The Miscellaneous Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott (2024)

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The Miscellaneous Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott

Volume 18

THEMISCELLANEOUS PROSE WORKSOFSIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.VOL. XVIII.PERIODICAL CRITICISM.VOL. II.ROMANCE.EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND CO. , PAUL'S WORK.S OrmondPERIODICAL CRITICISM.BYSIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.VOL. II.ROMANCE.ROBERT CADELL, EDINBURGH;WHITTAKER AND CO. , LONDON,1835.

CONTENTSOF VOLUME EIGHTEENTH.III.ÁRTICLE I. AMADIS OF GAUL,II.-SOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID,IV. GODWIN'S FLEETWOOD,PAGE1... 44LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN, 74118V. CUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER, .. 138VI. -MATURIN'S FATAL Revenge, 157VII.- WOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE, ............ ...........VIII.-MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS,IX. -REMARKS ON FRANKENSTEIN,X.-NOVELS OF ERNEST THEODORE HOFF172... 209250MANN,XI.-THE OMen,XII-HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND,270333

157069SU 1 8 711Y.SC0818 CRITICISMONNOVELS AND ROMANCES.ARTICLE I.

AMADIS OF GAUL.

[Amadis de Gaul: By VASCO LOBEIRA. From the Spanish version of Garciordonez de Montalvo. By ROBERT SOUTHEY. And Amadis de Gaul: A poem, in ThreeBooks. Freely Translated from the French of NICOLAS· DE HERBERAY, by WILLIAM STEWART ROSE.- FromEdinburgh Review for Oct. 1803. ]THE fame of Amadis de Gaul has reached to thepresent day, and has indeed become almost provincial in most languages of Europe. But this distinction has been attained rather in a mortifyingmanner for the hero seems much less indebted forhis present renown to his historians, Lobeira, Montalvo, and Herberay, than to Cervantes, who selectVOL. XVIII. A2 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ed their labours, as one of the best known books ofchivalry, and therefore the most prominent objectfor his ridicule. In this case, as in many others,the renown of the victor has carried down to posterity the memory of the vanquished; and, excepting the few students of black letter, we believe noreader is acquainted with Amadis de Gaul, otherwise than as the prototype of Don Quixote de la Mancha. But the ancient knight seems now in afair way of being rescued from this degrading stateof notoriety, and of once more resuming a claim topublic notice upon his own proper merits; having,with singular good fortune, engaged in his causetwo such authors as Mr Southey and Mr Rose. Asthe subject of the two articles before us, is in factthe same, we shall adopt the prose version of MrSouthey, as forming the fullest text for the generalcommentaries which we have to offer; reservingtill the conclusion, the particular remarks whichoccur to us upon Mr Rose's poem.HeThe earliest copy of Amadis de Gaul, nowknown to exist, is the Spanish edition of GarciaOrdognez de Montalvo, which is used by Mr Southey in his translation. Montalvo professes, ingeneral terms, to have revised and corrected thiscelebrated work from the ancient authorities.is supposed principally to have used the version ofVasco de Lobeira, a Portuguese knight, who diedin the beginning of the 15th century. But a dispute has arisen, whether even Lobeira can justlyclaim the merit of being the original author of thisfamous and interesting romance. Nicolas de Her-AMADIS OF GAUL. 3

beray, who translated Montalvo's work into Frenchin 1575, asserts positively, that it was originallywritten in that language; and adds this remarkablepassage "J'en ay trouvé encores quelques rested'un vieil livre escrit à la main en langage Picard,sur lequel j'estime que les Espagnols ont fait leurtraduction, non pas de tout suyvant le vrai original,comme l'on pourra veoir par cesluy, car ilz en ontobmis en aucuns endroits et augmenté aux autres.”Mr Southey, however, setting totally aside the evidence of Herberay, as well as of Monsieur de Tressan, who also affirms the existence of a Picard original of Amadis, is decidedly of opinion, that Vascode Lobeira was the original author. It is with somehesitation that we venture to differ from Mr Southey, knowing, as we well know, that his acquaintance with the Portuguese literature entitles him toconsiderable deference in such an argument: yet,viewing the matter on the proofs he has produced,and considering also the general history and progress of romantic composition, we incline stronglyto think with Mr Rose, that the story of Amadis isoriginally of French extraction.The earliest tales of romance which are knownto us, are uniformly in verse; and this was verynatural; for they were in a great measure the composition of the minstrels, who gained their livelihood by chanting and reciting them. This is peculiarly true of the French minstrels, as appears fromthe well-known quotation of Du Cange from theRomance of Du Guesclin, where the champions of4 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.romantic fiction are enumerated as the subject oftheir lays." ROLLANSLes quatre fils HAIMON, et CHARLON li plus grans Li dus LIONS DE BOURGES, et GULON DE CONNANS PERCEVAL LI GALOIS, LANCELOT, et TRISTANS ALEXANDRE, ARTUS, GODEFROI li sachansDe quoy cils menestriers font les noble romans."There are but very few prose books of chivalryin the world, which are not either still extant, orare at least known to have existed originally in theform of metrical romances. The very name bywhich such compositions are distinguished, is derived from the romance or corrupted Latin employed by the minstrels, and long signified anyhistory or fable narrated in vulgar poetry. Itwould be almost endless to cite examples of thisproposition. The tales of Arthur and his RoundTable, byfar the most fertile source of the romancesof chivalry, are all known to have existed as metrical compositions long before the publication of theprose folios on the same subject. These poemsthe minstrels used to chant at solemn festivals; norwas it till the decay of that extraordinary profession that romances in prose were substituted for theirlays. The invention of printing hastened the declension of poetical romance. The sort of poetryemployed bythe minstrels, differed only from prosein being more easily retained by the memory; butwhen copies were readily and cheaply multipliedby means of the press, the exertion of recollectionbecame unnecessary.AMADIS OF GAUL. 5As early as the fifteenth century, numerous proseversions of the most celebrated romances were executed in France and England, which were printedin the course of the sixteenth. These works arenow become extremely rare. Mr Southey attributes this to their great popularity. But if theirpopularity lasted, as he supposes, till they wereworn out by repeated perusal, the printers wouldhave found their advantage in supplying the publicwith new editions. The truth is, that the editionsfirst published of these expensive folio romanceswere very small. Abridgements and extractsserved the purpose of the vulgar. Mean while,the taste of the great took another turn; and thebooks of chivalry disappeared, in consequence ofthe neglect and indifference of their owners. Morethan a century elapsed betwixt their being read foramusem*nt, and sought for as curiosities; and sucha lapse of time would render any work scarce,were the editions as numerous as those of the Pilgrim's Progress.To return to our subject-It appears highlyprobable to us, that Lobeira's prose Amadis waspreceded by a metrical romance, according to thegeneral progress which we observe in the historyof similar productions.Another general remark authorizes the same conclusion. It is well known that the romances ofthemiddle ages were not announced to the hearers asworks of mere imagination. On the contrary, theywere always affirmed by the narrators to be matterof historical fact; nor was this disputed by the6 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.simplicity of the audience. The gallant knightsand lovely dames, for whose delight these romances were composed and sung, were neither shockedby the incongruities of the work, nor the marvellous turn of the adventures. Some old tradition wasadopted for the subject of the tale; favourite andwell-known names were introduced. An air ofauthenticity was thus obtained; the prejudices ofthe audience conciliated; and the feudal baronbelieved as firmly in the exploits of Roland andOliver, as a sturdy Celt of our day in the equallysophisticated poems of Ossian.-Hence, the grandsources of romantic fiction have been traced to theBrut of Maister Wace, himself a translator ofGeoffrey of Monmouth, who put into form thetraditions of the bards of Wales and Armorica; tothe fabulous history of Turpin, from which sprungthe numerous romances of Charlemagne and histwelve Peers; and finally to the siege of Troy, asnarrated by Dares Phrygius, and to the exploits ofAlexander. Other and later heroes became alsothe subject of Romance. Such were William ofOrange, called Short-nose, Richard of Normandy,Ralph Blundeville, Earl of Chester, Richard Cœurde Lion, Robert the Bruce, Bertrand du Guesclin,&c. &c. The barons also, before whom these taleswere recited, were often flattered by a fabulousgenealogy which deduced their pedigree from somehero of the story. Apeer of England, the Earl ofOxford, if we recollect aright, conceited himself tobe descended of the doughty Knight of the Swan;and, what is somewhat to our present purpose,AMADIS OF GAUL. 7the French family of Bonneau deduce their pedigree from Dariolette, the complaisant confidant ofElisene, mother to Amadis.-See Mr Rose'swork,p. 52.A Portuguese minstrel would therefore haveerred grossly in choosing for his subject a palpableand absolute fiction, in which he could derive nofavour from the partialities and preconceived opinions of those whose applause he was ambitious togain. But if we suppose Amadis to have been theexclusive composition of Lobeira, we must supposehim to have invented a story, not only altogetherunconnected with the history of his own country,but identified with the real or fabulous history ofFrance, which was then the ally of Castile, and themortal foe of Portugal. The difficulty is at onceremoved, if we allow that author to have adoptedfrom the French minstrels a tale of their country,founded probably upon some ancient and vaguetradition, in the same manner as they themselveshad borrowed from the British bards, and Geoffreyof Monmouth, their translator, the slender foundation upon which they erected the voluminous andsplendid history of Arthur, and the doughty chivalry of his Round Table. This is the moreprobable, as we actually find Amadis enumeratedamong other heroes of French Romance mentionedin an ancient collection of stories, called CursorMundi, translated from the French into Englishmetre."Menlykyn jestis for to here,And Romans rede in diverse manere,8 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Of Alexandre the conquerour;Of Julius Cæsar the emperour;Of Greece and Troy the strong stryfe;There many a man lost his lyf;Of Brut, that baron bold of hond,The first conquerour of Englond;Of Kyng' Artour, that was so ryche,Was non in his tyme so ilyche;Of wonders that among his knights fell,And auntyrs deden as men her telle:As Gaweyn and othir full abylle,Which that kept the round tabyll;Hou King Charles and Rowland fawghte With Sarazins nold thei be cawght;Of Tristram and Ysoude the swete,Hou thei with love first gan mete;Of King John and of Isenbras;Of Ydoine and Amadas."WARTON'S History ofPoetry.If the hero last mentioned be really Amadis deGaul, the question as to the existence of a Frenchor Picard history of his exploits, is fairly put torest. For, not to mention that the date of thepoem above quoted is at least coeval with Vascode Lobeira, it is admitted, that no French translation of the Portuguese work was made till that ofHerberay in 1575; and, consequently, the authorof the Cursor Mundi must have alluded to aFrench original, altogether independent of Lobeira's work.Mr Southey himself, with the laudable impartiality of an editor more attached to truth thansystem, has produced the evidence of one Portuguese author, who says that Pedro de Lobeiratranslated the history of Amadis de Gaul from theFrench language, at the instance of the Infant DonAMADIS OF GAUL. 9Pedro. Agiologio Lusitano, tom i . p. 480.- Now,although this author has made a mistake, in callingLobeira, Pedro, instead of Vasco, yet his authorityat least proves that there existed, even in Portugal,some tradition that Amadis had originally beencomposed in French, although the authors of thatcountry have, with natural partiality, endeavouredto vindicate Lobeira's title to the fame of an original author.¹ One singular circ*mstance tends tocorroborate what is stated in the Agiologio. It iscertain that the work was executed under theinspection of an Infant of Portugal; for Montalvoexpressly states, that at the instance of this highpersonage, an alteration, of a very peculiar nature,was made in the story. The passage, which iscurious in more respects than one, is thus renderedby Mr Southey." At the end of the 41st chapter, it is said that Briolaniawould have given herself and her kingdom to Amadis; but he told her, right loyally, how he was another's. In the Spanishversion, ff. 72, this passage follows-" But though the InfanteDon Alfonso of Portugal, having pity upon this fair damsel,ordered it to be set down after another manner, that was whatwas his good pleasure, and not what actually was written oftheirloves; and they relate that history of these loves thus, though,with more reason, faith is to be given to what we before said: -Briolania, being restored to her kingdom, and enjoying the company of Amadis and Agrayes, persisted in her love; and, seeing no way whereby she could accomplish her mortal desires, she spake very secretly with the damsel, to whom Amadis, andGalaor, and Agrayes, had each promised a boon, if she would1 The evidence of Nicola Antonia, in the Vetus Hispana Bibliotheca,is, as remarked by Mr Rose, extremely inconclusive. He adds ut fama estto his affirmation that Lobeira was the original author of Amadis, and quotes the equally cautious expression of Antonius Au- gustinus-" Quarum fabularum primum fuisse auctorem Vascum Lo- beiram Lusitani jactant. ” —Amadis de Gaule, a Poem. Introd. p. vi.10 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES..guide Don Galaor where he might find the Knight of the Forest.This damsel was now returned, and to her she disclosed hermind, and besought her, with many tears, to advise some remedyfor that strong passion. The damsel then, in pity to her lady,demanded, as the performance of his promise, from Amadis,that he should not go out of a certain tower till he had a son or a daughter by Briolania; and they say, that, upon this, Amadis went into the tower, because he would not break his word; andthere, because he would not consent to Briolania's desires, heremained, losing both his appetite and his sleep, till his life was in great danger. This being known in the court of King Lisuarte, his Lady Oriana, that she might not lose him, sent and commanded him to grant the damsel's desire; and he having this command, and considering that by no other means could he re- cover his liberty, or keep his word, took that fair Queen for hisleman, and had by her a son and a daughter at one birth. Butit was not so, unless Briolania, seeing how Amadis was drawingnigh to death in the tower, told the damsel to release him of his promise, if he would only remain till Don Galaor was arrived;doing thus, that she might so long enjoy the sight of the fair and famous knight, whom, when she did not behold, she thought herself in great darkness. This carries with it more reason why it should be believed; because this fair Queen was afterwards married to Don Galaor, as the fourth book relates. "—Introd. p. vii.It seems to us clear, from this singular passage,that the work upon which Lobeira was busied, underthe auspices of the Infant Don Alfonso, or whatInfant soever was his patron, must necessarily havebeen a translation, more or less free, from someancient authority. If Amadis was the mere creature of Lobeira's fancy the author might no doubtbe unwilling, in compliance with the whimsicalcompassion of his patron for the fair Briolania, toviolate the image of ideal perfection pictured in hishero, to which fidelity was so necessary an attribute;but he could in no sense be said to interpolate whatactually was written, unless he derived his storyAMADIS OF GAUL. 11from some authority, independent of the resourcesof his own imagination.We do not think it necessary to enter into thequestion, how far the good taste and high spiritdisplayed in this romance, entitle us to ascribe itexclusively to the French. The modest assurancewith which Monsieur de Tressan advances the claimof his nation upon this ground, is, as Mr Southeyhas justly observed, a truly French argument. Wehave not, however, that very high opinion of thePortuguese character, about the conclusion of thefourteenth century, which has been adopted by MrSouthey. Werecollect that the " good and loyalPortuguese, who fought at Aljubarrota for KingJoam of good memory," were indebted for thatvictory to Northberry and Hartfell, the Englishmercenaries, who arranged their host in so stronga position; to the headlong impetuosity of theGascon, Berneze, and French adventurers, whocomposed the van of the Spanish army; and to thejealousy or cowardice ofthe Castilians, who refusedto support their auxiliaries; so that little of thefame of that memorable day can in truth be imputed to the courage of the Portuguese. At thattime, indeed, Castile and Portugal were rather thestages whereon foreigners exercised their couragein prize-fighting, than theatres for the display ofnational valour. Edward the Black Prince, JohnofGaunt, John Chandos, and Sir Edward Knowles,fought in those countries, against Bertram of Clesquy and the flower of French chivalry; but wehear little of the prowess of the inhabitants them-12 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.selves. Such an insolent superiority was exercisedby the English and Gascons, who came to the assistance of the King of Portugal, that, upon occasion ofsome discontent, they erected the pennon of StGeorge as a signal of revolt; elected Sir JohnSoltier, a natural son of the Black Prince, to betheir captain; and proclaimed themselves, friendsto God, and enemies to all the world; nor had theking any other mode of saving his country frompillage, than by complying with their demands.Indeed, it is more than probable, that both Portugaland Spain would have fallen under the dominionof England, if the port wine, which now agrees sowell with the constitution of our southern brethren,had been equally congenial to that of their martialancestors: " but the Englyshmen founde the wynesthere so strong, hot and brinning, that it corruptedtheir heads, and dried their bowelles, and brentetheir lightes and lyvers; and they had no remedy;for they could fynde but lytill good water to tempretheir wynes, nor to refresh them; which was contrary to their natures; for Englyshmen, in theirown countries, are sweetly nourished; and therethey were brent both within and without" [Froissart] . To such circ*mstances was Portugal occasionally indebted to safety, at the hands of her toodangerous allies. It seems to us more than probable, that, during these wars, the French or Picardoriginal of Amadis was acquired by Lobeira fromsome minstrel, attendant upon the numerous Bretonand Gascon knights who followed the banners ofthe Earl of Cambridge, or the Duke of Lancaster;AMADIS OF GAUL. 13for to Brittany or Acquitaine we conceive theoriginal ought to be referred.But while we cannot believe, against the concurring testimony of Herberay and Tressan, as wellas against the usual progress of romantic composition, that Amadis de Gaul is, from beginning toend, the invention of Lobeira; yet, we conceiveenough may safely be ascribed to him, to warrantthe praises bestowed on him by Mr Southey, andperhaps to entitle him to the name of an originalauthor. We do not indeed know the precise natureof Lobeira's work, nor what additions have beenmade to it by Montalvo; but it is easy to conceivethat it must have been something very differentfrom the Picard original. In making some remarkson the style and structure of Amadis, we shall endeavour to contrast them with those of the earlierromance.The metrical romances differed in many mostmaterial particulars from the prose romances bywhich they were superseded. The former partookof the character of the rhapsodists, by whom theywere usually composed, and always sung.It wasvain to expect from the ignorant minstrels, or thosewho wrote for them, a well- connected history; nor,ifthey had been capable of such a refined composition, could its beauties have been relished by theiraudience, to whom they had seldom time to sing above one or two of the adventures contained in along romance. Their narration was therefore ram- bling and desultory. One adventure followedanother, without much visible connexion; the only14 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.object of the author being, to produce such detachedpieces as might interest during the time of recitation, without any regard to the unity of the composition. Thus, in many cases, the only connexionseems to arise from the same hero figuring in allthe adventures, which are otherwise as much detached from each other, as the scenes in the box ofa showman. But when a book was substituted forthe minstrel's song, when the adventures of a preuxchevalier were no longer listened to by starts, amidthe roar of convivial festivity, but furnished theamusem*nt of the closet, and that in so permanenta shape, that the student might turn back to resumethe connexions which had escaped him; it becamethe study of the author to give a greater appearance of uniformity to his work. As an arrangement, in which all the incidents should seem toconduce to one general end, must soon have becomea merit with the reader; it became, necessarily, tothe author, a worthy object of attainment. Hence,in the best of our prose romances, and particularlyin Amadis de Gaul, a combined and regular progress ofthe story may be discovered; whereas themetrical romances present, with a few exceptions,a suite of unconnected adventures, often strikingand splendid indeed in themselves, but appearingrather an assemblage of loose materials for a history, than a history itself. But the advantage, thusgained by the prose romances, was often lost, bycarrying too far the principle on which it wasgrounded. Having once regularly completed astory, good taste and judgment required them toAMADIS OF GAUL. 15stop, and choose for their future labours some subjectunconnected with what was already perfect. Butthis was not the genius of the age. When theyhad secured an interesting set of characters, theauthors could not resist the temptation of bringingthem again upon the stage; and hence, the endlesscontinuations with which Amadis and the otherromances of that class, were saddled, and of whichMr Southey complains with so much justice. Onlyfour books of Amadis are genuine. The remaining twenty are an interpolation, containing thehistory of his descendants, in all respects greatlyinferior to the original.In another point of view, it appears to us notquite clear that the prose romancers obtained anysuperiority over their poetical predecessors. Therude poetry of the minstrels was no doubt frequently rambling and diffusive; partaking, in short,of those faults which naturally attach to unpremeditated composition; but we doubt greatly,whether the studied and affected ornaments of theprose romance are not more tedious and intolerablethan the rhapsodies of the minstrels. Mr Southey,in his translation of Amadis, has, with due attention to modern taste, shortened the long speechesof the lovers, and simplified many of their highflown compliments. On the other hand, the custom of interweaving the history with little descriptive sketches, which, in many instances, were verybeautiful, was dropt by the prose narrators, as anunnecessary interruption to the continuation of thestory. We allude to such passages as the follow-16 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ing, which are introductions to the Fyttes of theunpublished romance of Merlin. The ancient orthography is altered, for the sake of modern readers." In time of winter along it is The fowls lesen their bliss ,The leaves fallen offthe tree,Rain rusheth along the countrey;Maidens lose their lovely hew,But still they loven that be true.In May is merry time swithe,Fowls in wood they make them blithe,Swains ' gin on justing ride,Maidens dressen them with pride.Merry it is in the month of June,When fennel hangeth abroad in town;Violet and roses flower Groweth then on maidens bower;The sun is hot, the day is long;The small birds maketh merry song. "

• Tedious.

Of such passages, which serve to relieve theheaviness of the perpetually recurring fight andtournament, the prose romance affords us no example. The ornaments which it presents are thoseof studied description , every word of which islaboured, as applicable to the precise scene whichis described, without expressing or exciting anygeneral sensibility of the beauties of nature. Wemay take, as no unfavourable instance, the accountof the tower and gardens constructed by Apollidonin the Firm Island." In that tower were nine apartments, three on a floor; and though some part was the work of skilful artists, the rest waswrought by the skill and science of Apollidon himself, so wonderously, that no man in the world could rightly value, nor evenAMADIS OF GAUL 17understand its exceeding rarity. And because it would be long to describe it all at length, I shall only say, that the tower stoodin the midst of a garden, surrounded with a wall of goodly stone and mortar; and the garden was the goodliest that might be seen,by reason of its trees and herbs, and fountains of sweet water.Of those trees, many were hung with fruit the whole year through, and others bore flowers; and round about the gardenby the walls, were covered walks, with golden trellis - work,through which might all that pleasant greenness be seen. Theground was covered with stones, some clear as the crystal, others coloured like rubies and other precious stones, the which Apollidon had procured from certain islands in the East, where jewels,gold, and other rare things are produced, by reason of the great heat of the sun continually acting. These islands are uninhabited,save only by wild- beasts; and, for fear of those beasts, no man durst ever set foot thereon, till Apollidon, by his cunning,wrought such spells , that it became safe to enter there; and thenthe neighbouring people, being assured of this, took advantage thereof, and ventured there also; and thus the world becamestocked with sundry things which it had never before known.To the four sides of the tower, water was brought from the neighbouring mountains by metal pipes, and collected into four fountains; and the water spouted so high from the golden pillars, and through the mouths of animals, that it was easy to reach it from the windows of the first story; for it was caught in golden basonswrought on the pillars; and by those fountains was the wholegarden watered. "—Amadis, vol. iv. p. 13.From comparing the slight, extemporary, andnatural landscape- sketches of the ancient minstrel,with the laboured and minute picture of Lobeiraor Montalvo, the reader may derive some idea ofthe marked difference between the style of themore ancient tales of chivalry, and those by whichthey were succeeded. The description of the minstrel appears almost as involuntary as it is picturesque, and is enlivened by the introduction ofthe birds, the dames, and the gallant knights. Theprose author seems to have sat down to describeVOL. XVIII. B18 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Apollidon's tower, his water-pipes, Kensingtongravel walks, and Dutch trellis, with a sort of maliceprepense against his reader's patience; and hisaccount exactly resembles the plan and elevationof a capability-man or architect. The followingcontrast regards a scene of a more animated nature,and, ofall others, that which occurs most frequentlyin romance." Alexander made a cry hardi,' Ore tost, aby, aby. 'Then the knights of AchayeJusted with them of Arabye;Egypt justed with them of Tyre,Simple knights with rich syre.There ne was forgift, ne forbearing,Between Vavasour or King.Before men mighten and behind,Contest seek, and contest find.With Persians fought the Gregois;There was cry, and great hontois;There might men find his peer;There lose many his destrier; *There was quicke in little thrawe;Many gentil knight y- slawe;Many arm, many heavod,Sone from the body reaved;Many gentle ladyeThere lost quickly her ami;

• War-horse.

There was many y- maimed:Many fair pensill bebledde:There were swords liklaking; *There were speres in blood bathing:Both Kings there, sans doute,Y-dashed in with all their route;Many lands, both near and far,Lost their Lords in this war.Earth quaked of their riding;

• Clashing.

