really hasn't changed much at all, what with its priggish, pathetic inhabitants - but I digress! With criticisms out of the way, I'll advocate Mehalah as a perfect winter novel almost begging to be read by a blazing fire in one's parlour, favourite pub, or simply in solitary candlelight. The writing is masterful, gripping and energetic and also blackly, morbidly funny in places. The gothic bent of the tale can be used to excuse elements of excess melodrama, for it goes with the territory. As of yet, I have not read any critical or scholarly opinions on Mehalah, and my edition was woefully inadequate for secondary material, therefore this review is relatively raw and uninformed. Overall, it is a hauntingly powerful, highly memorable book inviting multiple readings. In my opinion, it deserves a more definitive seat among the classics.

[Jason · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book can be a bit dour in places but it's worth staying with until the end. Oh, that ending.

I particularly love the way Sabine Baring Gould describes the area of Essex in which the story is set.
I may be biased here as Mersea Island is my favourite place on Earth, this alone makes me love the book.

Two of the main Characters, Mehalah Sharland and Elijah Rebow, are incredibly well written and develop well throughout. The other cast of characters not so much.

[jane drew · Rating 4 out of 5]

To start with the setting of this book is not Cornwall or Devon, as mentioned in other reviews, but Mersea Island in Essex. Baring-Gould was appointed to the living of East Mersea but he hated everything about the place. It is an isolated area only reachable by boat or by a causeway which goes under water twice a day. He takes revenge on his situation by portraying all the characters except Mahalah herself as outright evil, laughably stupid, scheming, selfish or treacherous.Although there are some descriptions of beautiful sunsets, on the whole he dislikes the bleak landscape and the constantly shifting waters of the place with its dreary marshes and creeks, its decaying houseboats and creepy old farmhouses.Comparisons with Wuthering Heights are understandable with its depiction of the obsessive love of a Heathcliff figure. but this is not reciprocated and Mahalah is simply the victim of cruelty, and she is surrounded by unsympathetic characters. She alone has a conscience and a misplaced sense of guilt which keeps her loyal to her tormentor, the man she hates. Shades of Jane Eyre are there. Not a mad wife in the attic but a mad brother in the basement. Also a blinding which infuriates and emasculates the male character although in this case he is left with sufficient vision to carry out his final evil but predictable act. Having said all this, I really enjoyed the book. Some of the character descriptions are very funny, similarly Baring-Gould's frequent tirades against the inferiority of women are so overblown they cannot be taken seriously, and he really keeps the plot moving although he is often over wordy and repetitive. The dialogue is well written - and there is a lot of it, so much of the book reads like play.To the modern reader it seems a slightly bizarre book but in its own way it does deal with the serious theme of coercive control as Mahalah is increasingly entrapped by a series of malicious lies and deceptions.

[Anna · Rating 2 out of 5]

Extremely sexist throughout, including characters and narration which generalise that all women are mentally inferior to men. Whilst this is a crime in itself, Mahala also, despite originally seeming to buck the rest of the narrative about women, eventually is labelled as 'not like the other girls' and then as a kind of weak, fatalistic animal with no control over her own life. The writing reads like a school play, full of overly dramatic and predictable twists and hyperbolic description (a lot of which is just Elijah describing how much he loves Mahalah and then blaming her for that, since that's some how her fault). The fatalism of the trap that Elijah sets for Mahala is awful and presents Mahala as some kind of trapped animal, at one point literally 'smoked out' of her house like a fox. George, equally, is totally unworthy of Mahala's (or anyone's) time, since he doesn't stick up for her with Phoebe in the beginning (and for some reason goes on to marry her - what?!) and then goes off to sea for ages and never even bothers to try and get in contact with Mahala, although sending a letter would have been easy. He then treats her like absolute dirt both for marrying Elijah (which she was forced into) and for refusing the elope with him (she accidentally blinded Elijah with vitriol, pun intended I suppose, and she must care for her ailing mother). The representation of gypsies, also, was offensive and stereotypical. Overall, not my favourite, despite the fact that I typically love traditional Gothic novels. I can see why this didn't take off.

[Karen Lúkasdóttir · Rating 4 out of 5]

Not sure whether to give this 4 or 5 stars , so 4,5. This is Wuthering Heights on steroids. Don't expect a sweet romance or likeable characters except for the main character Mehalah. This is a gothic tale, not a love story, but a gritty dark tale of obsession. I loved it.

[Matt Wilby · Rating 2 out of 5]

Very predictable ending with not a lot happening throughout. Lots of foreshadowing that guides you to what will happen with the twists revealed earlier than I would have liked!

[Debbie · Rating 3 out of 5]

good victoria dram

[Cas · Rating 4 out of 5]

Grade: B+

I had to read this for my uni degree.

[Frances Attwood · Rating 1 out of 5]

A book of its time. Not to my taste.

[Jamad · Rating 1 out of 5]

Not for me - dated, sexist and boring. Possibly the worst book I have read in the last five years

“Oh, you have a will indeed,' remarked Rebow with a growl. 'A will it would be a pleasure to break, and I’ll do it.

“For a long time Phoebe had been envious of the
reputation as a beauty possessed by Mehalah. Her
energy, determination and courage made her highly
esteemed among the fishermen, and the expressions of
admiration lavished on her handsome face and generous
character had roused all the venom in Phoebe's nature.”

“If a beggar be put on horseback he will ride to the
devil, and a woman in command will proceed to unsex
herself.”

“Mehalah was trembling with anger. Her gipsy
blood was in flame. There is a flagrant spirit in such
veins which soon bursts into an explosion of fire.”

[Mark Savage · Rating 4 out of 5]

The author expertly brings to life the north shore of the Blackwater estuary and the flat, desolate landscape therein. His superbly constructed characters entice one in to their lives, such that on a few occasions when the story gets a little hard going and starts to drag, one reads on, desperate to know their fate.

The main protagonists are well created characters, although the brutish and sociopathic Elijah seems at once rough & base, yet simultaneously capable of great philosophical pronouncements. There is much I would like to comment on regarding Gloria, but to do so might spoil the story for other readers.