The weather thicken'd of their crying;The blood of them that were y- slawe,Ran by floods to the lawe."AMADIS OF GAUL. 19In this description, as in the former, may betraced the spirit of the poet, warming as he advanced in narration; from the encountering of thehosts, when war, like death, levelled all distinctionbetwixt the vassal and monarch, to the fall of theloves ofladies and the lords of domain, to the bloodybanners, clashing swords and gory lances, until theground shook under the charge of the combatants,the air was darkened at their shouts, and the bloodof the dying poured like torrents into the valley.The following is the description of the grand battlebetwixt Lisuarte and Aravigo, in which the timelyassistance of Amadis, with his father, gave thevictory to the father of Oriana: -" Presently ( King Lisuarte) went down the side of the mountain into the plain; and as it was now upon that hour when the sun was rising, it shone upon their arms; and they appeared so welldisposed, that their enemies, who had before held them as nothing, now thought of them otherwise. In this array, which you have heard, they moved slowly over the field one against the other." Atthis season, King Perion, with his sons Amadis and Flo- restan, entered the plain upon their goodly steeds, and with their arms of the Serpents, which shone brightly in the sun; and they rode on to place themselves between the two armies, brandishing their spears, whose points were so polished and clear that they glittered like stars; and the father went between his sons. Muchwere they admired by both parts, and each would willingly have had them on his side; but no one knew whom they came to aid,nor who they were. They, seeing that the hoste of Brian ofMonjuste was about to join battle, put spurs to their horses, and rode up near to his banner; then set themselves against King Targadan, who came against him. Glad was Don Brian of theirhelp, though he knew them not; but they, when they saw that it was time, rode to attack the host of King Targadan so fiercely that all were astonished. In that encounter, King Perion struck that otherKing so hardily, that a part of the spear soon entered20 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.his breast, and he fell . Amadis smote Abdasian the Fierce, sothat armour nothing profited him, but the lance passed through from side to side, and he fell like a dead man. Don Florestandrove Carduel, saddle and man, under the horse's feet; thesethree being the bravest of that battalion that had come forwardsto combat the Knights of the Serpents. Then laid they hand to sword, and passed through the first squadron, felling all beforethem, and charged the second; and when they were thus between both, there was to be seen what marvellous feats of prowess theywrought with their swords; such, that none did like them on either side; and they had now under their horses more than ten knights whom they had smitten down. But when their enemiessaw that they were no more than three, they charged them on all sides , laying on such heavy blows that the aid of Don Brian wasfull needful, who came up with his Spaniards, a brave people and well horsed, and rode among the enemy, slaying and felling them,though his own men fell also; so that the Knights of the Serpents were succoured, and the enemy so handled, that they per- force gave back upon the third battalion. Then there was a greatpress, and a great danger for all, and many knights died upon either side; but what King Perion and his sons did there cannotbe expressed. Such was the uproar and confusion, that KingAravigo feared lest his own men, who had given ground, shouldmake the others fly; and he called aloud to Arcalaus, to advance with all the battalions, and attack in one body. This presently he did, and King Aravigo with him; but without delay KingLisuarte did the same; so that the whole battle was now joined:and such was the clang of strokes, and the cry and noise of horsem*n, that the earth trembled, and the valleys rung again. "-Vol. iii. p. 90.In this last quotation, as in the former, the inferiority of Lobeira is sufficiently manifest; thoughhis description is by no means void of spirit. Itcannot be alleged that this is owing to the poetry;for no modern will attribute much to the force ofthe minstrel's numbers; and the author of Amadisis far from disclaiming the use of poetical ornament.The difference arises from the disposition to specification, and to exchange general effect for minuteAMADIS OF GAUL. 21description, which we have already remarked as anattribute of the prose romance.The most curious part, however, of this curioussubject, respects the change in manners whichappears to have taken place about the middle ofthe 14th century, when what we now call theSpirit of Chivalry seems to have shone forth withthe most brilliant lustre. In the older romances,we look in vain for the delicacy which, accordingto Burke, robbed vice of half its evil, by deprivingit of all its grossness. The tales of the oldermetrical romancers, founded frequently on fact,and always narrated in a coarse and downrightstyle, excite feelings sometimes ludicrous, and oftendisgusting; and in fact can only be excelled bytheunparalleled fabliaux published by Barbazan, whichalthough professedly written to be recited to nobleknights and dames, exhibit a nakedness, not onlyin the description, but in the turn of the story,which would now banish them even from a bagnio,unless of the very lowest order. The ladies inmetrical romances, not only make the first advanceson all occasions, but with a degree of vivacity,copied it would seem from the worthy spouse ofPotiphar. For example, a certain knight calledSir Amis, having declined the proffered favours ofthe Lady Belisaunt, pleading his allegiance to hisliege lord, receives from her the following sentimental rebuke:" That merry maiden of great renown Answered, Sir Knight, thou has no crown- ¹1 Art not shaved like a monk.22 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.For God that bought thee dear,Whether art thou priest or parson,Other art thou monk, other canon,That preachest me thus here?" Thou never shouldst have been a knight,To go amongst maidens bright;Thou shouldst have been a frere:He that learned thee thus to preach,The devil of hell I him biteche,My brother though he were.999Amis & Amelion.As the damsels were urgent in their demands,the knights of these more early ages were oftenbrutally obstinate in their refusal; and instead ofthe gentle denial which the love-sick Briolaniareceived from the courteous Amadis, they weretoo apt to exclaim like Bevis of Hamton, wheninvited to a rendezvous by the fair Josiana, a Saracen princess-·" Forth the knights go can;To Bevis' chamber they came anon,And prayed as he was gentleman,Come speak with Josian.Bevis stoutly in this stoundHaf up his head from the ground ·And said, ' If ye ne were messagers,I should ye slay, ye lossengers;I ne will rise one foot fro ' groundeFor to speak with an heathen hounde;She is a hound, also be ye,Out of my chamber swith ye flee.' "All this coarseness, in word and deed, waseffectually banished from the romances of chivalrywhich were composed subsequent to 1350. Sentiment had begun to enter into these fictions, notAMADIS OF GAUL. 23casually, or from the peculiar delicacy of an individual author, but as a necessary qualification of theheroes and heroines whose loves occupied theirponderous folios .Of this refinement we find many instances inAmadis. Balays of Corsante being repulsed bya damsel, explains his sentiments upon suchpoints.

"My good lady," Balays answered, " think no more of what I said it becomes knights to serve damsels, and to woo their love, and becomes them to deny, as you have done; and albeit,at the first, we think it much to obtain of them what we desire,yet when wisely and discreetly they resist our inordinate appetites,keeping that without which they are worthy of no praise, they be even of ourselves more reverenced and commended. "Notwithstanding this favourable alteration intheir tone, the reader is not to understand that themorality of these writings was in fact very materially amended; for at no period was the age ofchivalry distinguished for female virtue. Thosewho have supposed the contrary, have neveropened a romance written before the tomes ofCalprenede, and Scudery, and judge of QueenGuenever, Iscult, and Oriana, by what they findthere recorded of Mandane and Cassandra. Butthe genuine prose romances of chivalry, althoughless gross in language and circ*mstance, contain aslittle matter for edification as the tales of theminstrels, to which they succeeded. Lancelot duLac is the adulterous lover of Guenever, the wifeof his friend and sovereign; and Tristram deLionel the incestuous seducer of his uncle's spouse,as well in the prose folios of Rusticien de Puise,་24 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.and the Knight of the Castle of Gast, as in therhimes of Chretien de Troyes and Thomas ofErceldoune. Nor did the tales of a more moderndate turn upon circ*mstances more correct: witnessthe history of the Petit Iehan de Saintré, andmany others. Of Amadis, in particular, MrSouthey has observed, that " all the first- bornchildren are illegitimate," because " the hero mustbe every way irresistible." The same observationapplies to most romances of chivalry; so that onewould be tempted to suppose that the damsels ofthose days, doomed frequently to wander throughlonely woods infested by robbers, giants, and caitiffsofevery description, were so far from trusting, likethe lady in Comus, to the magic power of truevirginity, that they hastened to confer upon somefaithful knight a treasure so very precarious, whileit was yet their own to bestow. But the modernman of gallantry will be surprised to hear, that thisby no means diminished either the zeal or duty ofthe lover, who had thus attained the summit of hishopes. On the contrary, unless in the case ofhere and there a Don Galaor, who is always paintedas a subaltern character, a preux chevalier wasbound, not only to maintain the honour of the ladythus deposited in his custody, but to observetowards her the fidelity and respect of religiousobservance.¹ Every one knows how long SirLancelot had enjoyed the favours of Queen Guen1 The Cicesbei of Italy derive their order from the days of chivalry. The reader is referred to the Mémoires de Grammont for an account of the duties expected from them.AMADIS OF GAUL. 25ever; and yet that scrupulous knight went distracted, and remained so till he was healed by theSang-real, merely because by enchantment he wasbrought to the bed of the lovely Dame Elaine.As for Amadis, the bare suspicion which Orianaconceived of his infidelity, occasioned his doingpenance on the Poor Rock in a manner unequalled,unless by the desolate knight who averred himselfto have retired to a cavern, where he " used forhis bed mosse, for his candle mosse, for his covering mosse, and, unless now and then a few coals,mosse for his meat; a dry food, God wot, and afresh; but so moistened with wet tears, and sosalte, that it was hard to conjecture whether it wasbetter to feed or fast." 1In short, the love of the knights-errant was liketheir laws of honour, altogether beyond the common strain of feeling, as well as incapable of beingmeasured bythe standard of religion and morality.Their rules of honour have in some degree survived the fate of their order; and we have yetfatal instances of bloodshed for " a word of reproach," a " bratchet hound," or such other causesof duel as figure in the tales of the Table Round.But the love which was not only fostered, butimposed as a solemn duty by the laws of chivalry,is now only to be traced in such a romance as is before us. It subsisted, as we have seen, independent of maidenly chastity and conjugal fidelity;and its source perhaps may be traced to a remote1 Progresses of Queen Elizabeth, vol. ii. P. 136.26 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.period of antiquity. Tacitus has noticed the respectin which women were held among the Germantribes. The ladies of Britain were indulged withthe privilege of a plurality of husbands; and thoseof Scandinavia, although they were limited to one,might divorce him at their pleasure. This sort ofsupremacy, the ladies appear at all times to haveexercised over the descendants of the Northerntribes. It is true, as already mentioned, thehomage paid their charms by the earlier heroes ofchivalry, was interrupted and sullied by the roughness oftheir manners and expressions. To reversethe complaint of the Knight of the Burning Pestle,66 one whom Amadis had styled courteous damsel,Bevis would have called heathen hound; " but theduty of obeying the hests, and fighting for thehonour of a lady, was indispensable even amongthe earliest and rudest sons of chivalry. In thecourse of the fourteenth century, this was sublimated and refined to the most extravagant degree;so that the secret, inviolable, and romantic attachment of Amadis to Oriana might be easily paralleled by similar passages from real history. Eventhe zeal of devotion gave way to this all devouring¹ A curious instance may be found in Eyrbiggia- Saga. Thor- disa, the wife of Borko, an Icelandic chief, attempted to stab one Eyulf Grae, the friend and guest of her husband. Borko interfering, administered to his wife some domestic chastisem*nt. But mark the consequence. " When Borko departed from Helgafels ,Thordisa, standing before the door of the house, called witnessesto bear testimony that she divorced her husband Borko; assign- ing for a cause, that he had struck her, and that she would nolonger submit to such injuries. Thereupon the household goods were divided betwixt them. "-[ See ante, vol. v. pp . 363-5 . ]AMADIS OF GAUL. 27sentiment; and very religious indeed must theknight have been, who had, as was predicted ofEsplandian, God upon his right hand, and his ladyupon his left.We cannot leave this part of our subject, withoutbestowing our warm commendations on Mr Southey,for disdaining to follow Tressan and Herberay, inthe impure descriptions and obscenities which theyhave much oftener introduced, than found, in theSpanish original. Tressan in particular, whosetalents and taste made it totally inexcusable, dwellswith infinitely higher gust upon the gallantries ofDon Galaor, than upon the love of Amadis; anddescribes them with that vicious and perverted loveofobscenity, which Mr Southey so justly reprobates,as " peculiarly and characteristically the disgrace ofFrench Literature." May a practice, so ominousto the morals and manly virtue of our nation, longbe a stranger to the writings of those who professto afford to Britons information or pleasure!The manners described in Amadis de Gaul are,in other respects, strictly feudal and chivalrous.The points ofright and honour which are discussed;the rules of combat and of truce; the high and rigidadherence to knightly faith, are all features of thefourteenth and fifteenth centuries. What mayappear to the modern reader, one ofthe most strained instances of the latter, is the conduct of KingLisuarte in the fourth book, to whom an old manpresents a crown and mantle, under the condition,that he shall restore them at his cour plenière, orgrant the suppliant a boon in their stead. On the-28 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.appointed day, the crown and mantle having beenconveyed out of Lisuarte's custody by enchantment, the boon demanded by the stranger in lieuis, that Oriana, the daughter of Lisuarte, should bedelivered up to him." Lisuarte exclaimed, Ah, knight, thou hast asked a great thing; ' and all who were present were greatly grieved. But theKing, who was the most loyal man in the world, bade them not trouble themselves. It is better, ' said he, to lose my daughterthan to break my word; the one evil afflicts few, the other would injure all; for how would the people keep faith with one anotherif they could not depend upon the King's truth?' And he com- manded his daughter to be brought. When the queen and herladies heard that, they made the most sorrowful outcry that ever was heard; but the king ordered them to their chambers, and heforbade all his people to lament on pain oflosing his favour. My daughter,' cried he, ' must fare as God hath appointed, but my word shall never be wilfully broken. 'Instances of a similar rigid adherence to knightly faith can be produced from real history. TheDuke of Gueldres being on a journey throughPrussia, was laid in wait for, and made prisoner,by certain banditti, or adventurers, commanded bya squire, named Arnold. When the Grand- Masterof the Teutonic Order heard what had happened,he marched against the castle where the duke wasconfined, with so strong a force, that Arnold durstnot abide his coming. Hereupon he said to hisprisoner, " Sir duke, ye are my prisoner, and I amyour master. Ye are a gentleman and true knight;ye have sworn, and given me your faith. I thinknot to abide the master of Pruce; he cometh hitherwith a great force. Tarry here if you list, I willcarry with me your faith and promise." To thisAMADIS OF GAUL. 29he added the name of the place to which he retreated, and so left the duke at liberty. The duke waited the arrival of the grand-master; but was so farfrom considering it as absolving him from his captivity, that no entreaties nor representations couldstay him from acquitting his faith, by again puttinghimself into the hands of Arnold; with whom heremained a prisoner, till he was ransomed by hisfriends.The quarrel betwixt King Lisuarte and Amaḍis,because he would not bestow upon Galvanes thehand of his captive Madasima, and the dominion ofthe island which she inherited, and which he hadconquered; the manner in which Amadis and hiskindred renounce the service of Lisuarte; the mutual defiances which are formally exchanged betwixtthem; are all in the high tone of feudal solemnity,and are well worthy the attention of those who investigate the customs of the middle ages. Thereader may compare the mode in which thesedefiances were received, with the deportment of theBlack Prince, when he was served with a writ ofsummons to attend the Parliament at Paris:" When the prince had read this letter, he had great marvel,and shook his head, and beheld fiercely the Frenchmen; and when he had a little studied he answered in this manner: 6 Sirs,we will gladly go to Paris to our uncle sith he hath sent thus forus; but I assure you, that it shall be with bassnet on our head,and sixty thousand men in our company. " "-FROISSART.We have dwelt the more fully upon the mannersof this romance, because they correspond exactlywith those of the period in which it was written.In the romances which were composed during the30 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.declension of chivalry, the writers no longer paintedfrom the life. The manners which they describedwere as fictitious as the adventures which they narrated; and the reader may look for such historicalresemblances as we have noticed with as little success, as if he were to consult a map for the situationof Taprobana, or the Firm Island .We have already observed, that the story ofAmadis is constructed with singular ingenuity.The unvaried recurrence of the combat with thelance and the sword is indeed apt to try the patienceof the modern reader; although the translator'scompassion has spared them some details, and" consolidated," as he rather quaintly says, 66 manyof those single blows which have no reference toarmorial anatomy." But, in defiance of the similarity of combat and adventure, the march of thestory engages our attention; and the successiveevents are well managed to support each other,and to bring on the final catastrophe. It is not ourintention to give a detailed account of the story,but the following sketch may excite rather thanforestall the curiosity of the reader.Perion, King of Gaul, the guest of Garinter,King of Brittany, becomes enamoured of the fairElisene, daughter of that monarch, obtains a private interview, and departs to his own kingdom.The princess becomes pregnant, and, to hide herdisgrace, the child, afterwards the famous Amadis,is placed in a cradle, and launched into the sea. Heis found by a knight of Scotland, and carried tothat kingdom, where he is educated as the son ofAMADIS OF GAUL. 31+his preserver. Mean while, Perion marries Elisene,and they have a second son, called Galaor, who iscarried off by a giant, and brought up to feats ofarms and chivalry . Amadis, in the interim, isbrought by his foster- father to the court of Scotland, where he meets Oriana, daughter of Lisuarte,King of Britain. To her he becomes warmly attached, and, when knighted, prevails on her toreceive him as her cavalier. Thus animated, he setsforth on his military career, to assist Perion of Gaul,who is only known to him as the ally of the Scottish monarch, against Abyes, King of Ireland, whohad besieged Perion in his capital. But no knighterrant ever attains the direct place of his destination, when he happens to have one, without someby-battles. Several of these fall to Amadis's lot;and he is involved in many dangers, through whichhe is protected by the friendship of Urganda theUnknown, a mighty enchantress, the professedpatroness of his house. Arriving at length at thecapital of Gaul, he terminates the war, by the defeatand death of Abyes, whom he slays in single combat. After this exploit, by means of tokens whichhad been placed in his cradle, he is recognised andacknowledged as the son of Perion and Elisene.Bythis time Gandalac, the tutor of Galaor, conceived him to be ready to execute the purpose forwhich he had carried him off; namely, to maintaina battle on his account, against a brother giant whohad injured him. Galaor having previously receivedthe order of knighthood from his brother Amadis,though without knowing him, undertakes the com-32 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Abat, which terminates like all combats betweengiants and knights. Amadis, mean while, repairsto the court of Lisuarte, father of Oriana, and distinguishes himself by feats of chivalry, subduing allcompetitors by his courage, and attaching them tohis person by his valour and liberality. Galaor runsa similar career, with this advantage over his brother, that he seldom fails to be repaid for his labours,by the distressed damozels whom he fortunes torelieve. At length Amadis, at the instigation of acertain dwarf, enters the castle of Arcalaus, whosecaptives he releases, and whom he defeats in singlecombat. Here, nevertheless, he is made prisonerby enchantment, and is in great peril, until releasedby the counter spells of his friend Urganda. Theconjuror was, however, not to be provoked withimpunity he contrives, by a trick already noticed,to get into his possession the lovely Oriana; and,by another device, had wellnigh slain her fatherLisuarte, who was fortunately relieved by Galaor.An insurrection, fomented by Arcalaus, is alsoquelled, and Oriana is rescued from the enchanter,by the irresistible arm of Amadis. His faithful services are rewarded by possession of his mistress;and thus closes the first book of Amadis. Amongother distressed princesses relieved by Amadis,chanced to be the lovely queen Briolania,' who¹ Although Cervantes states the dispute which occurred betwixt Don Quixote and Cardenio, in the Sierra Morena, to have respected the character of Queen Madasima; yet the person meant must have been this Queen Briolania. For Helisabad the surgeon,the person who gave the scandal, was the servant and attendantAMADIS OF GAUL. 33became desperately enamoured of her deliverer(being the same, indeed, whose hopeless passionexcited the compassion of the Prince of Portugal).Oriana, from an inaccurate account of this affair,becomes jealous, and despatches a severe and cruelmessage to Amadis. This reaches him, just as hehad accomplished a notable adventure in the FirmIsland, by entering an enchanted chamber, whichcould only be entered by the truest lover who livedupon earth. The message of Oriana drives him todistraction; he forswears arms, and becomes thecompanion ofthe hermit on the Poor Rock, wherehe does penance, till he is near death's door. Theplace of his residence at length comes to Oriana'sknowledge, who, sensible of her injustice, recallshim to her presence, and of course to health andhappiness. His return to the island of Windsor,where Lisuarte kept his court, is of the utmost importance to that prince, who reaps the advantage ofhis assistance, in a direful contest with Cildadan ofIreland, assisted by certain sons of Anak, whosenames it would take us too much time to write,since few of them are under six syllables in length.of Briolania, not of Madasima. Besides, the character of thelatter was untainted (the story of her having twins by Amadisbeing altogether apocryphal); whereas even the knight of La Mancha could not have vouched for the chastity of Madasima,who was one of the numerous mistresses of Don Galaor, and otherwise a lady of light conditions. Don Galvanes is supposedto have married her only for her fortune, and had thereforethe greater right to resent Lisuarte's attempt to deprive him of it. If this be not an accidental mistake of Cervantes, he referred to some history of Amadis, very different from that of Montalvo.VOL. XVIII. C34 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.This giant brood being routed and dispersed, Lisuarte is induced, by certain deceitful, flattering, andenvious courtiers, to treat the services of Amadiswith slight and neglect. Erelong, this coldnesscomes to an open breach: Amadis, and his friendsand followers, formally renounce the service ofLisuarte; and all retire, with their heroic leader,to the Firm Island , the sovereignty of which he hadacquired. Galaor alone, bound by repeated obligations to Lisuarte, continues to adhere to him;and thus the author artfully contrives, that thereader shall retain an interest, even in the partyopposed to Amadis. Oriana, during the absenceof her lover, is secretly delivered of a son, namedEsplandian; but as the heroines of the author areall mothers before they are wives, so they are nevertrusted with the education of their own children.The little Esplandian is carried off by a lioness,from whom he is rescued by a saint and hermit,called Nasciano. He is educated by this holy man,and in process of time presented to his grandfatherLisuarte, and received into the train of his ownmother. During this long space, Amadis wandersabout the world, redressing wrongs, slaying monsters, and turning the tide of battle against theoppressors, wherever he comes. He has even thegenerosity (in disguise) to assist Lisuarte in a verydesperate battle with Aravigo, a powerful monarch,whom the inveterate enchanter Arcalaus had stirredup against the King of Britain. Butthe Emperorof Rome, El Patin, as the romance calls him, sendsto Lisuarte, to demand the hand of his daughterAMADIS OF GAUL. 35Oriana; and the King, seduced by ambition, is illadvised enough to force his daughter to this marriage, in spite of the advice of his best counsellors.Amadis repairs, under a new disguise, to Britain;and the knights sent bythe Emperor to receive hisbride, sustain at his hands a thousand disgraces,unpitied bythe English, to whom they were odiousfor their insolence and presumption. At lengththe princess is put on board the Roman fleet; butthat fleet is intercepted, and after a desperate combat, finally defeated by a squadron fitted out fromthe Firm Island, to which Oriana is conveyed intriumph. The discretion of Amadis in his love,gave a colour to this exploit, totally foreign fromthe real cause. Amadis and Oriana, notwithstanding their long separation, meet like a brother andsister; and the knights of the Firm Island send tojustify their proceedings to Lisuarte, declaring,that by his forcing her choice, his daughter wasplaced in the predicament of a distressed damsel,whose wrongs, by their oath of knighthood, theywere bound to redress. The apology is ill receivedbythe King of Britain; who, with the Emperor ofRome, and all the allies who adhered to him, prepared to invade the Firm Island. Amadis, supported by his father King Perion, and many princesand queens who owed their crowns and honour tohis prowess, assembles an army capable of meetinghis enemy. Two desperate battles are fought, inwhich Lisuarte is finally worsted, but without beingdishonoured by a total defeat. The brunt of theday falls upon the Romans, whom the author had36 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.no motive for sparing, and the Emperor is slain onthe field. In the mean while, the sainted hermitNasciano, who had educated Esplandian, and towhom Oriana had in confession revealed the history of her love to Amadis, arrives in the camp of Lisuarte, and by his mediation brings about a truce,both parties agreeing to retreat a day's journeyfrom each other. But Lisuarte, whose army wasmost weakened, was, by this retrograde movement,exposed to much danger. Arcalaus the enchanterhad had influence enough with King Aravigo, toprevail upon him to levy a huge army, with which helurked in the mountains, waiting until Lisuarteand Amadis should have exhausted their strengthin mutual conflict. Being in some measure disappointed in his expectations, Aravigo held it formost expedient to fall upon Lisuarte in his retreat,whom, after a valiant resistance , he reduces to thelast extremity: this is the moment which the authorhas chosen to exhibit the magnanimity of Amadis and to bring about a reconciliation. The instanthe hears of Lisuarte's danger, our hero flies to hisassistance, and the reader will anticipate with whatsuccess: Aravigo is slain, and Arcalaus made prisoner, and cooped up in a cage of iron . The fatherof Oriana is reconciled to her lover; and the introduction of Esplandian has its effect in hasteningso desirable an event. The nuptials of Amadisand Oriana take place; and the other heroinesare distributed among the champions of the FirmIsland, with great regard to merit. One thingyet remained:-To finish the enchantments of theAMADIS OF GAUL. 37Firm Island, it was necessary that the fairest damein the world should enter the enchanted chamber.Need we add, that dame was Oriana? " Then wasthe feast spread, and the marriage- bed of Amadisand Oriana made in that chamber which they hadwon.""true,Through the whole of this long work, the characters assigned to the different personages areadmirably sustained. That of Amadis is the trueknight-errant. Of him it might be said in thelanguage of Lobeira's time, that he wasamorous, sage, secret, bounteous, full of prowess,hardy, adventurous, and chivalrous." Don Galaor,the Ranger of knight- errantry, forms a good contrast to his brother. Lisuarte, even where swayedby the most unreasonable prejudices, shows as itwere occasionally, his natural goodness, so as alwaysto prevent the total alienation of our good opinionand interest. The advantage given by the authorto the vassals and dependents over the Suzerain,shows plainly a wish to please the numerous pettyprinces and barons at the expense of the liege lord.This may be remarked in many romances ofchivalry, particularly in those of Charlemagne andhis Paladins. Eventhe inferior characters are well,though slightly sketched. The presumption ofthe Emperor, the open gallantry and dry humourof old Grumedan the king's standard-bearer, thefidelity of Gandalin, squire to Amadis, the professional manners of Master Helisabad the physician,with many others, are all in true style and costume.38 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMances.The machinery introduced in Amadis does not,as Mr Southey observes, partake much of the marvellous. Arcalaus is more to be redoubted for hiscourage and cunning, than for his magic. Urgandais a fay similar to those which figure in the lays ofBrittany, and, except her character of a prophetess,and some legerdemain tricks of transformation,has not much that is supernatural in her character..It remains to make some observations on MrSouthey's mode of executing his translation, whichappears to us marked with the hand of a master.The abridgements are judiciously made; and although some readers may think too much has stillbeen retained, yet the objection will only occur tosuch as read merely for the story, without anyattention to Mr Southey's more important objectof exhibiting a correct example of those romances,by which our forefathers were so much delighted,and from which we may draw such curious inferences respecting their customs, their morals, andtheir modes of thinking. The popular romancealways preserves, to a certain degree, the mannersof the age in which it was written. The novels ofFielding and Richardson are even already becomevaluable, as a record of the English manners of thelast generation. How much, then, should we prizethe volumes which describe those of the era of thevictors of Cressy and Poitiers! The style of MrSouthey is, in general, what he proposed, ratherantique, from the form of expression, than from theintroduction of obsolete phrases. It has somethingof the scriptural turn, and much resembles the ad-AMADIS OF GAUL. 39mirable translation of Froissart.¹ Some wordshave inadvertently been used, which, to us, savourmore of vulgarity than beseems the language ofchivalry. Such are the phrases, " devilry," " SirKnave," " Don False One," and some others. Butwe only mention these, to show that our generalpraise has not been inconsiderately bestowed.Mr Southey has made an apology for not translating the names, which convey some meaning inthe original: " I have used Beltenebros, instead ofthe Beautiful Darkling, or the Fair Forlorn; Florestan, instead of Forester; El Patin, instead ofthe Emperor Gosling; as we speak of Barbarossa,not Red- Beard; Boccanegra, not Black Muzzle;St Peter, not Stone the Apostle." We cannothelp thinking this apology as unnecessary, as theexamples are whimsical. Proper names are neverrendered into a familiar dialect, but with a view ofmaking them ridiculous; although they are sometimes translated into a less known language, togive them dignity. Thus, Mr Wood is said tohave been converted into Dr Lignum, and to havegained by the exchange; while it is well knownthat the Portuguese ambassador, Don Pedro Francisco Correo de Sylva, was chased from the courtof Charles the Second, by the ridicule attached tothe nickname of Pierre du Bois, into which hissounding title was rendered by the Duke of Buckingham: and, surely, to talk of the Chief ConsulGood-part, would be as absurd as the epithet1 He that would acquire an idea of the language of chivalry,cannot too often study the work of Bourchier Lord Berners.40 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.would be inapplicable. As for Stone the Apostle,we have only heard of one bearing that name, whohad also the fate of a prophet; for his doctrineswere no otherwise honoured in his own country,than bythe notice of the King's attorney- general.¹So much for the prose edition of Amadis, withthe perusal of which we have been highly gratified.We have already given it as our opinion, thatthe history of Amadis was, in its original state, ametrical romance. We remember, also, to haveseen an Italian poem in ottava rima, called IlAmadigi, chiefly remarkable for the whimsical rulewhich the poet had imposed upon himself, of opening each canto with a description of the morning,and closing it with a description of the night. MrWilliam Stewart Rose has now favoured the publicwith a poetical version of the First Book of Amadis,containing the birth and earlier adventures of thehero, and closing with his gaining possession ofOriana.In our remarks upon this poem, we are moreinclined to blame, in some degree, Mr Rose's plan,than to find fault with the execution , which appearsto us, upon the whole, to be nearly as perfect as1 [ The Rev. Richard Stone, A. M. , Rector of Norton, Es- sex, was, May 1808, on trial in the Consistory Court, con- victed of having preached and published doctrines regarding the Messiah, subversive of the authority of certain passages in two of the Evangelists, and which when called upon to revoke he refused. Sir William Scott officially reported the case to anEcclesiastical Convocation, in which the Bishop of London forthwith pronounced sentence of degradation , depriving Mr Stone of his clerical benefice. ]AMADIS OF GAUL. 41the plan admitted. Mr Rose has indeed stated hispretensions so very modestly, that perhaps we arewarranted in thinking, that a culpable degree ofdiffidence has prevented him from assuming a toneof poetry more decided and animated." That the extract I now present to the public," says MrRose, " is closely translated, I cannot venture to affirm. I have,I confess, attempted to introduce some of those trifling ornaments, which even the simplest style of poetry imperiouslydemands, and have, in many instances, altered the arrangement,and very much contracted the narration of the original: I trust,however, that I shall not be convicted of having, in my trifling deviations, introduced any thing which is at variance with thespirit or tone of the celebrated romance. '""With the alterations and abbreviations of MrRose we have not the most distant intention ofquarrelling; on the contrary we think, that his tooclose adherence to his original is the greatest defectin the book. Mr Rose was not engaged in translating a poem, but in composing one; the story ofwhich was adopted from a prose work. Wetherefore do not conceive that he was obliged to limithimself to trifling ornaments, or to the very simpleststyle of poetry. Even in modernizing ancientpoetry, and that, too, the poetry of Chaucer, containing no small portion of fire, Dryden thoughthimself at liberty to heighten and enlarge the descriptions of his great master. But in his versionsfrom prose pieces,-in the tale of Theodore andHonoria, for example, he borrowed from Boccacio only the outline ofthe story; the language, theconduct, and the sentiment, were all his own, and allin the highest strain of poetry. In like manner, we42 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ofcannot see why Mr Rose should have thought himself obliged to follow in any respect the proseHerberay, while he himself was writing poetry.We can easily conceive that a prose romance maybe converted into a metrical romance or epic poem;but we cannot allow, that there ought to subsistbetwixt two works, the style of which is so verydifferent, the relations of a translation and an original work. In consequence of Mr Rose's plan, itappears to us that his poem has suffered someinjury. The necessity of following out minutelythe prose narrative, occasions an occasional languorin the poem, for which simple, and even elegantversification, does not atone. We will, however,frankly own, that the casual circ*mstance of havingperused Mr Southey's prose work before the poemof Mr Rose may have had some influence uponour criticism; since our curiosity being completelyforestalled, we may have felt a diminished interestin the latter from a cause not imputable to want ofmerit.The avowed model upon which Mr Rose hasframed his Amadis is the translation of Le Grand'sFabliaux by Mr Way; and it is but justice tostate that, in our opinion, he has fully attained whathe proposed. An easy flow of verse, partakingmore of the school of Dryden than of Pope, andcheckered, occasionally, with ancient words andterms of chivalry, seems well calculated for thenarration of romance and legendary tale. Thefollowing passage is a successful imitation of Chaucer:-AMADIS OF GAUL. 43" To tell, as meet, the costly feast's array,My tedious tale would hold a summer's day:I let to sing who mid the courtly throng Did most excel in dance or sprightly song;Who first, who last, were seated on the dais;Who carped of love and arms in courtliest phrase,What many minstrels harp, what bratchets lie The feet beneath, what hawks were placed on high. "We do not pretend to say, that Mr Rose's poetryis altogether free from the common-places of thetime. Such lines occur as these:-" Nearer and nearer bursts the deafening crash,Athwart the lurid clouds red lightnings flash. "But if Mr Rose's plan prevented him from aspiringto the higher flights of poetry, he never, on theother hand, disgusts the reader by sinking intobathos. We are persuaded that the public wouldbe interested in a modern version of some of ourbest metrical romances by Mr Rose. We are themore certain ofthis, because we have read the notesto Amadis with very great satisfaction. We paythem a very great compliment, indeed, when wesay, that they resemble in lightness and elegance,though not in extent of information, those ofGeorge Ellis to Way's Fabliaux.[ 44 ]

ARTICLE II. SOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID.

[From the Quarterly Review, Feoruary, 1809. ]THE name of the Cid is best known to us by thecelebrated tragedy of Corneille, founded on a circ*mstance which happened early in the champion'scareer, and which the Spanish compilers of hisstory do not dwell upon with any peculiar emphasis. Those who are deep read in Don Quixotemay also recollect, that the Campeador and hisgreat exploits against the Moors was one of thesubjects that deranged the brain of the worthyknight of La Mancha. Few English or Frenchliterati know more of a hero as famous in Spain asBertrand du Guesclin in France, Glendower inWales, or Wallace in Scotland; yet have hisachievements been recorded in the " letter blake,"and harped in many a hall and bower."Desde Sevilla a Marchena,Desde Granada hasta Leja. "Mr Southey, to whom the fabulous heroes ofSpain, her Amadis, and her Palmerin, have suchSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 45obligations, has undertaken the same generous taskin favour of the Cid, the real champion of a history scarcely less romantic than theirs. His workis not to be considered as the precise translation ofany of the numerous histories of the Cid, but as acompilation of all that relates to him extractedfrom those several sources. First, a prose chronicle of the life and achievements of the Cid, printedin 1552 and 1593, which there is some reason toascribe to Gil Diaz, a converted Moor, one of theCid's most faithful followers. This is correctedand enlarged from a general chronicle of Spanishhistory. Secondly, a metrical legend, of which theCid is the hero. This work, which fluctuates between history and romance, has a considerabledegree of poetical merit, is the oldest poem in theSpanish language, and, in Mr Southey's judgment,decidedly and beyond all comparison the finest.Lastly, the translator has laid under contributionthe popular ballads or romances which celebrated the feats of this renowned warrior-and were sungby minstrels, jongleurs, and glee -men, at places of festive resort. Mr Southey is not inclined to rankvery highly either the authority or the antiquityof these songs, and has made little use of them incompiling his Chronicle. By these lights, however, he has guided the narrative through the following details.Rodrigo of Bivar, " a youth strong in arms andof good customs," destined to protect his countryfrom the Moors, was born at Burgos in the reign.of King Ferrando of Castile, and in the year 1026.46 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.His father Diego Laynez, chief of the noble house,had received a blow from the Count Don Gomez,the Lord of Gormaz. The consequences are described in a picturesque manner, and form a goodspecimen of this singular narrative." Now Diego was a man in years, and his strength had passed from him, so that he could not take vengeance, and he retired to his home, to dwell there in solitude, and lament over his disho- nour. And he took no pleasure in his food, neither could hesleep by night, nor would he lift up his eyes from the ground,nor stir out of his house, nor commune with his friends, but turned from them in silence, as if the breath of his shame wouldtaint them. Rodrigo was yet but a youth, and the count was amighty man in arms, one who gave his voice first in the Cortes,and was held to be the best in the war, and so powerful , that he had a thousand friends among the mountains. Howbeit all thesethings appeared as nothing to Rodrigo when he thought of the wrong done to his father, the first which had ever been offered to the blood of Layn Calvo, He asked nothing but justice of Heaven, and of man he asked only a fair field; and his father seeing of how good heart he was, gave him his sword and his blessing.The sword had been the sword of Mudarra in former times, andwhen Rodrigo held its cross in his hand, he thought within him- self that his arm was not weaker than Mudarra's. And he wentout, and defied the count, and slew him, and smote off his head,and carried it home to his father. The old man was sitting attable, the food lying before him untasted, when Rodrigo returned,and pointing to the head which hung from the horse's collar,dropping blood, he bade him look up, for there was the herb which should restore to him his appetite: the tongue, quoth he,which insulted you is no longer a tongue, and the hand which wronged you is no longer a hand. And the old man arose andembraced his son, and placed him above him at the table, saying,that he who had brought home that head should be the head ofthe house of Layn Calvo. "-P. 3.This prosperous commencement was followed bya victory which Rodrigo obtained over five of theMoorish petty princes, who had allied themselvesSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE Of the cid. 47to spoil the country of Castile. Their defeat wasso complete, that they submitted to be in futurethe vassals of the victor. About the same timeXimena Gomez, daughter of the count (the Chimene of Corneille), came before the King, andhaving stated that Rodrigo had slain her father,prayed his Majesty to command him to make atonement by taking her to wife, " for God's service,and that she might be enabled to grant him herhearty pardon." Neither the King nor Rodrigofelt a desire to resist so singular a request, and themarriage was concluded accordingly. We cannotstop to relate how Rodrigo displayed his charityby plucking a foul leper out of a morass, andplacing him at his own table, and how the leperproved to be no less a person than St Lazarus, whohad thus disguised himself to prove the youngwarrior's love of God and his neighbour; nor canwe narrate his single combat with Martin Gonzales, nor those repeated conquests over the Moors,which caused him to be distinguished among thevanquished by the name of El Cid, or THE LORD,a title which he afterwards made so famous in history. While his fame was rapidly advancing, thekingdom of Castile was convulsed with civil war.The King Don Ferrando had died, leaving threesons and one daughter, among whom, with theusual impolicy of the times, he attempted to dividehis dominions. But the kings of Spain were ofthe blood of the Goths, which is emphatically saidto be afierce blood; and certainly no history, except-48 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ing that of the heaven- abandoned Jews, is stainedwith more murders, conspiracies, and unnaturalcivil broils. The Cid was among the subjects ofCastile, whose fealty descended to the eldest son,Don Sancho, and he had no small part in the warswhich that monarch made upon his brethren, Garcia and Alfonzo. When Sancho had dethronedand imprisoned both his younger brothers, he forcedAlfonzo to become a monk, but he escaped from hisconvent, and fled to the Moors of Toledo, whor*ceived him with great hospitality. Mean while,Sancho resolved to deprive his sister Urraca of thecity and dependencies of Zamora, which the King,her father, had bequeathed to her. And it waswhile besieging this city that he was treacherouslyslain by one of her adherents, who pretended todesert to his party. This gave occasion to one ofthose scenes which illustrate the singular mannersof the age. It was resolved in the camp of thedeceased monarch that the town of Zamora shouldbe impeached for the treason committed, and forhaving received the traitor within her gates afterthe perpetration of the murder. The task of denouncing it devolved upon Diego Ordonez, a rightgood and noble warrior; for the Cid, who mightotherwise have been expected to be foremost inthe revenge of his master's death, had uniformlyrefused to bear arms against Donna Urraca, becausethey had been brought up together, and he remembered "the days that were past." Diego Ordonez came before the walls fully armed, and havingSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 49summoned to the battlements Arias Gonzalo, whocommanded the city for Urraca, he pronounced thiscelebrated impeachment in the following words: -" The Castilians have lost their Lord; the traitor Vellido slewhim, being his vassal, and ye of Zamora have received Vellido and harboured him within your walls. Now therefore I say that he is a traitor who hath a traitor with him, if he knoweth and consenteth unto the treason. And for this I impeach the peopleof Zamora, the great as well as the little, the living and the dead,they who now are and they who are yet unborn; and I impeach the waters which they drink and the garments which they put on;their bread and their wine, and the very stones in their walls.If there be any one in Zamora to gainsay what I have said, I will do battle with him, and with God's pleasure conquer him, so thatthe infamy shall remain upon you. ”—P. 75 .In answer to this defiance, Gonzalo informed thechampion, with great composure, that perhaps hewas not aware of the law of arms in the case ofimpeachment of a council; which provided that theaccuser should contend not with one only, but withfive champions of the community successively, andhis accusation was only held true if he retired victorious from this unequal contest. Ordonez, thoughsomewhat disconcerted at this point of military law,which was confirmed by twelve alcaldes, chosen oneach side, was under the necessity of maintaininghis impeachment. Gonzalo, on the other hand,having first ascertained that none of the people ofZamora had been privy to the treason, resolved,that he himself and his four sons would fight in theirbehalf. With difficulty he is prevailed upon, bythe tears and intreaties of Urraca, to let his sonsfirst try their fortune. One of them enters the listsafter his father had armed, instructed, and blessedVOL. XVIII. D50 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.him. The youth is slain in the conflict; and thevictor calls aloud, " Don Arias, send me anotherson, for this one will never fulfil your bidding."He then retires from the lists to change his horseand arms, and to refresh himself with three sops ofbread and a draught of wine, agreeably to the rulesof combat. The second son of Gonzalo enters thelists, and is also slain. Ordonez then lays his handon the bar, and exclaims, " Send me another son,Don Arias, for I have conquered two, thanks be toGod!" Rodrigo Arias, the eldest and strongest ofthe brethren, then encounters the challenger, and inthe exchange of two desperate blows he receives amortal wound; while, at the same time, the horseof Ordonez, also wounded, runs out of the lists withhis rider. This was a nice point of the duello; for,on the one hand, the challenger had combated andvanquished his enemy; on the other, he had himself,however involuntarily, been forced out of the lists;which was such a mark of absolute defeat that evendeath was not held so strong. And there is aSpanish story of a duel, in which the defendantslew the challenged party; but the defunct beingvery corpulent and heavily armed, the victor wasunable to heave him over the palisade, and afterlabouring the whole day to no purpose, was at sunset very rationally held to be convicted of the treasonof which he had been accused; because he couldnot give the necessary and indispensable proof thathe had vanquished the accuser. The judges of thefield, in the impeachment of Zamora, did not choosepositively to decide so nice a dependence. It wouldSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 51"be probably doing those worthy alcaldes injustice tosuppose, that they were moved with compassioneither for the challenger, who had still such anunequal contest before him, or for Don Arias, whohaving lost three of his children, was to risk his ownlife with that of his remaining son. But whetherfrom unwonted feelings of pity, or because the casecould not be judged, they held the third combat tobe a drawn battle, and would not allow Ordonez toproceed in his accusation. Thus Don Arias, at theexpense of the lives of his three gallant sons, delivered from impeachment the people of Zamora,born and unborn, living and dead, past, present,and to come, together with their waters, their food,their garments, and the stones of their battlements.It would have been, no doubt, as easy to have delivered up the murderer, whose act both partiesagreed in condemning; but it is not the least fantastical part of the story, that he was suffered toelude all punishment, excepting that the Chronicleassures us he could not escape it in hell, " where heis tormented with Dathan and Abiram, and withJudas the traitor, for ever and ever."While this scene was passing before Zamora,Alfonso, the remaining brother of the deceasedSancho, received the news of his murder; andresolved immediately to quit Toledo, where he wasthe guest of the Moorish monarch, Alimaymon, inorder to take possession of the kingdom of Castile,to which he was now sole heir. That monarch hadalready heard a rumour of Sancho's death, andposted guards in the passage to prevent his guest,52 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.now become a hostage of importance, from depart--ing without his leave. But when Alfonso boldlyand openly requested his license to return to Castile, the generous Moslem answered, —"I thank God, Alfonso, that thou hast told me of thy wish togo into thine own country; for in this thou hast dealt loyally by me, and saved me from that which might else have happened, to which the Moors have always importuned me. And hadst thoudeparted privily thou couldst not have escaped being slain on taken. Now, then, go and take thy kingdom; and I will give theewhatever thou hast need of to give to thine own people, and wintheir hearts that they may serve thee. " -P. 85.He then requested him to swear friendship to himself and his sons; but in enumerating them, he" had a grandson whom he dearly loved, who wasnot named in the oath, and therefore Don Alfonsowas not bound to keep it towards him." And thehistorian records it as a high instance of generosity,that Alfonso, was so far from taking advantage ofthis omission, that, on a future occasion, whenAlimaymon was as much in his power as he hadbeen in Alimaymon's, he compelled the Moor torelease him from the oath, but only that he mighttake it again fully, freely, and with all solemnity.When King Alfonso arrived in his kingdom, hefound that many of his nobility, but especially theCid, nourished a suspicion that he had been in somesort accessory to the murder of his brother Sancho.Το purge himself of this guilt, the king and twelveknights as his compurgators, made oath of hisinnocence, upon the Gospels in the church of StGadea, at Burgos. The Cid administered the oathwith a rigour which implied the strength of hisSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 53suspicions; and the following is the account of themanner in which the King was obliged to exculpatehimself in the face of his people.•" And the King came forward upon a high stage, that all the people might see him, and my Cid came to him to receive theoath; and my Cid took the book of the Gospels and opened it,and laid it upon the altar, and the King laid his hands upon it,and the Cid said unto him, King Don Alfonso, you comehereto swear concerning the death of King Don Sancho, your brother,that you neither slew him nor took counsel for his death; say now you, and these hidalgos, if ye swear this.' And the King and the hidalgos answered and said, Yea, we swear it.' Andthe Cid said, If ye knew of this thing, or gave command that itshould be done, may you die even such a death as your brother the King Don Sancho, by the hand of a villain whom you trust;one who is not a hidalgo, from another land, not a Castilian;and the King and the knights who were with him said Amen.And the King's colour changed; and the Cid repeated the oath unto him a second time, and the King and the twelve knights said Amen to it in like manner, and in like manner the countenance of the King was changed again. And my Cid repeated the oath unto him a third time, and the King and the knights said Amen; but the wrath ofthe King was exceeding great, and he said to the Cid, ' Ruydiez, why dost thou thus press me, man?To- day thou swearest me, and to -morrowthou wilt kiss my hand.'And from that day forward there was no love towards my Cid in the heart ofthe King. "-P. 88.The Castilian monarch having this offencedeeply engraved in his remembrance, took the firstoccasion which offered, to banish the Cid from hisdominions, on pretence of some incursions whichhe had made on the friendly Moors of Toledo.The Cid then assembled the relations, vassals, andretainers, whom his influence or high military reputation had attached to his person, and resolved attheir head to leave Castile, and subsist by a predatory war upon the Moors.54 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES." And as he was about to depart, he looked back upon his own home, and when he saw his hall deserted, the household chestsunfastened, the doors open, no cloaks hanging up, no seats in the porch, no hawks upon the perches, the tears came into his eyes,and he said ' My enemies have done this. God be praised for all things. ' And he turned toward the East, and knelt and said,' Holy Mary Mother, and all Saints, pray to God for me, that he may give me strength to destroy all the Pagans, and to win enough from them to requite my friends therewith, and all those who follow and help me. ' "-P. 97.In passing through Burgos, no one dared toreceive him into his house, the King having givenstrict command to the contrary; and such sorrow had the Christian people at obeying thesesevere injunctions, that they durst not look uponthe champion as he rode through the solitary streetsof their city. When he came to his posada, orhotel, and struck against the door with his foot,none made answer but a little girl of nine yearsold, who informed him of the King's command.He turned in silence from the door of the inn,rode to the church of St Mary, where " he kneeleddown, and prayed with all his heart," and thenencamped with his retinue on the sands near thecity. There is something very striking in thispicture the silence with which the Cid receives hisunjust sentence-the dignity with which he contemns the mean effort of the King to increase hisdistress and embarrassment; -the desolate state towhich the city is reduced by the fear and pity ofthe inhabitants at his approach-the military trainslowly parading its streets, and seeking in vain forhospitality or repose; -the swelling heart of theleader venting itself in devotion, when he saw everySOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 55house, but that of God, shut against him, are allbeautiful and affecting circ*mstances. The nextscene is of a very different nature, yet equallycurious.The Cid, like other great persons, setting outupon travel, was in great want of money to main- tain his followers. And now we venture to supply an incident from the romances, which, thoughcharacteristic, Mr Southey has omitted. We copyit from a slip-shod translation, which we happento possess, and which may serve for a sample of these ballads." When the Cid, the Campeador( Of his life may God take care),With three hundred pennon'd warriors Forth ofgood Castile would fare;Nor the champion, nor his lady,Had of treasure, coin, or rent,Even a single maravedi;All in war and wassaill spent.Then Ximene took off her garland,Glittering like the stars of heaven,Deck'd with gems from Eastern far land,Which the Moorish Kings had given;Take then this, my Roderigo;Pledged in wealthy merchant's hand,'Twill supply thee gold, while we go Wanderers far in foreign land. 'Sola and her little sister,Daughters of the noble Cid,When they saw the chaplet's glister Taken from their mother's head,Wept to part with such gay jewel,Clamour'd loud around Ximene;Must such garland, O, how cruel,From our mother dear be ta'en?'56 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Mark'd the Cid their childish sorrow,Heard them murmur in dismay:" Grief enough may come to -morrow,Give our babes their boon to-day.Children weep for toys that glitter,Kings and kaisars do the same:Whytheir blithest days embitter?Keep thy garland, gentle dame. 'Loud their hands the children clapping,As their father's doom they heard,And their arms around him wrapping,Kist his cheeks, and strok'd his beard. "Mr Southey omits this curious trait of parentaltenderness, which we think peculiarly characteristicof the hero, as those who are bravest and evenfiercest in war are often distinguished by unlimitedindulgence to the objects of their domestic attachments.The resource from which the Cid drew his supplies was of a questionable description, and notvery dissimilar from the devices of our modernknights of industry. He sent one of his adherents,Martin Antolinez, to two wealthy Jews, namedRachael and Vidas, to demand the loan of sixhundred merks, upon two chests of treasure, whichthe Cid meant to deposit in their hands. The sonsof Israel lent a willing ear to such a proposal, butwhen the merks were demanded, they sagaciouslyobserved, that " their way of business was first totake and then to give." Antolinez conducted themto the tent of the Campeador, who dazzled theiroptics with the exhibition of two huge and heavychests, covered with leather of red and gold, andSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 57secured with ribs of iron, but filled in truth withstones and sand. The Jews, forgetting the caution of their tribe, willingly agreed to advance thesum demanded on a deposit of such a promisingaspect; and swore at the same time to keep thechests a full year without opening. So highly delighted were the Israelites with the bargain, thatAntolinez contrived to hook out of them thirtymerks for agency, to buy himself a pair of hose,a doublet, and a rich cloak. It is not the leastcurious part of this story, that when the Cid acquired wealth in the Moorish wars, and sent toredeem the chests with a Spanish hyperbole thatthey contained his honour, which was the richesttreasure in the world, " the people held it for agreat wonder; and there was not a place in allBurgos where they did not talk of the gentlenessand loyalty of the Cid." The Jews themselvesalso expressed such grateful surprise as makes itplain that in the ordinary course of things, theywould have been left by way of punishment forlooking so indifferently after their own interest inthe outset of the bargain, to indemnify themselvesby the deposit. Nay, we grieve to say, that somecontradictory authorities make it not improbablethat the Cid consigned them to the doleful predicament of their kinsman, Shylock, to console themselves with the penalty of the bond.The Cid, thus furnished with munition and money,sets forth against the Moors, leaving his wife andchildren in the charge of the Abbot of St Pedrode Cardena. It is not our intention to trace his58 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.military exploits, in which there is frequently vividdescription, but which nevertheless, from the similarity of incident, are the dullest part of thisvolume. The following most excellent and spirited,as well as literal translation from the poem of theCid, is given in the notes. It is not from the penofMr Southey, but from that of a literary friend,who has caught the true tone of the SpanishHomer. The Cid, with his followers, sallies fromthe Castle of Alcoçer, where they were besiegedby the Moors." The gates were then thrown open, and forth at once they rush'd,The outposts of the Moorish host back to the camp were push'd;The camp was all in tumult, and there was such a thunderOf cymbals and of drums, as if earth would cleave in sundei .There you might see the Moors arming themselves in has ,And the two main battles how they were forming fast;Horsem*n and footmen mixt, a countless troop and vast.The Moors are moving forward, the battle soon must join,"' My men, stand here in order, rang'd upon a line!Let not a man move from his rank before I give the sign. 'Pero Bermuez heard the word, but he could not refrain.He held the banner in his hand, he gave his horse the rein;You see yon foremost squadron there, the thickest of the foes,Noble Cid, God be your aid, for there your banner goes!Let him that serves and honours it show the duty that he owes. 'Earnestly the Cid call'd out, For heaven's sake be still!'Bermuez cried, I cannot hold, ' so eager was his will.He spurr'd his horse, and drove him on amid the Moorish rout;They strove to win the banner, and compast him about.Had not his armour been so true he had lost either life or limb;The Cid called out again, ' For heaven's sake succour him! 'Their shields before their breasts, forth at once they go,Their lances in the rest levell'd fair and low;Their banners and their crests waving in a row,Their heads all stooping down toward the saddle- bow.The Cid was in the midst, his shout was heard afar,I am Rui Diaz, the Champion of Bivar;SOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 59Strike amongst them, gentlemen, for sweet mercies sake! 'There where Bermuez fought amidst the foe they brake,Three hundred banner'd knights, it was a gallant show:Three hundred Moors they kill'd, a man with every blow;When they wheel'd and turn'd, as many more lay slain,You might see them raise their lances, and level them again.There you might see the breastplates, how they were cleft in twain,And many a Moorish shield lie scattered on the plain.The pennons that were white mark'd with a crimson stain,The horses running wild, whose riders had been slain. "-P. 439.There are many similar exploits described in thesame animated tone; and the successes of the Cidsoon led him to form plans of more permanent conquest. The dissensions of the Moors aided hisviews, and at length, after a tedious siege, in whichthe city suffered the last degree of distress, andafter playing off against each other almost all thefactions within its walls, the fair city of Valenciabecame the property of the Cid, and the seat of hispower. His fame and his untarnished loyalty hadby this time reconciled the Campeador to KingAlfonso; so the embassy which the Cid sent to himto announce his new conquest, and to demand hiswife and daughters, was most favourably received.When the ladies arrived at Valencia, they had aspecimen of the manner in which the Cid had acquired, and was forced to defend his possessions.The city was beleaguered by an immense army ofMoors. The Cid conducted his wife and daughtersto the highest turret, from which they might see hisexploits against the enemy, cheered their sinkingspirits with an exclamation, " the more Moors themore gain! " sallied out and utterly discomfited the60 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.enemy, making such mortality with his own hand,that the blood ran from the wrist to the elbow. Here-entered the town at the head of his knights." His wrinkled brow was seen, for he had taken off his helmet, and in this manner he entered, upon Bavieca, sword in hand. Great joy had Dona Ximena and her daughters who wereawaiting him, when they saw him come riding in; and he stopt when he came to them, and said, ' Great honour have I won for you, while you kept Valencia this day! God and the Saints havesent us goodly gain, upon your coming. Look, with a bloodysword, and a horse all sweat, this is the way that we conquer theMoors! Pray God that I may live yet awhile for your sakes,and you shall enter into great honour, and they shall kiss your hands .' Then my Cid alighted when he had said this , and the ladies knelt down before him, and kissed his hand, and wishedhim long life. "-P. 233.Thefame ofthe Cid's wealth led Diego and Fernando Gonzales, the Infantes of Carrion, brethren ofgreat rank and high ancestry, to solicit the handsof his two daughters; and the Cid, at the requestof King Alfonso, consented to their union. Butthese noblemen had ill considered their own dispositions in desiring such an union. The Cid, indeed,received them with all honour in Valencia, andbestowed on them many rich gifts, and especiallyhis two choice swords, Colada and Tizona.the Infantes had no taste for killing Moors, whichwas the principal amusem*nt at the court of theCampeador; and although the Cid prudently disguised his knowledge of their cowardice, he couldnot save them from the derision of his militaryretainers. An unfortunate accident brought matters to a crisis. The Cid, it seems, kept a tamelion, which, one day, finding its den unbarred,ButSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE Of the cid. 61walked into the hall of the palace, where the banquet was just ended. The lion had happily dinedlikewise, so he paced coolly towards the head ofthe table, where the Cid was asleep in his chair.His captains and knights crowded around him forhis defence; but his sons-in-law holding, with Bottom, that there is not a more fearful wild fowl thanyour lion living, threw themselves, the one behindthe Campeador's chair, the other into a wine- press,where he fell into the lees and defiled himself. TheCid awaking as the lion was close upon him, heldup his hand, and said, " How's this? " and the lionstanding still at his voice, he arose, and taking himby the mane, led him back to his den like a tamemastiff. But the Infantes of Carrion, reading theirdisgrace in the ill -suppressed laughter of the attendants, adopted a suspicion that this strange scenehad been contrived on purpose to put them toshame, and formed a cowardly scheme of revenge..For this purpose, they craved the Cid's permission to return to their own country of Carrion,which he readily granted. On the road they ledtheir wives into a forest, where they stripped them,beat them with the girths of their horses, mangledthem with their spurs, and left them for dead uponthe spot. Here they were found, and brought backto Valencia; and the Cid, incensed at this deadlyaffront, demanded justice before the King and theCortes of Castile. The investigation was conducted with great form and solemnity. The Cidsent to the place of meeting an ivory throne whichhe had wonat Valencia, " a right noble seat, and62 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.of subtle work," which gave rise to much invidiousdiscussion among the Castilian nobles, until Alfonso decided that the Cid should occupy the ivoryseat which he had won like a good knight. Hethen shaped his demand of satisfaction from theInfantes of Carrion into three counts. In the firstplace, he demanded restitution of the two goodswords Colada and Tizona, which being implementsthey had no great occasion for, were readily resigned. His second demand was for the treasureshe had bestowed on them with his daughters. TheInfantes, who had quarrelled with their wives butnot with their portions, resisted this strenuously,but were obliged to comply by the sentence of thecortes. This account being cleared with no smalldifficulty, the Cid a third time demanded justice,and stating the injuries done to his daughters, insisted on personal satisfaction from the Infantes.This was the hardest chapter of all; the Infantescould only allege that they had unwarily marriedbeneath their rank.1" Then Count Don Garcia rose and said, ' Come away, Infantes, and let us leave the Cid sitting like a bridegroom in his ivory chair he lets his beard grow and thinks to frighten us with it! ' The Campeador put up his hand to his beard, and said,What hast thou to do with my beard, count? Thanks be toGod, it is long because it hath been kept for my pleasure; ¹ never son of woman hath taken me by it; never son of Moor or of Christian hath plucked it , as I did yours in your castle of Cabra,count, when I took your castle of Cabra, and took you by the beard; there was not a boy of the host but had his pull at it. What I plucked then is not yet methinks grown even! '-P. 296.1 Per esa es luenga que adelicio fue creada.Poema del Cid. 3294.SOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 63After a very stormy altercation it is at lastsettled, that the Infantes of Carrion, together withtheir uncle and abettor, should " do battle " againstthree of the Cid's knights. The Infantes are defeated, and declared guilty of treason. This singular story is given at length, and with all thoseminute details which place the very circ*mstancebefore our eyes. There is also a literal poetical translation from that part of the poem which represents the scene in the Cortes and in the lists . Itis bythe same hand, and in the same spirited style,as the account of the sally which we have alreadyquoted.The Cid takes leave ofthe King, and returns toValencia, where he bestows his daughters on theInfantes of Arragon and Navarre, two princes ofhigher rank and more estimable qualities than thosewhom he had punished. At length, when far advanced in years, he is once more besieged in hiscity of Valencia, by an immense army of Moors,and is warned by a vision that his end approaches,but that God had granted him grace to defeat theMoors even after his decease. Upon this intimation, the Cid prepares for death, and calling for aprecious balsam with which the Soldan of Persiahad presented him, he mingled it with rose- water,and tasted nothing else for seven days, duringwhich, though he grew weaker and weaker, yethis countenance appeared even fairer and fresherthan before. He then directed that his family andretainers should leave the city after his death, taking with them his dead body, and return to Castile.64 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Having settled his worldly affairs, and ghostly concerns, " this noble baron yielded up his soul, whichwas pure and without spot, to God," in the year1099, and the 73d of his life. The body havingbeen washed and embalmed, appeared, by virtueof the balsam on which he had lived, as fresh andfair as if alive. It was supported in an uprightstate by a thin frame of wood, and the whole beingmade fast to a right noble saddle, this retinue prepared to leave Valencia."When it was midnight, they took the body of the Cid, fastened to the saddle as it was, and placed it upon his horse Ba- vieca, and fastened the saddle well: and the body sate so uprightand well, that it seemed as if he was alive. And it had on painted hose of black and white, so cunningly painted, that no man who saw them would have thought but that they were grieves andcuishes, unless he had laid his hand upon them; and they put on it a surcoat of green sendal, having his arms blazoned there--on, and a helmet of parchment, which was cunningly painted,that every one might have believed it to be iron; and his shieldwas hung round his neck, and they placed the sword Tizona in his hand, and they raised his arm, and fastened it up so subtilly,that it was a marvel to see how upright he held the sword. And the bishop Don Hieronymo went on one side of him, and thetrusty Gil Diaz on the other, and he led the horse Bavieca,as the Cid had commanded him. And when all this had beenmade ready, they went out from Valencia at midnight, through the gate of Roseros, which is towards Castile. Pero Bermudezwent first with the banner of the Cid, and with him five hundredknights who guarded it, all well appointed. And after these came all the baggage.. Then came the body of the Cid, with an hundred knights, all chosen men, and behind them Dona Ximena with all her company, and six hundred knights in the rear. Allthese went out so silently, and with such a measured pace, that it seemed as if there were only a score. And by the time thatthey had all gone out it was broad day. "-P. 336.Betwixt surprise and miracle, the Moors werecompletely routed; and the Christians, havingSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 65spoiled their camp, retired to Castile. But whenthey proposed to put the body in a coffin, Ximenerefused to consent, saying, that while his countenance remained so comely, her children and grandchildren should behold the face of their father. Atlength it was resolved to set him in his ivory chair,on the right hand of the high altar in the cathedralof Toledo, dressed in noble robes, which were regularly changed, and placing in his left hand his swordTizona in its scabbard, and in the right the stringsof his mantle. Ximena retired into the neighbouring monastery, and Gil Diaz, the Cid's secretary,devoted his life to attend upon her, and upon thegood steed Bavieca. Mean while the Cid continuedfor seven years to sit beside the altar. At theexpiration of this period, a false Jew, who had hidhimself in the church to have the pleasure of plucking that beard which was never plucked when itsowner was living, occasioned the body to changeits posture. For the " circumcised dog" had nosooner advanced his unhallowed fingers to thatnoble beard, than the Cid, letting go the strings ofhis mantle, drew his sword a palm's breadth out ofthe sheath. The natural consequence of this wasthe conversion of the Jew. After this miracle, noone ventured to change his dress, or to attempt tosheathe the sword. At length, after sitting tenyears in state without alteration, the nose of the.champion began to change colour. Whether thenoses of the attendants felt any sympathetic affection is not said , but the Cid was removed to a vaultbefore the altar, seated, as before, in his ivory chair,VOL. XVIII. E66 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.with his sword in his hand, and his shield and banner hung upon the walls.Whether the ivory chair decayed faster thanthe Cid we know not; but the body was takenfrom it, placed in a stone coffin, and, after someintermediate translations, finally interred in thechapel of the monastery of Cardena, where " itremains to the present day."We have not room to tell of the godly end ofhis wife Ximena, or the attention bestowed on hishorse Bavieca, who, having comported himself withlaudable spirit and fidelity through the whole ofthis history, of which he forms no very inconsiderable part, was never mounted by any one after hismaster's decease, and was buried before the gate ofthe monastery with the trusty Gil Diaz, his guardian. But we cannot help observing a curiouscoincidence between an ancient Irish romance,called the death of Cucholinn, and the remarkablecirc*mstances said to have attended the funeralrites of the Cid. Cucholinn (the Cuthullin of thepseudo Ossian) was chief of the warriors of theRed Branch, as they were called, and champion ofUlster. He was mortally wounded in a battle,through the wiles of an enchantress called Meive.Feeling death approach, he thus addresses his foster-brother:-" But accompany me, Laogh, to yonder rock, that I maythere die, and make my final departure. Let me be supported by resting my breast against that portion of it which advances fromthe rest; put this sword into my hand, and tie it fast to mywrist, and place my spear and shield as they ought to be; and when my enemies shall see me in that manner, their fearSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF the cid. 67and dread will be still so great, that they will not venture to come and cut off my head, and Connel Cearnach will arrive intime to prevent that body which I quit from being treated with indignity.' Cucholinn walked afterwards towards the rock, andLaogh durst not offer to support him, or draw nigh him, till hehad arrived at the place he had chosen, and rested his breast against that part of the rock which projected as he had remarked;and as he leaned against the rock, he put his hand upon his heart,and uttered a moan, saying, Till this day I vow and swear, by the gods of the elements, that I knew not but that this heart was of iron or stone; and had I thought it to have been of fleshand blood, perhaps half of the feats of chivalry, and of the nobledeeds that I have done, would not have been performed by me!And now, Laogh, when thou seest Eirir, tell her that my affection never hath strayed from her, that through my whole life Ihave loved her alone, nor ever saw that woman I would have exchanged for her. Relate to her, to Conner, to Connel, andto the men of Ulster, my late actions and my past battles; enu- merate to them the numbers I have slain, and the days whereonmy enemies have fallen, either by my sword or the arrows from my quiver, from the rising up until the setting of the sun.'" Laogh obeyed the orders of Cucholinn, and settled him with his face towards the enemy's camp, and placed his spear and shield by his shoulder, and put his sword into his hand as if ready for combat, and as he grasped it, he expired." When Meive and her confederates beheld him placed in that manner, they imagined it was some scheme concerted by Cucholinn to draw them into an ambuscade, and they durst not draw nigh unto him. ' Where is Babh ' ( or Bava) , cried Meive. The sorceress replied, that she was there to fulfill her commands.She sent her therefore to discover if Cucholinn was alive or dead.Bava took the shape of a crow and flew around him; when,having discovered that his spirit was fled, she perched upon hisshield; and when the enemy saw this, they came forward; andwhen they came up to him and found that it was impossible to force his sword out of his hand. Cut the sinews of his wrist,'said Lughy, son of Conrec, and the sword will fall. ' It wasdone; but as it fell down, it cut off the hands of thirty of thesons of their chieftains, who were looking up to behold that deed done, and this was the last exploit that the arms of that hero per- formed. "Leaving it to the antiquaries of Ierne to consi68 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.der whether there is any connexion between thesestories, we hasten to conclude the article with afew short observations on the information whichwe may derive from this curious work.The character of the Cid, who is held up as amodel of perfection, contains many points which seem inconsistent with the more refined notions ofchivalry. We say nothing of the cruelty which the" Perfect One," as the author frequently calls him,practised without compunction, especially towardshis prisoners, whom he usually tortured, to force adiscovery oftheir treasures. And perhaps as thefollowing abominable cruelty was perpetrated oncircumcised infidels, it might not be a great blot inhis escutcheon. It occurred during the siege ofValencia." So he ordered proclamation to be made so loud that all the Moors upon the walls could hear, bidding all who had come out from the town to return into it, or he would burn as many as heshould find; and saying also that he would slay all who came out from that time forth. Nevertheless they continued to letthemselves down from the walls, and the Christians took themwithout his knowledge. But as many as he found he burnt alive before the walls, so that the Moors could see them; in one dayhe burnt eighteen, and cast others alive to the dogs, who tore them in pieces. "-P. 194.This might be all selon les regles; but we alludeto the whole tenor of his policy with the Moorishchiefs of Valencia, which was of a very indirect andcrooked kind, in which his promise was forfeitedmore than once, and to more than one person.This was a breach of honour on the part of the" Happy one, whom God created in a lucky hour,"which seems to derogate from his knightly charac-SOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 69ter. His mode of conducting the charge againstthe Infantes of Carrion, by which he secured restitution before he demanded revenge for his injuredhonour, argues a cool and interested mode of reasonbetter becoming an attorney than a warrior. Allthese are, no doubt, qualified by his extreme andpunctilious loyalty towards the king who had exiledhim; his warm affection for his family; and hisgenerosity to his vassals, and sometimes to his enemies. Yet, upon the whole, the Cid Ruy Diazforms no exception to Froissart's general rule, thatthe knights of Spain had not attained the highestand most refined chivalry practised in France andEngland. And his story leaves us at a loss whetherhe had most of the fox, the tiger, or the lion in hisdisposition; for he seems to have been at least ascrafty and cruel as he was brave. It is also worthyof remarking, that the supreme respect, enjoinedby the laws of knighthood, to the fair sex, does not appear in this romance. The females all act a subordinate part, and that irreconcilable with theirbeing persons of any influence. It may be hardlyfair to quote the beating which the sons-in-law ofthe Cid bestow upon their wives, as proof of gene- ral manners. Yet this castigation, though utterlyextra modum, was not much wondered at, except inrelation to the power and generosity of the Cid,father of the patients. The counts appeal to thewhole cortes, whether they had not a title to beatmaids oflow degree with their girths, and tear themwith their long- rowelled spurs; and issue wasjoined upon an allegation, that the daughters of the70 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Cid were of too high a rank to be subjected to suchdiscipline. Ximena, also, makes a sorry figure inthe tale; she comes before the king to ask the handof the man who had killed her father—a step whichsurely argued a degraded state in society, and awant of free will. The daughters of the Cid are,with little ceremony, and without at all con- verysulting their own choice, bestowed on one set ofhusbands and transferred to another: and, lastly,the passion, or even the word love, does not occurin the whole volume. It is highly probable, that,in this respect, the manners of the Spaniards weretinged by those of their Mahommedan conquerors,from whom they had caught the Oriental contemptof the female sex.Many other marks of resemblance between thosenations might be pointed out; nor indeed, upon thewhole, do the Moors appear to have been a moreunamiable race than the Castilian Christians. Thevolume contains many splendid instances of theirgenerosity and good faith, which are sometimes butindifferently requited by the Christians. It is true,the situation of the Spanish Moors was alreadybecome degraded. They were a luxurious people,broken with domestic factions; split into pettyprincipalities; superior to their Christian foes inthe arts of peace, therefore affording a temptingprospect of plunder; inferior to them in the art ofwar, therefore an easy prey. Accordingly, theywere considered as the common enemy; the ferænaturæ, whom every iron-clad champion had anatural right to hunt down and plunder; while, inSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID, 71obeying so tempting an impulse, he believed himself to be also doing God service.Yet the constant wars between the Spaniardsand the Moors were, from their very continuance,subjected to some degree of rule and moderation.The war was not directed, as in the crusades, tomutual extermination. The Spanish Christianshated the Moors and spoiled them, but their aspectand dress had not for them that novelty which, inthe eyes of other nations, removed the infidelsalmost out of the class of human beings, and addedpeculiar zest to the pleasure of killing them. TheCid, when he had fairly got possession of Valenciaadministered justice indifferently to Moor andChristian; and leaving his " paynim " subjects inpossession of their property, contented himselfwith levying a tithe as an acknowledgment ofsovereignty. Of the Moorish manners we do notlearn much from this curious volume; but thelamentation over the ruin of Valencia (p. 179) is aninteresting specimen of Arabian poetry.It is sufficiently obvious, that whether the historyof the Cid be real or fictitious, it is exceedinglyvaluable as a singular picture of manners of whichwe know little or nothing. The history, however,of the chief of a band of adventurers, making waron his own account, and becoming the prince of aconquered territory, with all his intermediate acts,is not so interesting as to lead us to investigate itsauthenticity. That the Cid was a real existingpersonage, distinguished by his exploits against theMoors, cannot be doubted. But although his history does not present a more romantic air than the72 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANces .real chronicles of the age, and has not above a veryconscionable proportion of miracles and prodigies,there is reason to believe that it is in many particulars fictitious. The conquest of Valencia seems particularly suspicious. In short, the whole may bedismissed with the account given of the adventuresin Montesino's cave, by the ape of Ginez de Passamente, que parte de las cosas son falsas y parte verisimiles.The faults which we have to notice belong tothe style. This is an imitation of that of scripture;it is , we think, sometimes too periphrastical, andsometimes it abounds in unnecessary repetitions.It retains also marks of its derivation from metrical romance in the detail and accumulation ofparticulars, which though sometimes striking, atother times degenerate into mere expletives. Thuswe have a march described with, " Who ever sawin Castile so many a precious mule and so many agood going palfrey, and so many great horses, andso many goodly streamers set up, goodly spears andshields adorned with gold and with silver, and mantles, and skins, and such sandals of Adria." This isall very well and very animated; but why shouldwe again, only six lines below, have a repetition of"many a great mule, and many a palfrey, and manya good horse," &c. &c. &c. As Mr Southey was compiling a history, and not making a literal translation of a single work, he would, we think, have beenjustifiable in compressing one of these descriptions.There are, besides, sundry odd phrases which wecould have wished amended. Thus the pursuersmaking havoc among a flying army, are said toSOUTHEY'S CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 7366 punish them badly; " we have elsewhere " happyman was his dole," and other expressions morevenerable from simplicity than elegance. We darenot proceed too far in these censures, because MrSouthey has informed us, that reviewers, in censuring his introduction of new words, have onlyshowntheir own ignorance ofthe English language.Despite ofthis " retort churlish," however, we mustsay, that if a word be so old that it has become newagain, it is unfit, at least generally speaking, for modern use. We have a title to expect paymentin the current coin of the day, and may exceptagainst that which bears the effigies of King cnu*t,as justly as if it had been struck by Mr Southeyhimself. It also seems to us that the story wouldhave been improved by abridging some of the Cid'scampaigns, if the conscience ofthe editor had permitted him.While we are on the subject of faults, we mayjust remark that Mr Southey appears to have mistaken the sense of two or three Spanish terms;but his knowledge of the language is so deep andextensive, that we must, in justice to him, attributethe oversight to a momentary lapse of attention.But in noticing these defects, we offer our sinceregratitude to Mr Southey for a most entertainingvolume, edited with a degree of taste and learning,which few men in England could have displayed.The introduction and notes are full of the mostample and extraordinary details concerning thestate of Spain in the middle ages, from works ofequal curiosity and scarcity.[ 74 ]

ARTICLE III. SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN.

[The Pilgrim's Progress, with a Life of John Bunyan.By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. LL.D.- Quarterly Review, 1830. ]IT has been the boast of our ancestors to improvethe constitution of their country by the addresswith which they have infused a new spirit into oldinstitutions, like the skilful architect who contrivesto make the turrets of a feudal castle subservientto the accommodations of modern hospitality. Thusit is, that although Gibbon had, with good reason,stigmatized the nature of the task imposed on thepoets laureate during the reign of George III. andhis predecessors, as the establishment of a stipendiary bard, who every year, and under all circ*mstances, was bound to furnish a certain measure ofpraise and verse such as might be sung in presenceof the monarch, the taste of our late amiable sovereign preferred, to the total abolition of the office,SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 75substituting for its old routine of drudgery theoccasional exercise of varied talent and unequallederudition in illustrating the antiquities and peculiarities of our national literature. Nor could MrSouthey have chosen a more interesting point forillustration, than the circ*mstances under whichJohn Bunyan, in spite of a clownish and vulgareducation, rose into a degree of popularity scarceequalled by any English writer.This " Spenser of the people," as Mr D'Israelihappily calls him, was born at Elstow, near Bedford, in the year 1628. His parents were themeanest, according to his own expression, of allfamilies in the land. They were workers in brass,or, in common parlance, tinkers, whose professionbore to that of a brazier the same relation whichthe cobbler's does to the shoemaker's. It was notfollowed, however, by Bunyan's father as an itinerantcalling, which leads Mr Southey to wonder why it should have come to be esteemed so mean. Webelieve the reason to be that the tinkers' craft is, inGreat Britain, commonly practised by gipsies; andwe surmise the probability that Bunyan's ownfamily, though reclaimed and settled, might havesprung from this caste of vagabonds; that they werenot, at all events, originally English, would seemthe most natural explanation of young John's askinghis father, whether he was not of Jewish extraction? (expecting thereby to found on the promisesmade in the Old Testament to the seed of Abraham).Ofgipsy descent or otherwise, Bunyan was bred76 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.up with, and speedily forgot, the slender proportionof schooling then accessible to the children of thepoor in England. He was by nature of enthusiastic feelings, and so soon as the subject of religionbegan to fix his attention, his mind appears to havebeen agonized with the retrospect of a mispentyouth. A quick and powerful imagination was atwork on a tender conscience; for it would appearthat his worst excesses fell far short of that utterreprobation to which he conceived them entitled.The young tinker, in the wildest period of his life,had never been addicted to intemperance, or tounlawful intercourse with women. He seems tohave wrought for his family as an honest and industrious man, and early became the affectionate husband of a deserving wife. His looser habits, inshort, seem only to have been those which everyignorant and careless young fellow, of the lowestranks, falls into; and, probably, profane swearing,sabbath-breaking, and a mind addicted to the gamesand idle sports of Vanity Fair, were the most important stains upon the character of his youth:-as Mr Southey sums it up, John Bunyan had beena blackguard. Repentance, however, in proportionto the imaginative power of the mind which itagitates, regards past offences with a microscopiceye; nor can we wonder that such an ardent spirit,speaking, in his own energetic language, of hisyouthful faults, should paint them in blacker coloursthan the truth authorized. Bunyan had practisednone of those debaucheries by which the heart ofthe epicurean is hardened against all feelings saveSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 77those which can tend to his own gratification; andif he had lost the valuable time for instructionafforded by the Christian Sabbath, the hours hadbeen given to folly rather than to vice. We arefar, indeed, from desiring to treat these errors withindifference, they are those with which crimealmost always begins its career. But it is interesting to discover the exact amount of transgressionfor which this strong mind was afflicted with thedeepest agonies of remorse.When it pleased Heaven to awaken this remarkable man to a sense of his own iniquities, the greatCivil War was fast approaching; " the land wasburning." The nation was divided at once respecting the best form of government for their protection on this side time, and the surest means bywhich they might obtain felicity hereafter. OfJohn Bunyan's politics we know nothing, exceptthat he was enrolled for a short time in the Parliamentary army-of his spiritual experience hehas left an ample record. A few pious persons,with whom he became acquainted, were of thesect called Baptists, and were esteemed by thenew convert, who heard them talk of the mysteriesof our religion with joy, hope, and comfort, as aspecies of saints whose confidence and serenityargued the security of their calling and election;while, on his own condition and prospects, he couldlook only with a sensation resembling despair.Such views, natural to an ardent and enthusiastic mind, upon the first awakening of the feelingsof conscience, were encouraged by the strict ideas78 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.of Calvinistic predestination, which formed thefoundation of the creed of Bunyan's sectarianfriends. He has described at length the wildtumult of his thoughts, when endeavouring todetermine a point which all the schoolmen on earthmust be inadequate to solve, and in the course ofthis fearful state of mind Mr Southey traces thegerm of the Pilgrim's Progress. In a species ofvision or waking reverie, he compared his ownanxious condition with the sanctified repose of themembers of the little Baptist congregation whichhe had joined." I saw, ' he says, ' as if they were on the sunny side of some high mountain, there refreshing themselves with the pleasant beams of the sun, while I was shivering and shrinking in the cold, afflicted with frost, snow, and dark clouds. Methought also betwixt me and them, I saw a wall that did compass about thismountain; now through this wall my soul did greatly desire to pass; concluding that if I could, I would even go into the very midst of them, and there also comfort myself with the heat of their sun. About this wall I thought myself to go again andagain, still prying as I went, to see if I could find some way or passage, by which I might enter therein; but none could I find for some time. At the last I saw, as it were, a narrow gap, likea little doorway in the wall, through which I attempted to pass.Now the passage being very strait and narrow, I made many offers to get in, but all in vain, even until I was wellnigh quite beat out by striving to get in. At last with great striving, methought I at first did get in my head; and after that, by a sideling striving, my shoulders, and my whole body: then was I exceeding glad, went and sat down in the midst of them, and so was comforted with the light and heat of their sun. Nowthe mountain and wall,&c., were thus made out to me. The mountain signified theChurch of the living God; the sun that shone thereon, the com- fortable shining of his merciful face on them that were within:the wall, I thought, was the word, that did make separation be- tween the Christians and the world; and the gap which was in the wall, I thought, was Jesus Christ, who is in the way to GodSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 79the Father. But forasmuch as the passage was wonderful narrow, even so narrow, that I could not but with great difficulty enter in thereat, it showed me that none could enter into life butthose that were in downright earnest; and unless also they left that wicked world behind them; for here was only room for bodyand soul, but not for body and soul and sin. ' "-P. xix.Doubts, qualms, fears, returned upon him, notwithstanding the metaphorical assurance which thisvision had conveyed to his mind. Whatever wildand wayward shadow streamed across the restlessregion of his thoughts, was arrested like a suspicious-looking person in a besieged city, broughtto account for itself, and treated with an attentionwhich the mere suggestion of casual fancy couldhardly deserve. It is perhaps in this sense that thehuman heart is said in scripture to be abominablywicked, since not only without our will, but in positive opposition to our best exertions, sinful suggestions profane the thoughts of the wisest, andfoul emotions sully the heart of the most pure.The wise and well- informed shrink with horrorfrom the phantoms of guilt which thus intrudethemselves, and pray to Heaven for strength toenable them to reject such pollution from theirthoughts, and for power to fix their attention uponbetter objects. But the dark dread of his possible exclusion from the pale of the righteous rushedever and anon with such vivid force on the mindof the unfortunate Bunyan, as to make him acceptfor fatal arguments against himself, the wildestand most transitory coinage of his own fancy, while,to fill up every pause, he was tortured by the equallyterrible suspicion that he was guilty of the most80 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.unpardonable of crimes, as an habitual doubter ofthe efficacy of divine grace." In an evil hour (says Southey) were the doctrines of the Gospel sophisticated with questions which should have been leftin the schools for those who are unwise enough to employ themselves in excogitations of useless subtlety! Many are the poor creatures whom such questions have driven to despair and madness, and suicide; and no one ever more narrowly escaped from such a catastrophe than Bunyan. "In this state of anxiety and agony, the victim ofhis own ingenuity in self-torment, unable to escapefrom the idea that he was forsaken of God-thathe was predestined to eternal reprobation-thatthe scriptures, the source of joy and comfort toothers, were to him only as a roll like that seen byEzekiel, full of curses and denunciations of evilJohn Bunyan was at length induced to lay his caseopen to the teacher of the anabaptist congregation-Gifford by name, a good man, we doubt not, butlittle qualified to give sound advice to such a mindso tortured . He had been a soldier among theroyalists, and a sad profligate, and was now settleddown into about as wild an enthusiastic as our tinkerhimself. He advised his proselyte to receive noreligious conviction or calling as indisputable, whichhad not been confirmed to his individual self byevidence from Heaven!Bunyan had ere now formed to himself an hypothesis accounting for the blasphemous thoughtswhich distracted his mind, imputing them, in short,to the immediate suggestion of the devil; and howhe clung to it we may discover from one strikingpassage in Christian's progress through the Valleyof the Shadow of Death. -SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 81" One thing I would not let slip: I took notice that now poor Christian was so confounded, that he did not know hisown voice; and thus I perceived it just when he was comeover against the mouth of the burning pit, one of the wicked ones got behind him, and stepped up softly to him, and whis- peringly suggested many grievous blasphemies to him, which heverily thought had proceeded from his own mind. This put Chris- tian more to it than any thing that he met with before, evento think that he should now blaspheme him that he loved so much before yet, if he could have helped it, he would not have done it; but he had not the discretion either to stop his ears, or toknow from whence these blasphemies came. "-P. 83.Thus furnished with a theory to account for theblack suggestions which (as he says) he dared notto utter, either with word or pen, Bunyan was nowtaught by his mistaken pastor to look for a counterbalance in the equally direct inspirations of Heaven.So strong is the power of the human imagination,that he who seriously expects to see miracles, doesnot long expect them in vain. He spent hours indebating whether, in the strength of newly adoptedfaith, he should not command the puddles on thehighway to be dry, and the dry places to be wet; andif he shrunk from so presumptuous an experiment,it was only because he had not courage to think offacing the despair which must have ensued, if thesign, which he would fain have demanded, hadbeen refused to his prayer. Mr Southey thus describes his condition, while engaged in balancingthe support and comfort which he received fromHeaven with the discountenance and criminal suggestions inspired by the enemy of mankind:-" Shaken continually thus by the hot and cold fits of a spiri- tual ague, his imagination was wrought to a state of excitement inVOL. XVIII. F82 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.which its own shapings became vivid as realities, and affected him more forcibly than impressions from the external world. He heard sounds as in a dream; and as in a dream held conversations which were inwardly audible, though no sounds were utter- ed, and had all the connexion and coherency of an actual dialogue.Real they were to him in the impression which they made, and in their lasting effect; and even afterwards, when his soul was at peace, he believed them, in cool and sober reflection , to havebeen more than natural. Some days he was much followed,' hesays, by these words of the Gospel, Simon, Simon, behold Satan hath desired to have you! ' He knew that it was a voicefrom within, and yet it was so articulately distinct, so loud, and called , as he says, so strongly after him, that once in particular,when the words Simon! Simon! rung in his ears, he verilythought some man had called to him from a distance behind, andthough it was not his name, supposed nevertheless that it was addressed to him, and looked round suddenly to see by whom.As this had been the loudest, so it was the last time that the callsounded in his ears; and he imputes it to his ignorance and fool- ishness at that time, that he knew not the reason of it; for soon,he says, he was feelingly convinced that it was sent from heaven,as an alarm, for him to provide against the coming storm, -astorm which handled him twenty times worse than all he had met with before. " "-P. 25.The hideous apprehensions of unpardonablecrimes committed, and eternal judgment incurred,were from time to time dispelled by texts and promises of scripture, borne in upon the mind of thesufferer with a force so totally irresistible, as, tohim at least, had the appearance of undoubted inspiration; and in these violent alternations of moodpassed nearly three years of Bunyan's life. Heattained at length a more tranquil state of spiritfrom the practice which he finally adopted, of reading over his Bible with the utmost care and attention, observing how the different passages boreupon and explained each other; and, to use his ownexpression, " with careful heart and watchful eye,SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 83with great fearfulness to turn over every leaf, andwith much diligence, mixed with trembling, to consider every sentence with its natural force and latitude." The result of this minute and systematicinvestigation of the scriptures could not but havehad a tranquillizing and composing effect on themind of a man, whose sum of guilt consisted ratherin the involuntary intrusion of wicked thoughts,than in the breaking of any known laws or desertion of any acknowledged duty; for his youthfulsins of ignorance had been long ere now renounced. He now looked upon the gospel system withmore comprehensive views-" he saw that it wasgood; " and although he retained highly enthusiastic opinions concerning the earlier part of his religious career, the same doubts and difficulties do notseem to have disturbed his more advanced or hisclosing life.Mr Scott, a former editor of the Pilgrim's Progress, thought it not advisable to dwell upon thefanaticism which characterises the first part of Bunyan's religious life. Mr Southey, on the contrary,is of opinion, that" His character would be imperfectly understood, and could notbe justly appreciated, if this part of his history were kept out ofsight. To respect him as he deserves-to admire him as he oughtto be admired- it is necessary that we should be informed, notonly of the coarseness and brutality of his youth, but of the extreme ignorance out of which he worked his way, and the stageof burning enthusiasm through which he passed-a passage notless terrible than that of his own Pilgrim in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. "-P. xiv.We are much of the opinion thus forcibly expressed. The history of a man so distinguished by84 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.natural talents as Bunyan, is connected with that ofhis age; nor can we so well conceive the dangersof fanaticism, as when we behold the struggles ofso pure and so powerful a spirit involved in its toils.It may be easily supposed, that, of those aroundhim, there were many who fell into the same temptations, and struggled with them in vain; and that,in not a few instances, the doctrine which summonedall men to the exercise of the private judgment, asit was called, led the way to the wildest, mostblasphemous, and most fatal excesses . Don Quixote'sbalsam was not a more perilous medicine.Of this Southey gives one instance, in the caseof a poor man, who, having the merit of beingamongst the first whose conversation called Bunyanto a sense of religion, was himself so unable to endure the illumination of which he conveyed theearliest spark to so notable a person, that he becamea Ranter, and wallowed in the foulest vice, as onewho imagined himself secure of his election, andwhom, consequently, the grossest sin could notdebar from predestined happiness. This unfortunate man loved to tell Bunyan that he had runthrough all religions, and, in his persuasion, hadfallen upon the right way at last; a way, namely,which, in assuring to him an unalienable right toheaven, freed him from observing any limits in theindulgence of his passions during the time he remained on earth. Another instance of the moraldanger of indulging such reveries as wrecked thepeace ofBunyan for three years, though, fortunately,they were unable either to corrupt his heart, or toSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 85unsettle his reason, was seen in one of his contemporaries, Lawrence Claxton by name, whose raretreatise, containing the impudent avowal of hisvicious life, lies nowbefore us, and is so apposite tothe subject as to claim some notice.This personwas prevailed upon, so late as 1660, at the instigation, he says, " of a man of no mean parts orparentage in this Reason's Kingdom, who had muchimportuned him to that effect, to publish the variousleadings forth of his spirit through each dispensation, from the year 1630 to the year 1660; " inorder that, as Mr Claxton expresses it, " he mightappear stripped stark naked of his former formalrighteousness and professed wickedness, and, instead thereof, clothed with innocency of life, perfectassurance, and sight for discerning by the spirit ofthe Revelation." Our limits, as well as our inclinations, render it impossible for us to give more thana very general analysis. Some of Claxton's debaucheries are too coarse and indecent to permitthem being more than indicated. Yet it may notbe useless to trace the career of a man, who startedunder a vague apprehension of an extreme tender1 This rare tract is termed, at length, " The Lost Sheep Found; or the Prodigal returned to his Father's House, aftermany a sad and weary Journey through many Religious Countries.Where now, notwithstanding all his former Transgressions and Breach of his Father's commands, he is received in all EternalFavours, and all the Righteous and Wicked Men that he hath left behind reserved for Eternal Mercy. As, also, every Church orDispensation may read, in his Travels, their portion after this Life. By Lawrence Claxton, the only true converted Messengerof Jesus Christ, Creator of Heaven and Earth. London, printed for the Author, 1660."186 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ness of conscience, afflicted " with the toleration ofMaypole-dancing and rioting," and ascended fromone flight to another till he became, in principle, amaterialist, almost an atheist, and in practice acoarse and profligate latitudinarian.His reformation commenced with an abhorrenceto railed altars, the Common Prayer- Book, and the" Practice of Piety," together with an envy ofthoseof his own sentiments who exercised with credita gift of extemporary prayer. In a word, he wasa Presbyterian puritan. His next quarrel was withthe Presbyterians themselves, whose system, henow perceived, differed only from the Episcopal ina few insignificant rites and ceremonies. He alsowas, or affected to be, displeased with their eagerness in pressing on the Civil War. He therefore leftthem for the Independents; and, attaching himselfparticularly to one Dr Crisp, became an antinomian,or express disciple of those who protested againstbeing still considered as under the law of the decalogue. Presently, however, Lawrence Claxtondiscovered that, as he phrases it, he was still burning bricks in Egypt, and had not as yet comewithin view of that uncirc*mscribed liberty of conscience which it was his aim to obtain. Hereuponhe took to the pulpit; where, if his own word canbe taken, he turned out not inferior to any preacherof that time. By-and-bye he was put in possessionof a parish named Pulem, with a pension of fortyshillings weekly; in which position, as he expresseshimself, he thought himself very gallantly providedfor; 66 so that," says he, " I thought I was in heavenSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 87upon earth; judging, the priests had a brave timein this world, to have a house built for them, andmeans provided for them, to tell the people storiesof other men's works." But from this paradise hewas removed in about half- a- year, by the envy ofthe neighbouring clergy, as he insinuates, who calledhim sheep-stealer, for robbing them of their flocksby his superior gifts. His character had probablyovertaken him, for his congregation and he partedwith contempt on both sides.The fifth stage of his history exhibits Claxtonas leading a rambling unsettled life, in the courseof which he commenced Dipper or Anabaptist.He resided at Robert Marchant's, who had fourdaughters, of which he seems to have had thehandsomest for his wife or concubine. Claxtonwas now apprehended by Parliament; but afterremaining in custody six months, it appears heformally renounced the practice of dipping, and bythis sacrifice of his opinions procured his liberty.Sixthly, he joined a society of people calledSeekers, who worshipped only by prayer andpreaching; in which new character he sent out abook, having something in the title analogous tothe celebrated work of Bunyan, to wit, " The Pilgrimage of Saints, by Church cast out, in Christfound seeking truth." "This being," he says,suitable piece of work in these days, wounded thechurchers." At length this unhappy man came thelength of affirming, that it was thought and notaction which constituted guilt, and therefore if onepractised any unlawful act under the belief that it“ a88 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.was no sin, to him it became pure and lawful. Hewas now what was called a Ranter, and chief ofa company who professed and practised, alwaysunder an affectation of religion, the grossest immorality; they had attained, they thought, in thisoutrageous license, the true privilege of enlightenedminds. The ground of Claxton's faith at this periodwas, that all things being created originally good,nothing was evil but as the opinion of men madeit so; under which belief he apprehended therewas no such thing as a theft, a cheat, or a lie,and accordingly (murder excepted) this preciousproselyte broke the law in every respect withoutscruple. If the least doubt entered his mind hewashed it away, he tells us, with a cup of wine.In London, with his female associates, he spenthis time in feasting and drinking, " so that tavernsI called the house of God, the drawers ministers,and sack divinity." This extravagant conduct oncemore scandalized and offended the Parliament,especially the Presbyterians; Claxton was againtaken into custody, and at length formally banishedfrom the British islands.He escaped, however, and forthwith endeavoured to conceal himself under another species ofimposture, he aspired to the art of magic, and having found, as he says, -" Some of Dr Ward's and Woolerd's manuscripts, I improvedmy genius to fetch back goods that were stolen-yea, to raise spirits, and fetch treasure out of the earth. However, miseries I gained, and was up and down looked upon as a dangerous man;and therefore have several times in vain attempted to raise the devil, that I might see what like he was, but all in vain; so thatSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 89I judged all was a lie, and that there was no devil at all, nor,indeed, no God neither, save one, Nature."Our philosopher, in short, had now found outthat the Scriptures were contradictory, that theworld was eternal, and arrived at the point of believing neither in revelation, redemption, nor resurrection. To this dreadful result was he conductedby the bewildered principles of his metaphysicaltheology, though he does not stop there any morethan at any former stage of his deluded journey,but settles in becoming a follower of the prophetReeves, and, as he has the audacity to call himself, " the only true converted messenger of theDeity." Such were the effects on different menof the then prevailing audacity of fanaticism.The same course of study which all but fixedBunyan in religious despair, hurried into profligacy and atheism the less favourably constitutedmind of Claxton.The religious terrors of Bunyan had been considerably checked by his constant course of scriptural study; but there can be no doubt that heowed much to a new occupation, which necessarilyfixed his attention upon the minds of others, insteadof permitting him to indulge in his own reveries.His habitual serious habits and undenied purity oflife had not escaped the observation of the congregation of which he was a member, who passed aresolution, after the death of their pastor, Gifford,that some of the brethren (one at a time, as is notinjudiciously provided), to whom the Lord mayhave given a gift, and among others, John Bunyan,90 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.be called forth to speak a word or two for mutualedification. Full of scriptural thoughts and language, and having the Scriptures themselves atcommand, the author of the Pilgrim's Progress,was, nevertheless, totally void of that confidencewhich made so many in those days rush per saltumon the task ofthe preacher. He laboured painfullythat he might speak persuasively. His attentionto his new duties seems, in some degree, to haverelieved his own dubious state of mind; yet heflinched not from the task of preaching the sameseverely Calvinistic doctrine under the strictness ofwhich he himself still groaned internally. The following are his own remarkable expressions:—" This part of my work, ' says he, I fulfilled with great sense; for the terrors of the law, and guilt for my transgressions,lay heavy upon my conscience. I preached what I felt what Ismartingly did feel-even that under which my poor soul did groan and tremble to astonishment. Indeed, I have been as one sent to them from the dead. I went myself in chains to preach tothem in chains; and carried that fire in my own conscience that Ipersuaded them to be aware of. I can truly say, that when Ihave been to preach, I have gone full of guilt and terror even tothe pulpit door, and there it hath been taken off, and I have been at liberty in my mind until I have done my work; and then immediately, even before I could get down the pulpit stairs,I have been as bad as I was before. Yet God carried me on, butsurely with a strong hand; for neither guilt nor hell could take me off my work.""-P. xlviii.Besides his preaching, in which he seems nowto have acted as a kind of volunteer auxiliaryto one John Burton, he was also engaged in religious controversy, and that with the then franticQuakers, who, thanks to time and toleration, havenow settled down into the gentlest and mildest ofSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 91religionists. Bunyan accused the Quakers ofdenying some of the most essential doctrines of Christianity; and Edward Burroughs, his antagonist,objected to our author his taking reward for hisservices, and going shares with his principal, Burton, in £150 , which he affirms was received asthat pastor's yearly salary. To this charge Bunyan returned an explicit denial, alleging that hewrought with his hands for his daily living, and forthat of his family, and solemnly affirming, that hedistributed the knowledge which God had givenhim freely, and not for filthy lucre's sake.The Quakers could only attack his principlesand his character; but the persecuting spirit whichhad, by a not unnatural reaction, taken possessionfor a time of the government, imposed direct personal and penal consequences for nonconformity.Considerable efforts were made after the restoration for the suppression of these sectaries, whowere held as the principal cause of the late civilwar, and of the death of Charles I. John Bunyanwas cited before the justices as a person in thehabit ofgoing about preaching, although the chargedoes not appear to have been mingled with anyspecific impeachment of his political or religiousopinions. He refused to find security to abstainfrom his itinerant ministry, and he was, of course,sent to prison, resigned and contented with hiscaptivity, so-" it might be the awakening of thesaints in the country, or otherwise serve the causeof vital religion." The fruit of his submission tothe will of God was probably a state of peace of92 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.mind and contentment, such as in his lifetime hehad not hitherto enjoyed.This persecution was no sudden storm, whichwas to pour forth its violence, and then be hushedto rest. Bunyan dwelt no less than twelve yearsin Bedford jail rather than surrender the liberty ofpreaching, which he considered as his birth-right;and the manner in which he employed his leisureduring this seclusion constitutes his great distinction as a benefactor to the Christian world; this hehas expressed himself, in the first sentence of hismemorable work:-" As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain placewhere there was a den, where I laid me down tosleep; and as I slept I dreamed a dream." Theallegorical den is on the margin explained to betheprison where the author sustained so many years'confinement.It is true, Bunyan's captivity was neither rigor- ous nor continued. He was, indeed, deprived ofthe power of working at his usual occupation of atinker. " He was as effectually taken away fromhis pots and kettles," says one of his former biographers, "as the Apostles were from mendingtheir nets; " but he learned to make tagged threadlaces, and thus supported his family by the labourof his hands. The jailer of Bedford was a " gentleprovost," and at length he indulged his respectedprisoner with all, and more than all, the libertywhich he could grant with safety to himself. JohnBunyan was suffered to go abroad a pleasure,visited the various assemblies of his sect, and wasSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 93actually chosen pastor of the Anabaptist congregation in the town. He accepted the office, and being thus only a prisoner on parole, he appears tohave been able to exercise its duties freely andusefully-for as it is well expressed by Mr Southey "the fever of his enthusiasm had spent itself;the asperity of his opinions had softened as hismind enlarged."About sixteen years before his death, in 1672,he was at length released entirely from a confinement which, for at least five years, had been in agreat degree nominal. After this his life passedsmoothly. His reputation as a preacher stood veryhigh, even in the metropolis, where the chapelswere crowded to overflowing when his appearancewas expected. A chapel was built for him nearBedford, and he often frequented another at aplace called Bentick, where the pulpit which heused is still preserved with pious care. We cannot see in the sermons which Bunyan has left anystrong marks of the genius which he really possessed, but the fashion of them is strange to thepresent day. His elocution must have been warmand fervent; and he himself even distrusted thedegree of applause which he excited." One day when he had preached with peculiar warmth and enlargement,' some of his friends came to shake hands with him after the service, and observed to him what a sweet sermon ' he had delivered. 6 Ay! ' he replied, you need not remind me of that; for the Devil told me of it before I was out of the pulpit.' This anecdote authenticates itself. "6He died at no very late period of life, from theconsequences of a labour of friendship. He had94 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.undertaken a journey to prevail upon a friend notto disinherit his son; caught cold in returning toLondon, and was carried off by a fever.epitaph is in these words: -His" Mr. John Bunyan, Author of the Pilgrim's Progress . ob.12 Aug. 1688, æt. 60.The Pilgrim's Progress now is finished,And death has laid him in his earthly bed. "Of the first appearance of this celebrated parable, Mr Southey's diligence has preserved thefollowing notices:-" It is not known in what year the Pilgrim's Progress was first published, no copy of the first edition having as yet been discovered the second is in the British Museum; it is " with additions," and its date is 1678: but as the book is known to have been written during Bunyan's imprisonment, which termi- nated in 1672, it was probably published before his release, or,at latest, immediately after it. The earliest with which Mr Major has been able to supply me, either by means of his own diligent inquiries, or the kindness of his friends, is that eighth e-di-ti- on ' so humorously introduced by Gay, and printed, -not for Ni- cho- las Bod- ding- ton, but for Nathanael Ponder, at the Peaco*ck in the Poultrey, near the Church, 1682; for whom also the ninth was published in 1684, and the tenth in 1685.All these no doubt were large impressions. "When the astonishing success of the Pilgrim'sProgress had raised a swarm of imitators, theauthor himself, according to the frequent fashionof the world, was accused of plagiarism, to whichhe made an indignant reply, in what he consideredas verses, prefixed to his Holy War." Some say the Pilgrim's Progress is not mine,Insinuating as if I would shineIn name and fame by the worth of another,Like some made rich by robbing of their brother;Or that so fond I am of being Sire,I'll father bastards; or, if need require,SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 95I'll tell a lye in print, to get applause.- I scorn it; John such dirt-heap never was,Since God converted him. Let this sufficeTo show why I my Pilgrim patronise." It came from mine own heart, so to my head,And thence into my fingers trickled;Then to my pen, from whence immediately On paper I did dribble it daintily. "-P. lxxxix.Mr Southey has carefully examined this chargeof supposed imitation, in which so much rests uponthe very simplicity of the conception of the story,and has successfully shown that the tinker ofElstow could not have profited by one or twoallegories in the French and Flemish languagesworks which he could have had hardly a chance tomeet with; which, if thrown in his way he couldnot have read; and, finally, which, if he had readthem, could scarcely have supplied him with asingle hint. Mr Southey, however, has not mentioned a work in English, of Bunyan's own time,and from which, certainly, the general notion ofhis allegory might have been taken. The work weallude to is now before us, entitled " The Parableof the Pilgrim, written to a friend, by SymonPatrick, D. D., Dean of Peterborough; " thesame learned person, well known by his theological writings, and successively bishop of Chichesterand Ely. This worthy man's inscription is datedthe 14th of December, 1672; and Mr Southey'swidest conjecture will hardly allow an earlier datefor Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 1672 being thevery year in which he was enlarged from prison.The language of Dr Patrick, in addressing his96 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.friend, excludes the possibility of his having borrowed from John Bunyan's celebrated work. Heapologizes for sending to his acquaintance one inthe old fashioned dress of a pilgrim; and says hefound among the works of a late writer, Baker'sSancta Sophia, a short discourse, under the nameof a Parable of a Pilgrim; " which was so agreeable to the portion of fancy he was endowed with,that he presently thought that a work of thisnature would be very grateful to his friend also."It appears that the Parable of a Pilgrim, sosketched by Dr Patrick, remained for some yearsin the possession of the private friend for whomit was drawn up, until, it being supposed by othersthat the work might be of general utility, it wasat length published in 1678. Before that yearthe first edition of the Pilgrim's Progress hadunquestionably made its appearance; but we equallyacquit the Dean of Peterborough and the tinker ofElstow from copying a thought or idea from eachother. If Dr Patrick had seen the Pilgrim'sProgress he would, probably, in the pride of academic learning, have scorned to adopt it as amodel; but, at all events, as a man of worth, hewould never have denied the obligation if he had incurred one. John Bunyan, on his part, wouldin all likelihood have scorned, " with his veryheels," to borrow any thing from a dean; and weare satisfied that he would have cut his hand offrather than written the introductory verses wehave quoted, had not his Pilgrim been entirely his own.SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 97Indeed, whoever will take the trouble of comparing the two works which, turning upon nearlythe same allegory, and bearing very similar titles,came into existence at or about the very same time,will plainly see their total dissimilarity. Bunyan'sis a close and continued allegory, in which the metaphorical fiction is sustained with all the minuteness of a real story. In Dr Patrick's the sameplan is generally announced as arising from theearnest longing of a traveller, whom he calls Philotheus or Theophilus, whose desires are fixed onjourneying to Jerusalem as a pilgrim. After muchdistressing uncertainty, caused by the contentionsof pretended guides, who recommend differentroutes, he is at length recommended to a safe andintelligent one. Theophilus hastens to put himselfunder his pilotage, and the good man gives forthhis instructions for the way, and in abundant detail, so that all the dangers of error and indifferentcompany may be securely avoided; but in all this,very little care is taken even to preserve the appearance of the allegory-in a word, you have,almost in plain terms, the moral and religious precepts necessary to be observed in the actual courseof a moral and religious life. The pilgrim, indeed,sets out upon his journey, but it is only in orderagain to meet with his guide, who launches furtherinto whole chapters of instructions, with scarcely areply from the passive pupil. It is needless topoint out the extreme difference between this strainof continued didactics, rather encumbered than enlivened by a starting metaphor, which, generallyVOL. XVIII. G98 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.1quite lost sight of, the author recollects every nowand then, as if by accident, and the thoroughlylife-like manner in which John Bunyan puts theadventures of his pilgrim before us. Two circ*mstances alone strike us as trenching somewhat onthe manner of him of Elstow: the one is wherethe guide awakens some sluggish pilgrims, whomhe finds sleeping by the way; the other, is wheretheir way is crossed by two horsem*n, who insistupon assuming the office of guide. " The one isa pleasing talker, excellent company by reason ofhis pleasant humour, and of a carriage very pleasant and inviting. But they observed he had asword by his side, and a pair of pistols before him,together with another instrument hanging at hisbelt, which was formed for pulling out of eyes."The pilgrims suspected this well- armed cavalier to be one of that brood who will force others into theirown path, and then put out their eyes in case theyshould forsake it. They have not got rid of theirdangerous companion, by whom the Romish churchis indicated, when they are accosted by a man ofa quite different shape and humour, " more sad andmelancholy, more rude, and of a heavier wit also,who crossed their way on the right hand." Healso (representing, doubtless, the Presbyterians orSectaries) pressed them with eagerness to accepthis guidance, and did little less than menace: themwith total destruction if they should reject it. Adagger and a pocket-pistol, though less openly and1 Parable of the Pilgrim, Chapter xxx.

• Ibidem, Chapter xxxiv.

222SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 99ostentatiously disposed than the arms of the firstcavalier, seem ready for the same purposes; andhe, therefore, is repulsed, as well as his neighbour.These are the only passages in which the churchdignitary might be thought to have caught for amoment the spirit of the tinker of Bedford.Through the rest of his parable, which fills a wellsized quarto volume, the dean no doubt evincesconsiderable learning, but, compared to Bunyan,may rank with the dullest of all possible doctors;" a worthy neighbour, indeed, and a marvellousgood bowler, but for Alexander, you see how'tis."Yet Dr Patrick had the applause of his own time.The first edition of his Parable appeared, as hasbeen mentioned, in 1678; and the sixth, which nowlies before us, is dated 1687.¹Mr Southey introduces the following just eulogium on our classic of the common people: -66says,Bunyan was confident in his own powers of expression; hethine only way Before them all, is to say out thy say In thine own native language, which no man Now useth, nor with ease dissemble can.'And he might well be confident in it. His is a homespun style,not a manufactured one: and what a difference is there betweenits homeliness, and the flippant vulgarity ofthe Roger L'Estrange and Tom Brown school! If it is not a well of English undefiled,to which the poet as well as the philologist must repair, if they would drink of the living waters, it is a clear stream of current English, the vernacular speech of his age, sometimes indeed1 The Poet Laureat may, perhaps, like to hear that Dr Patrick in- troduces into his parable a very tolerable edition of that legend of the roasted fowls recalled to life by St James of Compostella, of which hehimself has recently given us so lively and amusing a metrical version.100 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.in its rusticity and coarseness, but always in its plainness and its strength. To this natural style Bunyan is in some degree beholden for his general popularity; -his language is every where level to the most ignorant reader, and to the meanest capacity:there is a homely reality about it; a nursery tale is not more in- telligible, in its manner of narration , to a child. Another causeof his popularity is, that he taxes the imagination as little as the understanding. The vividness of his own, which, as his historyshows, sometimes could not distinguish ideal impressions from actual ones, occasioned this. He saw the things of which he waswriting as distinctly with his mind's eye as if they were indeed passing before him in a dream. And the reader perhaps seesthem more satisfactorily to himself, because the outline only of the picture is presented to him, and the author having made noattempt to fill up the details, every reader supplies them according to the measure and scope of his own intellectual and imaginative powers. "-Pp. lxxxviii. lxxxix.It may be added, to these judicious remarks, thatthe most pleasing occupation of the fine arts beingto awaken and excite the imagination, sketches indrawing, simple melodies in music, a bold, decisive,but light- touched strain of poetry or narrative inliterary composition (like what is called in thegreen-room the touch and go method of acting),will always be more likely to gain extensive popularity than any more highly-wrought performance,which aspires to afford the mind no exercise savethat of admiration, which pretends at once to rousecuriosity by the outline, and to satiate it by distinct,accurate circ*mstantiality of detail. To understandthis, we need only remember having been the visiter of some celebrated scene of natural beauty, under the close guardianship of a pragmatical guide,who will let you find out nothing independent ofhim, and is so anxious that you should leave nothingunseen, that he makes you almost wish yourselfSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 101both deaf and blind, that you may neither hear hisinstructions nor profit by them. The true rule ofgrace in description and narrative-the ne quidnimis-is one which genius often neglects in itspride of luxuriance, and seldom without paying thepenalty in popular opinion.It is not, however, the words and manner of thePilgrim's Progress alone which have raised thatsingular allegory to so high a rank among our general readers. The form and style of composition issafely referred to the highest authority—"WHO spake in parables, I dare not say,But sure He knew it was a pleasing way. "And, without dwelling on the precedent suggestedby the poet, we may observe how often the allegory, or parable, has gained, without suspicion, thosepasses of the human heart which were vigilantlyguarded against the direct force of truth by selfinterest, prejudice, or pride. When the prophetapproached the sinful monarch with the intention ofreproving his murder and adultery, a direct annunciation of his purpose might have awakened theking to wrath, instead of that penitence to which itwas the will of Heaven that he should be invited.But David listened unsuspectingly to the parableof the ewe-lamb; and it was not till the awfulwords-" Thou art the man"-were uttered, thathe found the crime which he had so readily condemned was, in fact, the type of that which he hadhimself committed. In this respect, the comparingthe parable with the real facts which it intimates, islike the practice of the artists to examine the reflec-102 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.tion of their paintings in a mirror, that they mayget clear of false lights and shadows, and judge oftheir compositions more accurately by seeing thempresented under a change of light and circ*mstances. But, besides the moral uses of this species ofcomposition, it has much in it to exercise thosefaculties of the human mind which it is most agreeable to keep in motion. Our judgment is engagedin weighing and measuring the points of similaritybetween the reality and the metaphor as theseevolve themselves, and fancy is no less amused bythe unexpected, surprising, and, we may even say,the witty turns of thought, through means of whichassociations are produced between things which, inthemselves, seemed diametrically opposed and irreconcilable, but which the allegorist has contrivedshould nevertheless illustrate each other. In somecases, the parable possesses the interest of the riddle itself; the examination and solution of whichare so interesting to the human intellect, that thehistory and religious doctrines of ancient nationswere often at once preserved and disguised in theform of such ænigmata.In a style of composition, rendered thus venerable by its antiquity, and still more so by the purposes to which it has been applied, John Bunyan,however uneducated, was a distinguished master.For our part, we are inclined to allow him, in thesimplicity of his story, and his very shrewdness,and, if the reader pleases, homely bluntness of style,a superiority over the great poet to whom he hasbeen compared by D'Israeli,—which, consideringSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 103both writers as allegorists, may, in some respect,counterbalance the advantages of a mind fraughtwith education, a head full of poetic flight and grace-ina word, the various, the unutterable distinctionbetween the friend of Sidney and of Raleigh, thefascinating poet of fairy land, and our obscuretinker of Elstow, the self- erected holder-forth tothe Anabaptists of Bedford. Either has told a taleexpressive of the progress of religion and morality-Spenser's under the guise of a romance of chivalry, while that of Bunyan recalls the outline of apopular fairy tale, with its machinery of giants,dwarfs, and enchanters. So far they resemble eachother; and if the later writer must allow the earlierthe advantage of a richer imagination, and a tasteincalculably more cultivated, the uneducated manof the people may, in return, claim over Spenserthe superiority due to a more simple and betterconcocted plan, from which he has suffered no temptation to lead him astray.This will appear more evident, if we observethat Spenser (the first book, perhaps, excepted,where he has traced, in the adventures of the Redcross Knight, with considerable accuracy, the his-'tory and changes of the Christian world) has, inother cantos, suffered his story to lead him astrayfrom his moral, and engages his knights, by whomwe are to understand the abstract virtues, in tiltsand tournaments, not to be easily reconciled withthe explanation of the allegory. What are we tounderstand by Britomart overthrowing Arthegal,if we regard the lady as the representative of chas-104 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.tity, and the knight as that ofjustice? Many discrepancies of the same kind could be pointed out;and probably some readers may agree with us inthinking that those passages of the poem are sometimes not the least amusing in which Spenser forgets his allegory, and becomes a mere romancerlike Ariosto. But, besides the allegory by whichSpenser designs to present the pageant of themoral virtues, assigning a knight as the representative of each virtue, by whom the opposing appetites should be curbed and overthrown; he hasembodied in his story a second and political allegory. Not only is Gloriana the imaginary concentration ofthe glory sought by every true knightshe is Queen Elizabeth too; not only does KingArthur present the spirit and essence of purechivalry he is likewise Spenser's (unworthy)patron, the Earl of Leicester; and many of theadventures which describe the struggles of virtueand vice also shadow forth anecdotes and intriguesof the English court, invisible to those, as Spenserhimself insinuates," Who n'ote without a hound fine footing trace. "This complication of meanings may render theFaëry Queene doubly valuable to the antiquarywho can explore its secret sense; but it mustalways be an objection to Spenser's plan, with thecommon reader, that the attempt at too much ingenuity has marred the simplicity of his allegory,and deprived it, in a great degree, of consistencyand coherence.SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 105In this essential point the poet is greatly inferiorto the prose allegorist: indeed they write withvery different notions of the importance of theirsubject. Spenser desired, no doubt, to aid thecause of virtue, but it was in the character of acold and unimpassioned moralist, easily seducedfrom that part of his task by the desire to pay acompliment to some courtier, or some lady, or themere wish to give a wider scope to his own fancy.Bunyan, on the contrary, in recommending hisown religious opinions to the readers of his romance,was impressed throughout with the sense of thesacred importance of the task for which he hadlived through poverty and captivity, and was, wedoubt not, prepared to die. To gain the favour of Charles and all his court he would not, we are confident, have guided Christian one foot off the narrow and strait path; and his excellence aboveSpenser's is, that his powerful thoughts were alldirected to one solemn end, and his fertile imagination taxed for every thing which could give lifeand vivacity to his narrative, vigour and consist- ency to the spirit of his allegory. His everythought is turned to strengthen and confirm thereasoning on which his argument depends; andnothing is more admirable than the acuteness ofthat fancy with which, still keeping an eye on hisprincipal purpose, Bunyan contrives to extract,from the slightest particulars, the means of extending and fortifying its impression.Let us, for example, compare Bunyan to a goodman, but common-place writer, the author of the106 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.rival Parable. Dr Patrick's Pilgrim, in the thirtysecond chapter, falls in with " a company of selectfriends, who are met at a frugal, but handsomedinner." This incident suggests to the worthyguide the praises of sociable mirth, restrained bytemperance and sobriety. When Bunyan, on thecontrary, has occasion to mention an entertainment,instead of the cold generality of the Dean ofPeterborough, every dish which he places on thetable is in itself a scriptural parable; and the precise nature of the refreshment, while describedwith the vivacious seeming accuracy of Le Sageor Cervantes, is found, on referring to the textsindicated, to have an explicit connexion with somestriking particular of Holy Writ. At the houseof Gaius, for example, not only the wine red asblood, the milk " well crumbed," the apples andnuts, but the carving of the table, and ordering ofthe salt and trenchers, have each their especial andtypical meaning; and while the reader only hearsof the entertainment of Dr Patrick, he seems tofeed at that of John Bunyan, and sit a guest toprofit by the conversation. Unquestionably thisdesire to keep so close to, and hunt down, as itwere, the metaphor, may sometimes be held triflingand tedious but it is a far better fault than thatneglect of his machinery which is most likely toenfeeble the texture of a less gifted allegorist.The parable of the Pilgrim's Progress is, ofcourse, tinged with the tenets of the author, whomight be called a Calvinist in every respect, save1¹ Pilgrim's Progress, p. 344.SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 107his aversion to the institution of a regular andordained clergy. To these tenets he has, of course,adapted the Pilgrimage of Christian, in the incidents which occur, and opinions which are expressed. The final condemnation of Ignorance, forinstance, who is consigned to the infernal regionswhen asking admittance to the celestial city,because unable to produce a certificate of his calling, conveys the same severe doctrine of fatalismwhich had wellnigh overturned the reason ofBunyan himself. But the work is not of a controversial character,-it might be perused withoutoffence by sober-minded Christians of all persuasions; and we all know that it is read universally,and has been translated into many languages. It,indeed, appears from many passages in Bunyan'swritings, that there was nothing which he dreadedso much as divisions amongst sincere Christians."Since you would know (he says) by what name I would bedistinguished from others, I tell you, I would be, and hope I am,a Christian; and choose if God should count me worthy, to be called a Christian, a Believer, or other such name which is ap- proved by the Holy Ghost. And as for those factious titles ofAnabaptists, Independents, Presbyterians, or the like, I conclude that they come neither from Jerusalem nor from Antioch, butrather from Hell and Babylon; for they naturally tend to divi- sions. You may know them by their fruits. "-P. lxxvii.Mr Southey, observing with what general accuracy this apostle of the people writes the Englishlanguage, notwithstanding all the disadvantagesunder which his youth must have been passed,pauses to notice one gross and repeated error." The vulgarism alluded to," says the laureate,"consists in the almost uniform use of a for have,—108 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.never marked as a contraction, e.g. might a mademe take heed,-like to a been smothered." Underfavour, however, this is a sin against orthographyrather than grammar: the tinker of Elstow onlyspelt according to the pronunciation of the verb tohave, then common in his class; and the same formappears a hundred times in Shakspeare. We mustnot here omit to mention the skill with which MrSouthey has restored much of Bunyan's masculineand idiomatic English, which had been graduallydropped out of successive impressions by careless,or unfaithful, or, what is as bad, conceited correctorsofthe press.The speedy popularity of the Pilgrim's Progresshad the natural effect of inducing Bunyan again toindulge the vein of allegory in which his warmimagination and clear and forcible expression hadprocured him such success. Under this impression, he produced the second part of his Pilgrim'sProgress; and well says Mr Southey, that nonebut those who have acquired the ill habit of alwaysreading critically, can feel it as a clog upon thefirst. The first part is, indeed, one of those delightfully simple and captivating tales which, assoon as finished, we are not unwilling to beginagain. Even the adult becomes himself like thechild who cannot be satisfied with the repetition ofa favourite tale, but harasses the story-telling auntor nurse, to know more of the incidents and characters. In this respect Bunyan has contrived acontrast, which, far from exhausting his subject,opens new sources of attraction, and adds to theoriginal impression. The Pilgrimage of Christi-SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 109ana, her friend Mercy, and her children, commandssympathy at least as powerful as that of Christianhimself, and it materially adds to the interest whichwe have taken in the progress of the husband, totrace the effects produced by similar events in the case of women and children." There is a pleasure, " says the learned editor, " in travelling with another companion the same ground-a pleasure of remi- niscence, neither inferior in kind or degree to that which isderived from a first impression. The characters are judiciouslymarked that of Mercy, particularly, is sketched with an admi- rable grace and simplicity; nor do we read of any with equalinterest, excepting that of Ruth in Scripture, so beautifully, on all occasions, does the Mercy of John Bunyan unfold modest humility regarding her own merits, and tender veneration for the matron Christiana. "The distinctions between the first and secondpart ofthe Pilgrim's Progress are such as circ*mstances render appropriate; and as John Bunyan'sstrong mother wit enabled him to seize upon correctly. Christian, for example, a man, and a boldone, is represented as enduring his fatigues, trials,and combats, by his own stout courage, under theblessing of Heaven: but to express that species ofinspired heroism by which women are supportedin the path of duty, notwithstanding the naturalfeebleness and timidity of their nature, Christianaand Mercy obtain from the Interpreter their guide,called Great-heart, by whose strength and valourtheir lack of both is supplied, and the dangers anddistresses of the way repelled and overcome.The author hints, at the end of the second part,as if it might be his lot to go this way again; "110 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.nor was his mind that light species of soil whichcould be exhausted by two crops. But he left toanother and very inferior hand the task of composing a third part, containing the adventures ofone Tender Conscience, far unworthy to be boundup, as it sometimes is, with John Bunyan's matchless parable.Bunyan, however, added another work to thoseby which he was already distinguished:—this was"The Holy War made by King Shaddai uponDiabolus for the regaining of the metropolis of theWorld; or, the losing and retaking of Mansoul."In this allegory the fall of man is figured underthe type of a flourishing city, reduced under thetyranny of the giant Diabolus, or the Prince ofEvil; and recovered, after a tedious siege, byImmanuel, the son of Shaddai, its founder andtrue lord. A late reverend editor of this workhas said that "Mr Bunyan was better qualifiedthan most ministers to treat this subject with propriety, having been himself a soldier, and knowingby experience the evils and hardships of war. Hedisplays throughout his accurate knowledge oftheBible and its distinguished doctrines; his deepacquaintance with the human heart, and its desperate wickedness; his knowledge of the devicesof Satan, and of the prejudices of the carnal mindagainst the Gospel." To this panegyric we entirely subscribe, except that we do not see thatBunyan has made much use of any military know1 Burder's Edition of the Holy War, 1824.SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 111ledge which he might possess. Mansoul is attackedby mounts, slings, and battering-rams-weaponsout of date at the time of our civil wars; and wecan only trace the author's soldierly experience inhis referring to the points of war then performed,as " Boot and saddle," " Horse and away," and soforth. Indeed, the greatest risk which he seemsto have incurred, in his military capacity, was onesomewhat resembling the escape of Sir Roger deCoverley's ancestor at Worcester, who was savedfrom the slaughter of that action by having beenabsent from the field. In like manner, Bunyan,having been appointed to attend at the siege ofLeicester, a fellow- soldier volunteered to performthe service in his stead, and was there slain. Uponthe whole, though the Holy War be a work ofgreat ingenuity, it wants the simplicity and intenseinterest which are the charm of the Pilgrim's ProgressMr Burder (the editor last mentioned) remarks,that Bunyan maintains his allegory by assigning tohis characters such significant names as introducethem with singular propriety. This was a qualification in great request among the authors of fictitious composition, whether narrative or dramatic,in Charles the Second's days; and, no doubt, manyartificers of plays and novels in our own time wouldbe inclined to join Falstaff, though rather in a different sense, in his earnest wish that he knewwhere " a commodity of good names was to bepurchased." A happily christened list of dramatispersonæ is a key-note for the easy introduction of112 CRITICISM ON NOVels and romANCES.the story, and saves the author the trouble of tagging his characters with descriptions, always somewhat awkward, of person and disposition. In somerespects it answers the purpose which Texier waswont to achieve in another way. Those who remember, like ourselves, that distinguished reader ofthe French comedians (and such treats are noteasily forgotten), cannot but recollect, that on firstreading over the list of characters, with the author'sshort description annexed, M. Texier assumed ineach the voice and manner in which he intended toread the part; and so wonderful was his discrimination, that the most obtuse hearer had never afterwards the least difficulty in ascertaining who wasspeaking. A happy selection of names has somewhat the same effect in placing the characters whobear them before us in their original concoction.It is no doubt true, that this may be coarsely andinartificially attempted, so as at once to destroy thereality of the tale. When the thrice noble, illustrious, and excellent princess, as the titlepage callsher, the duch*ess of Newcastle, produces on thestage such personages as Sir Mercury Poet, theLady Fancy, Sir William Sage, Lady Virtue, andMimic the jest is as flat and dull as that of Snug,the joiner, when he acts the lion bare-faced. Onthe other hand, some authors produce names, eitherreal or approaching to reality, which neverthelesspossess that resemblance to the character which hasall the effect of wit, and, by its happy coincidencewith the narrative, greatly enhances the pleasureof the reader. Thus, in the excellent novel ofSOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 113Marriage, an elderly dowager, who deals in tellingher neighbours disagreeable truths, which she calls4 speaking her mind," is very happily Mrs DowneWright. Anstey, also, whose genius in this linewas particular, gives us a list of company, of each ofwhom we form a distinct and individual idea fromthe name alone:-" With old Lady Towzer,And Marshal Carouser,Came the great Hanoverian Baron Panmouzer. "We might also mention the Widow Quicklackit,with " little Bob Jerome, old Chrysostom's son,"or the parties in the country-dance, where the contrasts of stature, complexion, and age, are conveyedby little more than the names:—" Miss Curd had a partner as black as Omiah;Kitty Tit shook her heels with old Doctor Goliah;While little John Trot, like a pony just nicked,With long Dolly Louderhead scampered and kicked. "Other, and those very distinguished authors,have not ventured to push this resemblance betweenthe names and characters of their personages sofar. An ominous and unpleasing epithet, a jarringand boding collocation of consonants, form thenames of their villains; as, for instance, who couldexpect any thing good from a Blifil? The heroesand heroines, on the contrary, rejoice in the softest,and, at the same time, the most aristocratic names,such as aspirants to the actual stage select for afirst appearance.Without permitting our remarks on this head tolead us further astray from the subject, we shall VOL. XVIII. H114 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.only observe, that Bunyan was indifferent to otherpoints so his names were expressive. Mr Pennywise-pound-foolish is not a happy name, and stillless Mr Wise- in - the-hundred-and- fool - in - the- shire,but they serve to keep the allegory before thereader's mind. On the other hand, Mrs Bat's- eyes,Mr Ready-to-halt, and Much- afraid, his daughter,Fair-speech, By- ends, and the rest, without beingvery improbable, have the same advantage of maintaining the reader's attention to the author's meaning. As an apology for the length and singularcomposition ofsuch names as Valiant- for-the- truth,Dare-not-lie, and the like, the reader must remember, that it was the custom of that puritanical ageto impose texts and religious sentences, for examples of which we may refer to the rolls of PraiseGod-Barebones' parliament. 1In these observations we have never touchedupon Bunyan's poetry-an omission for which thegood man, had he been alive, would scarce havethanked us, for he had a considerable notion of hisgift that way, though his present editor is of opinionthat John modelled his verses upon those of RobertWisdom, a degree more prosaic than the effusionsof Sternhold and Hopkins. His mechanical education prevented his access to better models: and ofverse he knew nothing but the necessity of taggingsyllables of a certain amount with very slovenlyrhymes. Mr Southey has revived some specimens1 That worthy's own brother may perhaps furnish not the worst specimen. He wrote himself, " If-the- Lord - help- me-not I- amdamned; " but, for shortness, was commonly called " Damned Barebones. "SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 115of verses written by Bunyan (with great self- approbation, doubtless) upon the leaves of Fox's Book ofMartyrs. These " Tincker's tetrastics," as Southeycalls them, may rank, in idea and expression, withthe basest doggrel. But his later poetry excelsthis humble model; he had learned to soar beyondRobert Wisdom, when he was able to expresshimself thus in recommendation of the Pilgrim'sProgress." Wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy?Wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly?Wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation?Or else be drowned in thy contemplation?Dost thou love picking meat? Or wouldst thou seeA man i' the clouds, and hear him speak to thee?Wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep?Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep?Wouldst thou loose thyself and catch no harm,And find thyself again without a charm?Wouldst read thyself, and read thou know'st not what?And yet know whether thou art blest or not,By reading the same lines? O then come hither!And lay my book, thy head, and heart together. "-P. 9.In these lines, though carelessly and roughlyformed, there are both ideas and powers ofexpression. Another little sonnet, taken in connexionwith the scene of repose, in the prose narrative, hasa simplicity which approaches elegance. It occurson the entrance of the Pilgrim into the valley ofHumiliation." Now, as they were going along and talking, they espied aboy feeding his father's sheep. The boy was in very mean clothes,but of a fresh and well- favoured countenance, and as he sat byhimself, he sung. ' Hark, ' said Mr Great-heart, ' to what the shepherd's boy saith! ' So they harkened, and he said , —116 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.He that is down needs fear no fall;He that is low no pride;He that is humble ever shallHave God to be his guide." I am content with what I have,Little be it or much!And, Lord! contentment still I crave,Because thou savest such.' Fulness to such a burden is,That go on pilgrimage;Here little, and hereafter bliss,Is best from age to age. '" Then said their guide, ' Do you hear him? I will dare to say, this boy lives a merrier life, and wears more of that herb called heart's-ease in his bosom, than he that is clad in silk andvelvet.'"-Pp. 311 , 312.We must not omit to mention, that this editionof the Pilgrim's Progress is adorned with a greatvariety of woodcuts, designed and executed withsingular felicity, and with some highly finishedengravings, after the rich and imaginative pencil ofJohn Martin. Thus decorated, and recommendedby the taste and criticism of Mr Southey, it mightseem certain that the established favourite of thecommon people should be well received among theupper classes; as, however, it contains many passages eminently faulty in point of taste (as, indeed,from the origin and situation of the author, wasnaturally to be expected), we should not be surprised if it were more coldly accepted than itsmerits deserve. A dead fly can corrupt a preciouselixir an obvious fault against taste, especially ifit be of a kind which lies open to lively ridicule,may be enough, in a critical age like the present,to cancel the merit of wit, beauty, and sublimity.SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN. 117In whatever shape presented, John Bunyan'sparable must be dear to many, as to us, from therecollection that in youth they were endued withpermission to peruse it at times when all studies ofa nature merely entertaining were prohibited. Weremember with interest the passages where, in ourchildhood, we stumbled betwixt the literal storyand metaphorical explanation; and can even recallto mind a more simple and early period, when Grimand Slaygood, and even he" Whose castle's Doubting, and whose name's Despair,"were to us as literal Anakim as those destroyed byGiant-killing Jack. Those who can recollect theearly developement of their own ideas on suchsubjects, will many of them at the same time remember the reading of this work as the first taskwhich gave exercise to the mind, before taste, growntoo fastidious for enjoyment, taught them to bemore disgusted with a single error than delightedwith a hundred beauties.[ 118 ]

ARTICLE IV. GODWIN'S FLEETWOOD.

[Fleetwood or the New Man of Feeling. By WILLIAMGODWIN. Edinburgh Review, 1805. ]WHOEVER has read Caleb Williams, and thereare probably few, even amongst those addicted tograver studies, who have not perused that celebrated work, must necessarily be eager to seeanother romance from the hand of the same author.Of this anxiety we acknowledge we partook to aconsiderable degree; not, indeed, that we had anygreat pleasure in recollecting the conduct and nature of the story; for murders, and chains, anddungeons, and indictments, trial and execution,have no particular charms for us, either in fictionor in reality. Neither is it on account of the moralproposed by the author, which, in direct oppositionto that of the worthy chaplain of Newgate, seemsto be, not that a man guilty of theft or murder isin some danger of being hanged, but that, by astrange concurrence of circ*mstances, he may beGODWIN'S FLeetwood. 119regularly conducted to the gallows for theft or murder which he has never committed. There isnothing instructive or consolatory in this proposition when taken by itself; and if intended as areproach upon the laws of this country, it is equallyapplicable to all human judicatures, whose judgescan only decide according to evidence, since theSupreme Being has reserved to himself the prerogative of searching the heart and of trying thereins. But, although the story of Caleb Williamsbe unpleasing, and the moral sufficiently mischievous, we acknowledge we have met with fewnovels which excited a more powerful interest.Several scenes are painted with the savage forceof Salvator Rosa; and, while the author pauses toreason upon the feelings and motives of the actors,our sense of the fallacy of his arguments, of theimprobability of his facts, and of the frequent inconsistency of his characters, is lost in the solemnity and suspense with which we expect the evolution of the tale of mystery. After Caleb Williamsit would be injustice to Mr Godwin to mention StLeon, where the marvellous is employed too frequently to excite wonder, and the terrible is introduced till we have become familiar with terror.The description of Bethlem Gabor, however, recalled to our mind the author of Caleb Williams;nor, upon the whole, was the romance such as couldhave been written by quite an ordinary pen. Thesepreliminary remarks are not entirely misplaced, as will appear from the following quotation from the preface to Fleetwood.120 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES." One caution I have particularly sought to exercise: ' notto repeat myself. ' Caleb Williams was a story ofvery surprising and uncommon events, but which were supposed to be entirely within the laws and established course of nature, as she operatesin the planet we inhabit. The story of St Leon is of the miraculous class; and its design, to mix human feelings and pas sions with incredible situations, and thus render them impressiveand interesting.'" Some of those fastidious readers -they may be classed among the best friends an author has, if their admonitions arejudiciously considered -who are willing to discover those faults which do not offer themselves to every eye, have remarked, thatboth these tales are in a vicious style of writing; that Horacehas long ago decided, that the story we cannot believe, we are,by all the laws of criticism, called upon to hate; and that even the adventures of the honest secretary, who was first heard of ten years ago, are so much out of the usual road, that not one readerin a million can ever fear they will happen to himself. "-Vol. i.Pref.Moved by these considerations, Mr Godwin haschosen a tale of domestic life, consisting of suchincidents as usually occur in the present state ofsociety, diversified only by ingenuity of selection,and novelty of detail. How far he has been successful, will best appear from a sketch of the story.Fleetwood, the only son of a gentleman who hasretired from mercantile concerns to the enjoymentof a liberal fortune, is born and educated amongthe mountains of Wales. He has no companionssaving his father, an infirm though very respectableold gentleman, and his tutor, who was not a clergyman; notwithstanding which, he studied Platowithout understanding him, and indemnified himself by writing sonnets which could be understoodby nobody. Fleetwood being of course a passionateadmirer of the beauties of nature, preferred scram-GODWIN'S FLEETWOOD. 121bling over the heights of Cader Idris, adoring therising, and admiring the setting sun, to perusingthe pages of Plato, and the poetry of his tutor. Inone of these rambles, somewhat to the reader'srelief, whose patience is rather tired by an unfruitfuldescription of precipices, cascades, and the immeasurable ocean in the background, he at lengthmeets with an adventure. A lamb, a favouritelamb, falls into a lake; the shepherd plunges inafter the lamb; an aged peasant, his father, is aboutto plunge in after the shepherd, when Fleetwood,as might have been expected, anticipates his affectionate intentions. After remaining a reasonabletime in the water, the shepherd holding the lamb,and Fleetwood supporting the shepherd, they areall three fished up by an interesting young damselwho approaches in a boat, and proves to be (according to good old usage) the mistress of William theshepherd, and the proprietor of the half-drownedfavourite. This adventure leads to nothing, exceptthat, in the conclusion of the work, the interestingyoung woman unexpectedly pops back upon us inthe very useful, though not very romantic characterof an old sick-nurse; deserving no less, in heradvanced age, the praises of the Institution forRelief of the Destitute Sick, than in her youth shehad merited apremium from the Humane Society.The worthy tutor, in like manner, vanishes entirelyfrom our view, retiring to an obscure lodging in anarrow street, to finish his book of sonnets, and hiscommentary on Plato. His pupil is now introduced to the knowledge of mankind at the Univer-122 CRITICISM ON NOVels and roMANCES.•sity. Here he discovers no aversion to distinguishhimself among the dissipated sons of fortune, andsoon becomes something very different from theclimber of mountains and diver into lakes. Buthe acquits himself of all share in a quizzing scene,played off upon a fresh-man called Withers, whohad written a tragedy on a very interesting subject the cleansing of the Augean stable. Thispiece he is prevailed upon to recite to certain archwags, who receive it with rapture, fill the authordrunk, and bear him home, crowned with parsley,and dropping with wine, in classical triumph. Theyhave afterwards the address to pass a woodenfigure upon him for the master of his college, who,after a rebuke pronounced in character by one ofthe quizzers, who chanced to be a ventriloquist,proceeds, by some unknown mechanism, to inflictupon Withers the academical discipline underwhich Milton is said to have smarted of yore; but,far from imitating the submission of his sublimeprototype, the modern bard kicked and cuffed instout opposition, till he discovered the impassiblecharacter of his antagonist. The joke ends byWithers going mad, and the ingenious authors ofhis distress being rusticated. We presume theventriloquist found a refuge with Fitz- James,and the mechanist with Merlin or Maillardet.What connexion this facetious tale has with Fleetwood, or his history, does not appear; but wereverence the established privilege of an Oxonianto prose about all that happened when he was atChrist-Church.GODWIN'S FLeetwood. 123We now accompany Fleetwood on his travels.Paris was his first stage, where he had the strangeand uncommon misfortune to be jilted by twomistresses. The first was a certain marchioness,whose mind " resembled an eel, " and who delightedin the bold, the intrepid, and the masculine. Herlover was greeted with an impudent Amazonianstare, a smack of the whip, a slap on the back, anda loud and unexpected accent that made the hearerstart again. Upon discovering the infidelity of thisgentle lady, Fleetwood, being in Paris, followedthe example of the Parisians, but not withoutexperiencing certain twinges of pain, and revolutions of astonishment, to which we believe thesegood people, on such occasions, are usually strangers. In a word, he took another mistress. TheCountess de B. had every gentle amiability underheaven, and only one fault, which might be expressed in one word if we chose it, but we preferthe more prolix explanation of the author." Yet the passion of the countess was rather an abstractpropensity, than the preference of an individual. A given quantity of personal merit and accomplished manners was sure to charm her. A fresh and agreeable complexion, a sparkling eye,a well- turned leg, a grace in dancing or in performing the mancuvres of gallantry, were claims that the Countess de B. was never known to resist. "--Vol. i. p. 152.Upon discovery of this frailty, our hero's patienceforsook him; and he raved, fumed, and agonized,till ours likewise was on the verge of departure.In this paroxysm, his taste for the mountain andthe desert returned upon him like a frenzy; andas there were none nearer than the Alps, to theAlps he flies incontinently on the wings of despair.124 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.He repairs to the mansion of a venerable old Swissgentleman, a friend of his father, delightfully situated in the valley of Ursereen, in a wood of talland venerable trees; a very extraordinary and fortunate circ*mstance for the possessor, as we will venture to say that it is the only wood that ever grewin that celebrated valley, which is the highest inhabited ground in the Alps. The host of Fleetwoodcarries him to a pleasure party on the lake of Uri,and chooses that time and place to acquaint him,that while he was living jollily at Paris, his fatherhad taken the opportunity of dying quietly inMerionethshire. The effect ofthis intelligence uponFleetwood is inexpressibly striking. He ate nobreakfast the next morning; and it was not till thearrival of dinner, that " hunger at length subduedthe obstinacy of his grief." Ruffigny, his host, nowjoins him; and after a reasonable allowance ofsympathy and consolation, entertains him with thehistory of his connexion with his father.Ruffigny, left in infancy to the guardianship ofa wicked uncle who thirsted after his inheritance,had been trepanned to Lyons, and bound apprentice to a silk-weaver, or rather employed in themore laborious part of his drudgery. His feelings,on being gradually subjected to this monotonousand degrading labour, are very well described, asalso the enthusiastic resolution which he forms, ofBy the way, we greatly question the locality here pitched on.We knowofno such lake as the lake of Uri; but we suppose thelake of Lucerne, a lake of the four cantons, was the scene of thisaffecting discovery. But Mr Godwin is not much at home in Switzerland.GODWIN'S Fleetwood. 125throwing himself at the feet of the King of France,whom the boy had pictured to himself like theHenry and the Francis, the heroes of the legendarytales of his country. His escape, his journey, hisdisappointment, have all the same style of merit;and it is in such painting, where the subject isactuated by some wild, uncommon, or unnaturalstrain of passion and feeling, that we conceive MrGodwin's peculiar talent to lie. At Paris, the deserted Ruffigny is patronised by Fleetwood, thegrandfather of our hero; and his future connexionwith that family is marked with reciprocal acts ofthat romantic generosity, which is so common innovels, and so very rare in real life.The main narrative is now resumed. Ruffignyaccompanies Fleetwood on his return to England,where he finds in his paternal dwelling " an emptymansion and a tenanted grave." Notwithstandinghis grief for his father's death, he is on the pointof forming a connexion with a bewitching MrsComorin (quare Cormorant?) who had lately cohabited with Lord Mandeville, but, having quarrelled with her admirer, had a heart and personvacant for the first suitable offer. This naughtyaffair is interrupted by the precipitate retreat ofRuffigny, who, not choosing to be present wheresuch matters were going forward, was in full marchtowards Switzerland, when he is recalled, by Fleetwood's consent, to sacrifice his young mistress tohis old friend. After this period, the story flagsinsufferably. Fleetwood, like King Solomon ofyore, tries the various resources of travelling, so-126 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ciety, literature, politics, and farming, and, withhim, pronounces them all vanity and vexation ofspirit. In this vain pursuit, he becomes a confirmed old bachelor; and the interest of the story,contrary to that of every other novel, commenceswhen he exchanges this unprofitable state for thatof matrimony.This grand step he is induced to take by the disinterested arguments of Mr Macneil, a shrewdScotchman, whom he meets on the lakes of Cumberland, and who at that very moment had fourunmarried daughters upon his hands. The accomplishments of these damsels were rather overshadowed by some peculiarities in the history oftheir mother. This lady, when very young, had,while in Italy, married her music-master, who gaveher no small reason to repent her choice. Macneildelivered her from the tyranny of this ungratefulmusician, who had immured her in a ruinous castle,his hereditary mansion! That she gave her deliverer her heart was natural enough, but she alsobestowed upon him her hand, to which the desertedminstrel had an unalienable claim. The ladies onthe lakes of Cumberland, judging that two husbandswas an unreasonable allowance, declined intercoursewith the fair monopolist. Macneil was thereforeabout to return to Italy, where he had vested hiswhole fortune in the hands of a banker of Genoa;but, upon the fervent suit of Fleetwood, he agreedthat his youngest daughter, Mary, should remain inEngland. He himself, with his wife and threeeldest daughters, proceed on their voyage, leavingGODWIN'S FLeetwood. 127Mary a visitor in a family at London. The vesselin which the Macneils had embarked is wrecked inthe bay of Biscay, and all that unfortunate familyperish in the waves. This disastrous intelligenceis nearly a death-blow to poor Mary, the sole survivor, and to whom her mother and sisters hadhitherto been all in all. The Genoese banker, finding that no vouchers of his being the depositary ofMacneil's fortune had escaped from the wreck,refuses to give any account of it; and our interestin Mary's distress and desolation is unnecessarilyinterrupted by a minute detail of the steps bywhich Fleetwood in vain attempted to bring abanker to confess the receipt of a sum which couldnot otherwise be proved against him. It is evenhinted, as a reason for which he pressed his marriage with the deserted orphan, that he at lengthbecame afraid that, since the question rested on atrial of character betwixt him and the Genoese, hemight himself be suspected of having embezzledher fortune. This is one of the instances of coarseness and bad taste with which Mr Godwin sometimes degrades his characters. In Caleb Williams,a gentleman passionately addicted to the mannersof ancient chivalry, becomes a midnight assassin,when an honourable revenge was in his power;and in Fleetwood, a man of feeling, in solicitingan union pressed upon him by love, by honour,and by every feeling of humanity, is influenced bya motive of remote and despicable calculation,which we will venture to say never entered thehead of an honest man in similar circ*mstances.128 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Fleetwood and Mary are at length married; andfrom this marriage, as we have already noticed,commences any interest which we take in the history of the former. Indeed it can hardly be calleda history, which has neither incident nor noveltyof remark to recommend it, consisting entirely ofidle and inflated declamations upon the most common occurrences of human life. The union of Maryand Fleetwood, considering the youth and variablespirits of the former, and the age and confirmedprejudices ofthe latter, promises a more interestingsubject ofspeculation. Upon their arrival in Wales,the reader is soon made sensible that a man of feeling, upon Mr Godwin's system, is the most selfishanimal in the universe. We appeal to our fairreaders if this is not a just conclusion, from thefollowing account of the matrimonial disputes ofthis ill-matched pair. Upon visiting the familymansion in Merionethshire, the lady gives the firstcause of disgust, by rather hastily appropriatingto her own purposes a closet which had been thefavourite retirement of her husband. Withouthaving the force of mind to tell Mary that thisunlucky boudoir was consecrated to his own studies,Fleetwood nourishes a kind of secret malice againsthis wife for her unlucky selection of this retreat,hallowed as it had been to his own exclusive use.This is hardly over when a new offence is given.While our hero is reading to his young bride hisfavourite play, " A Wife for a Month " (in facthe did not retain his own for many more), Mary,either from natural levity, or because the ardentGODWIN'S FLEETWOOD. 129declamations of the amorous Valerio excited comparisons unfavourable to Fleetwood, chooses todesert the rehearsal in order to botanize with ayoung peasant on the cliffs of Cader Idris. Now,there is nothing unnatural in this incident, and webelieve domestic felicity is frequently interruptedby such differences of taste, and neglect of thefeelings of each other; but we doubt whether ourreaders will not think the tragic declamations ofFleetwood infinitely too high- toned for the nature ofhis misfortunes. It is not very pleasant to lose possession of afavourite closet, and it is teazing enoughto be deserted while reciting a favourite author;but, surely, the sesquipedalia verba of Fleetwoodattach to these grievances a degree of consequencein which none can sympathize, and which to mostwill be the subject of ridicule. Another cause ofdispute, of a still more important as well as of amore common kind, arises betwixt Fleetwood andMary. This concerns the share to be taken in thevisits and public society of the country in whichthey lived. Mary's fondness for these amusem*ntsexcites the displeasure, and at length the jealousyof her husband; and he expresses both, with verygreat indulgence to his own feelings, and very littleto those of his lady. In these circ*mstances herhealth began to give way, under the perpetualirritation occasioned bythe deportment ofher moodypartner; and her mind settled in mournful recollection upon the contemplation of the loss she hadsustainedbythe shipwreck ofher sisters and parents.We transcribe the following account of the progressVOL. XVIII. I130 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.of her malady as one of the few interesting passagesin the book."One further circ*mstance occurred in the progress of Mary'sdistemper. She would steal from her bed in the middle of thenight, when no one perceived it, and make her escape out of the house. The first time this accident occurred I was exceedinglyalarmed. I awoke, and found that the beloved of my soul wasgone. I sought her in her closet, in the parlour, and in the library;I then called up the servants. The night was dark and tempestuous; the wind blew a hollow blast; and the surges roared and stormed as they buffeted against the hurricane. A sort of sleetblew sharp in our faces when we opened the door of the house. Iwent myselfin one direction, and despatched the servants in others,to call and search for their mistress. After two hours she wasbrought back byone of my people, who, having sought in vain at a distance, had discovered her, on his return, not far from the house. Her hair was dishevelled; her countenance as white asdeath; her limbs cold; she was languid and speechless.got her as quickly as we could to bed.We" This happened a second time. At length I extorted her secret from her-she had been to the beach of the sea to seek thebodies of her parents. On the sea- shore she seemed to converse with their spirits . She owned, she had been tempted to plunge herself into the waves to meet them. She heard their voicesspeaking to her in the hollow wind, and saw their faces riding on the top of the waves by the light of the moon, as it peeped pre- cariously through the storm. They called to her, and bid her come along, and chid her for her delay. The words at firstsounded softly, so that it seemed difficult to hear them, but after- ward changed to the most dolorous and piercing shrieks. In the last instance, a figure had approached her, and, seizing her gar- ment, detained her just as she was going to launch herself into the element. The servants talked something of a gentleman,who had quitted Mary precisely as they came up to conduct her home." She confessed, that whenever the equinoctial wind sounded in her ears, it gave a sudden turn to her blood and spirits . As she listened alone to the roaring of the ocean, her parents and hersisters immediately stood before her. More than once she hadbeen awaked at midnight by the well-known sound; and, looking out of bed, she saw their bodies strewed on the floor, distendedGODWIN'S FLEETWOOD. 131with the element that filled them, and their features distorted with death. This spectacle she could not endure. She had creptsilently out of bed, and, drawing a few clothes about her, hadfound her way into the air. She felt nothing of the storm; and,led on by an impulse she could not resist, had turned her steps towards the sea."- Vol. iii. p. 79-82.This kind of partial derangement of the intellect is very strikingly described. It has not, however, the merit of novelty, as the same idea occursin the licentious novel of Faublas, written by thefamous Louvet. At the conclusion of that workthe hero tells us, that still when the south windwhistled, or the thunder rolled, his disorderedimagination presented to him the scene which hadpassed at the death of his mistress; he againheard the sound of the midnight bell, and thevoice of the sentinel who pointed to the river, andcoldly said, "" She She isis there there."." We quote frommemory, a work which, for many reasons, wewould not choose to read again; but we think thatthis is the import of the passage, and it considerably resembles that in Fleetwood, though theidea in the latter is more prolonged and broughtout.Mary is removed to Bath, where she recoversfrom her depression of spirits, to fall into the opposite extreme of giddy and unceasing hilarity. Atthis time Fleetwood is joined by two cousins, bothunder his patronage, and who come to reside inhis family. They are half brothers. Kenrick isan open, candid, thoughtless, young soldier; Gifforda deep hypocritical villain. These two brothers,like the black and white genius in Voltaire's tale,132 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.attend Fleetwood through the rest of the book, andare the causes of the good and bad fortune whichbefall him. Gifford contrives to insinuate into themind of his patron a suspicion of the virtue ofMary, which is strengthened by her being inreality the confidante of Kenrick, to whom heartfully represents her as unlawfully attached.This plot, in itself rather threadbare, is not, in thepresent instance, managed with uncommon felicity,The circ*mstances which excite the suspicions,and finally the furious rage of Fleetwood, are suchas usually occur in such cases; but when he driveshis pregnant spouse out of his house, he carries hisjealous resentment to a most disgusting excess.We can pardon the vehemence of Othello, whokills his wife outright; but, in exposing a destituteorphan to all the miseries of poverty and beggary,we humbly think Fleetwood merits any title betterthan that of a man of feeling. At the same time thathe has been guilty of this outrage, he continues distractedly fond of his wife, as will plainly appearfrom the following scene enacted upon the Continent, whither he had retired from the scene of hissupposed disgrace and actual misery. He orderedwax models to be made, so as to represent his wifeand her supposed seducer, with a barrel-organmodulated to the tunes which they used to playand sing together. These were to be producedon the anniversary of his wedding- night." When at length the 15th of July came, I caused a supperof cold meats to be prepared, and spread in an apartment of my hotel. All the materials which I had procured with so muchcare and expense, were shut up in the closets of this apartment.GODWIN S FLEETWOOD. 133I locked myself in, and drew them forth one after another. Ateach interval of the ceremony, I seated myself in a chair, myarms folded, my eyes fixed, and gazed on the object before mein all the luxury of despair. When the whole was arranged, Ireturned to my seat, and continued there a long time. I thenhad recourse to my organ, and played the different tunes it wasformed to repeat. Never had madness in any age or countryso voluptuous a banquet." I have a very imperfect recollection of the conclusion of this scene. For a long time I was slow and deliberate inmy operations. Suddenly my temper changed. While I wasplaying on my organ one of the tunes of Kenrick and Maryit was a duet of love: the mistress, in a languishing andtender style, charged her lover with indifference; the loverthrew himself at her feet, and poured out his soul in terms of adoration. My mind underwent a strange revolution. I nolonger distinctly knew where I was, or could distinguish fictionfrom reality. I looked wildly and with glassy eyes all round the room; I gazed at the figure of Mary; I thought it was, and it was not, Mary. With mad and idle action I put some provisions on her plate; I bowed to her in mockery, and invited her to eat. Then again I grew serious and vehement; I addressedher with inward and convulsive accents in the language of reproach; I declaimed with uncommon flow of words upon her abandoned and infernal deceit; all the tropes that imaginationever supplied to the tongue of man seemed to be at my coin- mand. I know not whether this speech was to be considered asearnest, or as the Sardonic and bitter jest of a maniac. But,while I was still speaking, I saw her move-if I live, I saw it.She turned her eyes this way and that; she grinned and chat- tered at me. I looked from her to the other figure; that grinnedand chattered too. Instantly a full and proper madness seizedme; I grinned and chattered in turn to the figures before me.It was not words that I heard or uttered; it was murmurs and hissings, and lowings and howls. I became furious. I dashedthe organ into a thousand fragments. I rent the child- bed linen,and tore it with my teeth. I dragged the clothes which Maryhad worn, from off the figure that represented her, and rent them into long strips and shreds. I struck the figures vehemently with the chairs and other furniture of the room, till they werebroken to pieces. I threw at them, in despite, the plates and other brittle implements of the supper-table. I raved and134 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.roared with all the power of my voice. I must have made anoise like hell broke loose; but I had given my valet a charge that I should not be intruded upon; and he, who was one of thetallest and strongest of men, and who ever executed his orders literally, obstinately defended the door of my chamber against all inquisitiveness. At the time, this behaviour of his I regarded as fidelity; it will be accounted for hereafter. He was the toolof Gifford; he had orders that I should not be disturbed; it was hoped that this scene would be the conclusion of my exist- ence. I am firmly persuaded that, in the last hour or two, Isuffered tortures not inferior to those which the North Americansavages inflict on their victims; and, like those victims, when the apparatus of torture was suspended, I sunk into immediateinsensibility. In this state I was found, with all the lights of the apartment extinguished, when, at last, the seemingly stupid exactness of my valet gave way to the impatience of others, and they broke open the door. "-Vol. iii . p. 248-253.The rest of the story may be comprised in a fewwords. Gifford, whom Fleetwood had constitutedhis heir, becomes impatient to enter upon possession; and, finding his patron's constitution proofa*gainst mental distress, he attempts, with the assistance of two ruffians, to murder him in the forestof Fontainbleau. As all Fleetwood's servantswere in Gifford's pay, they saw this transactiontake place without interference-a circ*mstancewhich struck their master so forcibly, that, whilethe ruffians were dragging him into the wood, hewas considering whether it be one of the effects ofwealth, that with it we engage persons in our service to murder us. The solution of this problem,as well as the consummation of Gifford's crime, isinterrupted by the arrival of some horsem*n, whor*scue Fleetwood, and make the assailants prisoners. That Kenrick was his preserver will bereadily anticipated by all who are acquainted withGODWIN'S FLEETWOOD. 135the good old beaten track of novels on these occasions; and to do Mr. Godwin justice, he hasseldom taken a by-path from one end of this performance to the other. Gifford is consigned tothe gallows, which he had merited; the clouds ofjealousy, which had obscured the mind of Fleetwood, are gradually dispelled; every suspiciouscirc*mstance is accounted for; and after somehesitation (very natural, we think) on the part ofMary, she is again united to the Man of Feeling.Having occupied so much room in detailing thestory, we have but little left for animadversion.The incidents during the two first volumes arechiefly those of the common life of a man offashion; and all that is remarkable in the tale isthe laboured extravagance of sentiment which isattached to these ordinary occurrences. There isno attempt to describe the minuter and finer shadesof feeling; none of that high finishing of description, by which the most ordinary incidents arerendered interesting: on the contrary, the effectis always sought to be brought out by the application of the inflated language of high passion. Itis no doubt true, that a man of sensibility will bedeeply affected by what appears trifling to the restof mankind; a scene of distress or of pleasurewill make a deeper impression upon him than uponanother; and it is precisely in this respect that hediffers from the rest of mankind. But a man whois transported with rage, with despair, with anger,and all the furious impulses of passion, upon themost common occurrences of life, is not a man of136 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.sentiment, but a madman; and, far from sympathizing with his feelings, we are only surprised athis having the liberty of indulging them beyondthe precincts of Bedlam.In the third volume, something of a regularstory commences, and the attention of the readerbecomes fixed by the narrative. But the unnatural atrocity of Gifford, and the inadequate meansby which he is so nearly successful, render thispart of the tale rather improbable. The credulityof Fleetwood is unnecessarily excessive, and mighthave been avoided by a more artful managementof incident.But we have another and a more heavy objectionto him, considered as a man of feeling. We have been accustomed to associate with our ideas of thischaracter the amiable virtues of a Harley, feelingdeeply the distresses of others, and patient, thoughnot insensible of his own. But Fleetwood, throughthe whole three volumes which bear his name, feelsabsolutely and exclusively for one individual, andthat individual is Fleetwood himself. Indeed he isat great pains, in various places, to tell us that hehad been uncontrolled in his youth, was little accustomed to contradiction, and could not brook anything which interfered either with his establishedhabits, or the dispositions of the moment. Accordingly his despair for the loss of his two Frenchmistresses, is the despair of a man who loses something which he thinks necessary to his happinessand in a way not very soothing to his feelings;but as we understand him, he can no more be pro-GODWIN'S FLeetwood. 137perly said to be in love with either of these fairladies, than a hungry man, according to Fielding'scomparison, can be said to be in love with a shoulder of Welsh mutton. In like manner, his pursuitafter happiness, through various scenes, is uniformlydirected by the narrow principle ofself-gratification;there is no aspiration towards promoting the publicadvantage, or the happiness of individuals; MrFleetwood moves calmly forward in quest of whatmay make Mr Fleetwood happy; and, like all otheregotists of this class, he providentially misses hisaim. But it is chiefly in the wedded state that hisirritable and selfish habits are most completelydepicted. With every tie, moral and divine, whichcan bind a man to the object of his choice, or whichcould withhold him from acts of unkindness orcruelty, he commences and carries on a regularsystem for subjecting all her pleasures to the control of his own, and every attempt on her part tofree herself from this constraint, produces suchscenes of furious tyranny, as at the beginning nearlyurge her to distraction, and finally drive her anoutcast from society. In short, the new Man ofFeeling, in his calm moments a determined egotist,is, in his state of irritation, a frantic madman, whoplays on a barrel- organ at a puppet-show, till heand the wooden dramatis personæ are all possessedby the foul fiend Hibbertigibbet, who presides overmoping and mowing. We close the book withthe painful reflection, that Mary is once more subjected to his tyranny; and our only hope is, that acertain Mr Scarborough, a very peremptory and138 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.overbearing person, who assists at the dénouement,may, in case of need, be a good hand at putting ona strait waistcoat.

ARTICLE V. CUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER.

[John de Lancaster, a Novel. By RICHARD CUMBERLAND,Esq. 3 Vols. From the Quarterly Review, 1809.]MR CUMBERLAND has now borne arms in thefields of literature for more than half a century: ¹the nature of his service has been as various as itsdate has been protracted; nor has his warfare been without its success and its honours. If he hasnever been found in the very van and front ofbattle, he has seldom lagged in the rear; and although we cannot find that he has on any occasionbrought home the spolia opima, or qualified himselffor the grand triumph, it must be allowed that hehas often merited and obtained the humbler meedof an ovation. His dramatic pieces are those on' [Mr Cumberland died 7th May, 1811, in his eightieth year,and was interred in Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey. Foraccount of his Life and Writings, see ante, vol. iii. pp.191-230. ]anCUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 139which his fame will hereafter most probably rest.But the " Terence of England, the mender ofhearts," unsatisfied with having made more thanone successful effort in modern comedy, perhapsthe most difficult of all compositions, seemed determined to show us that his vein though fertile wasnot inexhaustible, and that the friend of Garrick,of Goldsmith, and of Johnson, could write playsfit only to be prefatory to the more important mat- ter of Mother Goose. These must be forgottenere the author of the West Indian, the Brothers,the Jew, and the Wheel of Fortune, can enjoy hisfull honours; but we can comfort him with theassurance that the date of their memory is alreadynearly expired. As a periodical writer, Mr Cumberland's classical learning and accurate taste, hisbeautiful and flowing style, and the pleasing subjects on which he usually loves to employ himself,compensate in some degree for want of depth ofthought, or novelty of conception. It is hardlypossible to speak too highly of his translations fromAristophanes and the ancient Greek fragments,they are not only equal, but superior, to any thingof the kind in our language, and so great is ourrespect for the author of these exquisite versions,that we will not say a single word of his originalpoetry.But it is as a novelist that we are at present toexamine Mr Cumberland's literary powers. Wecannot place Arundel and Henry on the same shelfwith the works of Fielding or Smollet, and we arethe less inclined to do so, as the latter novel, being140 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.a close imitation of Tom Jones, serves particularlyto show the wide difference between the authors.Yet Mr Cumberland's novels rank far above theusual stock in trade of the circulating library, arewritten in easy and elegant language, and evinceconsiderable powers of observing generic, thoughnot individual, characters. Excepting Smolletalone, whose sailors are, moreover, of a more ancient and rugged school, none has better delineatedthe characteristic and professional traits of theBritish navy, than Mr Cumberland. The missionto Spain filled his portfolio with interesting sketchesof that people, and of the persecuted Jews, whoyet reside amongst them, which we often trace inhis novels, tales, and dramatic labours. The worksof former authors he has laid liberally under contribution, and sometimes new-dressed their characters so well, as to give them an air of originality.Thus Ephraim Daw, in Henry, is a methodistical Parson Adams, having the same simplicity ofcharacter, the same goodness of heart, and the samedisposition to use the carnal arm in a good cause,qualified by the enthusiastic tenets and language ofthe sect from which the author derives him.therefore, we repeat, rather in delineating a speciesthan an individual that the art of Mr Cumberlandconsists, so far as it is original, the distinguishingpersonal features which he introduces being usuallyborrowed from others. Indeed we know but tworemarkable peculiarities of taste in manners andincident which are completely his own, and runthrough all his works. The first is an odd andIt isCUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 141rather unnatural transfer of the task of courtshipfrom the hero to the heroine of the piece. MrCumberland seems to have found an inexpressiblecharm in exchanging the attributes of the sexes,so that the weaker may turn the chase upon thestronger, and the pigeon become the pursuer of thehawk. The frank and exacting manners of Charlotte Rusport, and his other ladies, ( which, shouldthey ever become fashionable, would be no slightinconvenience to our modish gentlemen) were carried to their height in the novel of Henry, in whichthe virtues of continence and chastity, which, eversince the days of Heliodorus, the first novelist onrecord, have been esteemed the indispensable andinalienable property ofthe heroine of the tale, were,vi et armis, transferred to the hero, leaving theunfortunate damsel to whom they rightfully belonged as bare of both as the birch-tree of leavesupon Christmas eve. This singular taste seemedso deeply ingrafted in Mr Cumberland's system ofwriting, that when we understood that he hadselected a scriptural subject for his last poem,we never doubted for an instant that he had.given the preference to the history of Joseph andPotiphar's wife. And though then mistaken, wefind the present novel exhibiting symptoms toopeculiar to be overlooked in a general view of MrCumberland's literary character. The second predilection to which we alluded, is the peculiar pleasure which this author finds in a duel with all itsprevious pomp and circ*mstance of gentlemanlikedefiance, retort, and reproofvaliant. A single com-142 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.bat, either commenced or completed, makes a partof almost all his narratives, and Dr Caranza himself cannot be estimated a more perfect judge ofpoints of honour concerning the distance, the arms,and all the punctilio of the duello. Of this thereis enough, and to spare, in the following pages.The story of John de Lancaster is neither longnor complicated. The principal character and realhero of the novel is Robert de Lancaster, an ancientWelsh Esquire, whose character is derived fromthat of a Mr Shandy, senior, checkered with thehundred attributes of Cornelius Scriblerus, fatherof the renowned Martinus. He is a great readerof all such learned works as convey neither instruction nor information, and in perusing the ancienthistorians, whether of the classical or Gothic period," holds each stranger tale devoutly true." Thishumour is pushed into the regions of utter andraving extravagance, especially as, saving in pointsof learning or science, we are required to believethat the old gentleman is not only of a sane mind,but endowed with uncommon good sense and talents,as well as with an admirable temper and mostbenevolent disposition, the cast whereof we thinkhe derived from a certain Squire Alworthy, of Alworthy Hall in Somersetshire, who may not beutterly unknown to some of our readers. Thecredulity of this worthy person being seconded byno small quantity of family pride, he places implicitreliance on a pedigree which deduces his family ina direct line, not from Brutus or Howel Dha, butfrom Samothes, son of Japheth, the third son ofCUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 143Noah; and believes that his ancestor acquired thefamily- estate sixty- six years after the taking ofTroy, and eleven hundred thirty and two yearsbefore the Christian era. He credits another tradition, which affirms that his ancestor taught KingBladud to fly; and another concerning an island inIreland where the natives are immortal. As if thisburden were not sufficient for his faith, he believeswith Mr Shandy in the effect of Christian-namesupon their owners, with Cornelius Scriblerus in theinfluence of the harp in appeasing insurrections, andcontends that " soft airs well executed on the flute,were found to be a never failing cure for the sciatica or hip-gout."-Vol. i. p. 289.When the tale opens, Robert de Lancaster isresiding quietly in his hereditary castle with hisdaughter Cecilia, an amiable old maid, his son Philip,a sort of cousin-german to the author's excellentNed Drowsy, and his daughter-in-law, wife of thesaid Philip, who is then just about to add an heirto Kray Castle, and a link to the lineage of Samothes ap Japheth ap Noah. This desirable eventis hastened in a very undesirable manner by anawkward Welsh baronet, named Sir Owen apOwen, who, in a fit of tumultuous gallantry, overturns the tea-equipage into the lap of Mrs DeLancaster. While she receives the necessary attendance in her premature accouchement, the groupbelow are left in circ*mstances which again fatallyremind us of the Life and Opinions of TristramShandy. The elder De Lancaster on this occasionharangues his friend Colonel Wilson, a maimed144 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.officer on half- pay, the Uncle Toby of the tale,whose blunt, soldier-like simplicity is meant to contrast the absurd ingenuity of his patron." So many things are assumed without being examined, andso many disbelieved without being disproved, that I am not hastyto assent or dissent in compliment to the multitude; and on this account perhaps I am considered as a man affecting singularity;I hope I am not to be found guilty of that idle affectation, onlybecause I would not be a dealer in opinions, which I have not weighed before I deliver them out. Above all things I wouldnot traffic in conjectures, but carefully avoid imposing uponothers or myself by confident anticipation, when nothing can beaffirmed with certainty in this mortal state of chance and change,that is not grounded on conviction; for instance, in the case ofthe lady above stairs, whose situation keeps our hopes and fears upon the balance, our presumption is, that Mrs De Lancastershall be delivered of a child, either male or female, and in all respects like other children- " I confess,' said Wilson, that is my presumption, and Ishould be most outrageously astonished, should it happen other- wise . '" I don't think it likely,' murmured Philip." No, no, no, ' replied De Lancaster; but we need not bereminded how many preternatural and prodigious births have occurred and been recorded in the annals of mankind. Whetherthe natives of the town of Stroud near Rochester are to this day under the ban of Thomas à Becket, I am not informed; but when,in contempt of that holy person, they wantonly cut off the tail ofhis mule as he rode through their street, you have it from autho- rity that every child thenceforward born to an inhabitant of Stroudwas punished by the appendage of an incommodious and enormous tail, exactly corresponding with that which had been amputated from the archbishop's mule. '" Here a whistle from the colonel [ to the tune of Lilibulero,we presume] struck the auditory nerves of Philip, who, gently laying his hand upon his stump gravely reminded him that Becket was a saint-" De Lancaster proceeded- What then shall we say of the famous Martin Luther, who being ordained to act so conspicuousa part in opposition to the papal power, came into the world fully equipped for controversy; his mother being delivered of herCUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 145infant (wonderful to relate) habited in all points as a theologian,and ( which I conceive must have sensibly incommoded her)wearing a square cap on his head, according to academic costume.This, Colonel Wilson, may perhaps appear to you, as no doubt it did to the midwife, and all present at his birth, as a very extra- ordinary and preternatural circ*mstance. '" It does not indeed appear so, ' said the colonel. I know you don't invent the fable; I should like to know your authority for it.'" Myauthority, ' replied De Lancaster, ' in this case, is the sameas in that of Becket's mule; Martinus Delrius is my authority for both; and when we find this gravely set forth by a writer of suchhigh dignity and credit, himself a doctor of theology, and publicprofessor of the Holy Scriptures in the University of Salamanca,who is bold enough to question it?'" I am not bold enough to believe it, ' said Wilson. "-Pp.25-29.During this learned discussion, which we produce as a specimen of the dialogue and manners,Mrs Philip de Lancaster is disencumbered ofa boy,who, after such absurd ceremony as suited an oldhumourist, that half expected his grandson's arrivalwith a tail at one extremity, and a doctor's cap atthe other, is christened by the name of John deLancaster. We are next treated with a longaccount of a visit actually achieved by the ancientDe Lancaster to another old gentleman called ApMorgan, the father of Mrs Philip de Lancaster,and maternal grandfather to the infantine hero.Ap Morgan, it seems, had discovered (somethingofthe latest) that when through paternal influencehis daughter was induced to bestow her hand uponthe descendant of King Samothes, she had sacrificed to filial duty a tender predilection in favourof a certain gallant young officer, by name Captain VOL. XVIII. K146 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Jones. This circ*mstance he communicates toold De Lancaster, acquainting him at the sametime, in very civil terms, that he was grieved todeath at having conferred his daughter on so stupida fellow as his son Philip, when she had made a somuch better choice for herself. To repay this confidence, De Lancaster proves to Morgan, withoutthe assistance of Delrius, that he was not responsible for the consequences of her obstinate silence,that their son and daughter were admirably matched, the lady being a religious hypochondriac, andthe gentleman a mere cypher; and that theirparental tenderness ought to overlook both as ablank in their lineage, fixing their only hopes uponthe grandson, whom, under Providence, they hadbeen the means of producing to the De Lancastersand Ap Morgans. -All which is admitted by oldMorgan as a 66 cure ofthe mournfuls;" his taste inconsolation being at least as peculiar as that of hisfriend in history and philosophy. - Mean while, Penruth Abbey, the seat of Sir Owen Ap Owen, receivestwo important inmates. These are a Spanish lady,or rather a Spanish Jewess, widow to a brother ofthe baronet who had settled in Spain, and her son,the heir of the title and estate.The descendants of Israel were heretofore favourites with Mr Cumberland. The characters ofAbraham Abrahams in the Observer, of Sheva inthe Jew, even of Nicolas Pedrosa in the lively talewhich bears his name, are honourable and abletestimonies of his efforts to stem popular prejudiceCUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 147in favour of a people, degraded because they areoppressed, and ridiculed because they are degraded.Apparently, however, he hath repented him of hisinclination towards the Jews, for not only do thissame Mrs Ap Owen and her son exhibit charactersthe most base, malicious, and detestable, but theirdescent from the stock of Abraham is thrown attheir heads by all who speak of them, and is obviously held out as one source at least of their enormities. There is a singular passage in Mr Cumberland's Memoirs, from which it would seem thatthe guilt of negligence at least, ifnot ofingratitude,worse than witchcraft, has, in his opinion, attachedto the synagogue.¹ Perhaps this may be one causewhy he now spits upon their Jewish gaberdine.In tracing the crimes of the Ap Owens, MrCumberland follows the maxim, " Nemo repenteturpissimus." The mother sets out by entrappingthe leisure, if not the heart, of Mr Philip de Lan-" The public prints gave the Jews credit for their sensibility in acknowledging my well-intended services; my friends gave me joy of honorary presents, and some even accused me ofingratitude for not making public my thanks for their munificence.I will speak plainly on this point; I do most heartily wish they had flattered me with some token, however small, of which I mighthave said this is a tribute to my philanthropy, and delivered itdown to my children, as my beloved father did to me his badge of favour from the citizens of Dublin: but not a word from thelips, not a line did I ever receive from the pen of any Jew, thoughI have found myself in company with many of their nation; and in this perhaps the gentlemen are quite right, whilst I had formed expectations, that were quite wrong; for if I have said for themonly what they deserve, why should I be thanked for it? But if Ihave said more, much more, than they deserve, can they do awiser thing than hold their tongues? "148 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.caster, whose hypochondriac spouse is now expectedto bid the world good night, under the influence ofa slow decline. The character of David Ap Owenalso opens gradually on the reader. He firstpinches the tail of a lap- dog: secondly, he gallopspast young John de Lancaster, in hunting, andmaliciously bespatters him with mud and gravel, tothe great damage of his clothes, and danger of hisprecious eyesight: thirdly, this " Jew-born miscreant," as De Lancaster terms him, insults theyouthful heir of Kray Castle at a festive meetingof the family harpers. But a darker scene is soonto open, Sir Owen Ap Owen, worried out of hislife by his sister- in-law and nephew, dies about theperiod when John de Lancaster, from an amiableand promising boy, has become a gallant youth.The baronet had bequeathed to Cecilia de Lancaster, a valuable diamond ring,—to young John, afavourite hunter. The ring is stolen by Mrs ApOwen, the horse hamstrung by her son, now Sir David. Their villany and cruelty are detected.The gentlemen of the country, attached to theinterest of the House of Owen, and members of ahunt over which the heir of that family presided,proceed to hold, what, for want of a better word,we shall call a grand palaver, upon this importantoccasion; and, after a solemn investigation ofthese delinquencies, transfer, in all form, theirfriendship and allegiance to the rival house of DeLancaster. Sir David and his mother are hootedfrom Wales, and obliged to retreat to Portugal.This dark picture is mingled with softer shades;CUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 149John de Lancaster falls in love with a beautifulgirl, the daughter of that same Captain Jones to whom his mother had been early attached. MrsPhilip de Lancaster had placed all her earthlyhopes on planning a match between her son and thedaughter of her lover. Yet this seemed an untoward project, for at their very first interview, John,as he is usually and concisely termed, being somuch struck with the young lady's beauty as tosubstitute an ardent embrace for the more formalsalutation ofa bow, alarms the discreet gouvernante,who, ignorant of Mrs De Lancaster's views, secludesthe young lady from so unceremonious a visitor.This occasions some slight misunderstandings andembarrassments, which we have not time to traceor disentangle, as we hasten to the conclusion of thenovel.While Mrs Philip de Lancaster was quietlydying at Kray Castle, her husband was suddenly seized with the fancy of setting out to take lodgings for her at Montpellier. Most people wouldhave thought his company on the road more necessary to the invalid than his exertions as an avantcourier. Butthis worthy poco curante was exactlyin the situation of the Jolly Miller, who cared fornobody and nobody for him, so he was permittedto execute his plan of travelling without remonstrance or interference. His evil destiny guidedhim to Lisbon, where he received news of hislady's decease, and immediately after fell into thesociety, and of course into the toils, of the ApOwens. These Jewish-Spanish-Welsh repro-150 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.bates, bythe assistance of a Portuguese bravo withlong whiskers, compelled poor Philip to sign abond, obliging himself, under a high penalty, tomarry Mrs Ap Owen before the expiration ofthree months. No sooner had he submitted to thisdegrading engagement, than he became anxious toevade the completion, and wrote a most dismalpenitentiary letter to his son John, imploring himto hasten to Lisbon and rescue him from the matrimonial shackles about to be forcibly imposed onhim. This epistle was delivered at Kray Castleby a Mr Devereux, who had sailed for England tolearn something of the characters of Sir David ApOwen, ere he countenanced his addresses to hissister. He is soon convinced of the infamy of thebaronet, and returns to Portugal with young Lancaster, who loses not a moment in flying to hisfather's assistance. He came, however, too late.Philip was doomed to lose his life through the onlyexertion of courage which its course exhibited.Sir David had urged the fulfilment of the bond,and, in a rencontre which followed, basely availedhimself of the assistance of his bravo, to murder hisintended father-in-law. When John arrived, hefound his father mortally wounded, and his enemyin the hands of justice. The former dies-thelatter commits suicide, and Mrs Ap Owen throwsherself into a convent or a synagogue, we forgetwhich. The fair hand of Miss Devereux is conferred upon the son of Colonel Wilson, a gallantyoung officer, who had accompanied John on hisPortuguese crusade. Her hand indeed he hadCUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 151proudly refused to solicit, and almost to accept;for we are told that her father's coffers overflowedwith the gold of Brazil, and that his daughter wasa rock of diamonds, while her lover was in allrespects a soldier of fortune . But this difficulty isovercome, as is usual in Mr Cumberland's plots, by the express solicitations of the fair lady. Thereturn of the whole party to England is followedby the nuptials of Amelia and John de Lancaster.His grandfather, for their guidance, was pleasedto compose a code of rules for domestic happinessin the married state, which are thus described:" They consisted chiefly of truisms, which he was at the pains of proving; and of errors so obvious, that examination could not make them clearer. He pointed out so many ways, by which man and wife must render each other miserable, that he seemed to have forgot that the purport of his rules was to make them happy. So little was this learned work adapted to the object held out in the title, that, if it had been pasted up for generaluse on the door of a church, it may be doubted if any, who had read it, would have entered there to be married."In John de Lancaster, although we cannot attachthe importance to it which is claimed by the author,we find a good deal to praise. The language isuniformly elegant and well-turned, some of therepartees are neatly introduced, and the occasionalobservations of the author are in general pointedand sensible. Some scenes of pathetic interestarise from the death of a young woman, robbed ofher virtue by the nefarious Sir David Owen. AWelsh harper and poet is repeatedly introduced,and many of his lyrical effusions are not inferiorto those of Mr Dibdin. The following verses152 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.might be sung to advantage at a charity dinnerwhen the subscription books were opened, provideda few bumper toasts had previously circulated." Let thy cash buy the blessing and pray'r of the poor,And let them intercede when death comes to thy door;They perhaps may appease that importunate power,When thy coffers can't buy the reprieve of an hour." Foolish man, don't you know every grain of your goldMay give food to the hungry and warmth to the cold,A purchase in this world shall soon pass away,But a treasure in Heaven will never decay. "-&c. &c.Of the skill exhibited in conducting the incidents, we cannot speak with much applause. Theblack and flagitious villany of Owen is withoutany adequate motive, and is, therefore, inartificialand revolting. Besides, John and he squabble andaffront and threaten each other through the wholebook, without coming to any personal issue. Theyare constantly levelling their pistols, and alarmingour nerves with the apprehension that they will gooff at half- co*ck. We have, however, in this, as inall Mr Cumberland's novels, the pleasing feelingthat virtue goes on from triumph to triumph, andthat vice is baffled in its schemes, even by theirown baseness and atrocity. There is, we think,no attempt at peculiarity of character, unless inthe outline of the grandfather, whose extravaganceis neither original nor consistent. Mr Cumberlandassures us that he has turned over many volumesto supply Robert de Lancaster with the absurdhobby-horsical erudition diffused through his conversation. No one will dispute Mr Cumberland'sCUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 153learning, but the allusions to the classics mighthave been taken from any ordinary work on antiquities; and to black letter lore, he makes no pretence, almost all his hero's references being toimaginary authors, and the quotations devised forthe nonce by Mr Cumberland himself. This isthe more unpardonable, as a display of ancientWelsh manners, and appropriate allusions to thehistory, legends and traditions of Gyneth, Prestatyn, and Deheubarth, would have given his hero'scharacter the air, if not the substance, of originality. The insertion of vague gibberish is awretched substitute. Had Ritson been alive hemight have rued his rash intrusion on this sacredground. The invention (even in jest) of suppositious authorities and quotations, would certainlyhave brought down castigation under some quaintand newly furbished title, which had alreadyserved to introduce the satire of Nash, Harvey,or Martin Marprelate, such as " Pap with a hatchet,or a Fig for my Grannum; " or, " Avery merrieand pithie Comedie, intituled, The longer thoulivest the more Fool thou art.”Mr Cumberland has made an affecting apologyfor the imperfections of his novel, by calling uponus to consider his long services and advanced age.It is perhaps a harsh answer, that every work mustbe judged of by its internal merit, whether composed like that of Lipsius, upon the day in whichhe was born, or, like the last tragedy of Sophocles,upon the very verge of human existence. Weshould, therefore, have listened more favourably to154 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.this personal plea, had we not been provoked by astrain of querulous discontent, neither worthy ofthe author's years, of his philosophy, nor of hisreal goodness of heart. We have, for example,the following doleful lamentation over the praiseand the pudding, which, he alleges , have been gobbled up by his contemporaries.66 If, in the course of my literary labours, I had been less studious to adhere to nature and simplicity, I am perfectly con- vinced I should have stood higher in estimation with the purchasers of copyrights, and probably been read and patronised by my contemporaries in the proportion of ten to one. To acquirea popularity of name, which might set the speculating publishers upon out-bidding one another for an embryo work (perhaps in meditation only) seems to be as proud and enviable a pre-emi- nence as human genius can arrive at: but if that pre- eminencehas been acquired by a fashion of writing, that luckily falls inwith the prevailing taste for the romantic and unnatural, thatwriter, whoever he may be, has only made his advantage of the present hour, and forfeited his claim upon the time to come:having paid this tribute to popularity, he certainly may enjoy the profits of deception, and take his chance for being markedout by posterity (whenever a true taste for nature shall revive)as the misleader and impostor of the age he lived in." The circulation of a work is propagated by the cry of the many; its perpetuity is established by the fiat of the few. Ifwe have no concern for our good name after we have left this world, how do we greatly differ from the robber and the assassin?-But this is nothing but an old man's prattle. Nobody regardsit-We will return to our history. "—Vol. ii . p. 176.By our troth, Mr Cumberland, these be verybitter words. We are no defenders of ghost- seeingand diablerie. That mode of exciting interest oughtto be despised as too obvious and too much in vulgaruse; but, when the appeal is made to nature, wemust recollect that there are incredibilities in themoral, as well as physical, world. Whole nationsCUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 155have believed in demons and witches; but whocan believe that such a caricatura as Robert deLancaster ever existed out of the precincts ofBedlam?-There is no one that has not, at someperiod of his life, felt interested in a ghost- story;but it is impossible to sympathize with a characterwho pins his faith to figments as gross as if in hisrespect for green cheese he had conceived the moonto be composed of that savoury edible. Mr Cumberland's assumed contempt of public applause wecannot but consider as an unworthy affectation.In fact, few men have shown more eagerness toengross the public favour, of which he now grudgeshis contemporaries their slight and transitory share.His papers have come flying abroad on the wingsof the hawkers. He has written comedies at whichwe have cried, and tragedies at which we havelaughed: he has composed indecent novels andreligious epics. He has pandered to the publiclust for personal anecdote, by writing his own life,and the private history of his acquaintances." At length he took his muse and dipt her Full in the middle of the Scripture:What wonders there the man grown old did,Sternhold himself he out- Sternholded. "Popularity we own to be a frail nymph, and far toofree of her favours; but we cannot see her lashedby an author, who has strained every nerve to gaina share of them, without recollecting the exclama- tion of Lear: -" Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!Why dost thou lash that whor*?-Strip thine own back;Thou hotly lust'st to use her in that kind For which thou whipp'st her. "156 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Neither can we offer Mr Cumberland much consolation on the other topic of his complaint. Heseems to think of this predilection of the public asTrinculo did of losing his bottle in the pool, andgrows doubly indignant at the pipe and tabor of thedeluding Demonologist-" There is not only dishonour in it, but an infinite loss-yet this is yourinnocent goblin! " The gentlemen of Paternosterrowwe areafraid, notwithstanding Mr Cumberland'sdiatribe, will continue obstinately to prefer discounting drafts on the present generation, payableat sight, to long-dated bills on posterity, whichcannot be accepted till both the drawer and holderhave become immortal in every sense of the word.Upon the whole, we rejoice that an old andvalued friend has, at the advanced age of seventysix, strength and spirits to amuse himself and thepublic with his compositions; and we think it willconduce greatly to both, if he will cease to frethimself because of the success of ballad-singers,ghost- seers, and the young Roscius. Ifthey flourish at present, let him console himself with thetransitory quality of their prosperity. We darenot soothe him too much by assenting to the counter-part of his prophecy: for although the hopesof future glory have been the consolation of everybard under immediate neglect, yet experience compels us to confess that they are usually fallacious.Contemporary applause does not once, perhaps, inan hundred times, ensure that of posterity; but fewnames are handed down to immortality, which havenot been distinguished in their own generation;CUMBERLAND'S JOHN DE LANCASTER. 157and least of all do we anticipate any splendid accession to the posthumous fame of an author, whosetalents do not, in the present day, rank him abovea dignified and respectable mediocrity.

ARTICLE VI. MATURIN'S FATAL REVENGE.

Fatal Revenge ; or, the Family of Montorio : a Romance.

By DENNIS JASPER MURPHY. 3 vols. 8vo. London. 1807.- Quarterly Review, 1810. ]

J'APPRENDS d'être vif. Such was the notedanswer of a German baron who had alarmed awhole Parisian hotel by leaping over joint- stools inhis solitary apartment. This mode of qualifyinghimself for the lively conversation of the Frenchwas probably attended with some fatigue to theworthy Frei-herr's person, and perhaps some damage to his shins; with which we the more readilysympathize, as, in compliance with the hint of several well-meaning friends, we are just taking the1 [Afterwards avowed of the Rev. C. R. Maturin. ]158 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.pen after some desperate efforts pour apprendre àêtre vif. It was whispered to us, in no unfriendlyvoice, that we were respectable classical scholars,divines at least as serious as was necessary, tolerable politicians, considering the old- fashioned natureof our principles, and as good philosophers as couldbe expected of persons obviously trammelled bybelief in the tenets which, in compliance with ancient custom, are still delivered once in seven daysto those who choose to hear them. It seemedfurther to be allowed, that we were indifferentgood hands at a sarcasm, and displayed some tastefor poetry; but still we were not lively—that is,we had none of those light and airy articles whicha young lady might read while her hair was papering. To sum up all in one dismal syllable, it wasinsinuated that we were dull. To prove the futilityofthe charge, we resolved to extend the sphere ofour enquiries; and to review not only the graveand weighty, but the flitting and evanescent productions of the times; for the purpose of givingfull scope to our ingenuity, and evincing the vivacity of our talents, so wantonly called in question.The want of proper subjects for the exercise ofour powers was the first dilemma. We had nofriendly correspondent at the court of Paris who,with a sentimental flourish on the peace whichought to subsist in the republic of letters, thoughwar raged between the respective countries of thesages, might forward, through some kind neutral,the last new novel or the latest philosophical discovery of the Institute, and only expect us, inMATURIN'S FATAL REVENGE. 159requital, to give the wit and learning and scienceof the Great Nation its reasonable and just precedence over those of our own country. What thenwas to be done? After some consideration, we sentto our publisher for an assortment of the newestand most fashionable novels, hoping to find amongthe frivolous articles of domestic manufacture something to supply the want of foreign importation.It is from a laborious inspection into the contentsof this packet, or rather hamper, that we are nowrisen with the painful conviction that spirits andpatience may be as completely exhausted in perusing trifles as in following algebraical calculations.Before proceeding, however, to the novel selectedalmost at random for the subject of a few remarks,we cannot but express our surprise at the presentdegradation of this class of compositions.The elegant and fascinating productions whichhonoured the name of novel, those which Richardson, Mackenzie, and Burney, gave to the public;of which it was the object to exalt virtue and degrade vice; to which no fault could be objectedunless that they unfitted here and there a romanticmind for the common intercourse of life, while theyrefined perhaps a thousand whose faculties couldbetter bear the fair ideal which they presentedthese have entirely vanished from the shelves ofthe circulating library. It may indeed be fairlyalleged in defence of those who decline attemptingthis higher and more refined species of composition,that the soil was in some degree exhausted by overcropping-that the multitude of base and tawdry160 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.imitations obscured the merit of the few which aretolerable, as the overwhelming blaze of blue, red,green, and yellow, at the exhibition, vitiates ourtaste for the few good paintings which show theirmodest hues upon its walls. The public was indeedweary of the protracted embarrassments of lordsand ladies who spoke such language as was neverspoken, and still more so of the sea-saw correspondence between the sentimental Lady Lucretia andthe witty Miss Caroline, who battledored it in thepathetic and the lively, like Morton and Reynoldson the stage. But let us be just to dead and to livingmerit. In some of the novels of the late CharlotteSmith, we found no ordinary portion of that fascinating power which leads us through every variousscene of happiness or distress at the will of theauthor; which places the passions of the wise andgrave for a time under the command of ideal personages; and perhaps has more attraction for thepublic at large than any other species of literarycomposition, the drama not excepted. Nor do weowe less to Miss Edgeworth, whose true and vividpictures of modern life contain the only sketchesreminding us of human beings, whom, secluded aswe are, we have actually seen and conversed within various parts of this great metropolis.When we had removed from the surface of ourhamper a few thin volumes of simple and insipidsentiment; taken a moment's breath; and exclaimed"O Athenians, how hard we labour for your applause! " we lighted upon a class of books whichexcited sterner sensations. There existed formerlyMATURIN'S FATAL REVENGE. 161a species of novel of a tragi- comic nature, which,far from pretending to the extreme sentiment anddelicacy of the works last mentioned, admitted,like the elder English comedy, a considerable dashof coarse and even indelicate humour. Such werethe compositions of Fielding; and such of Smollet,the literary Hogarth, whose figures, though theyseldom attained grace or elegance, were markedwith indelible truth and peculiarity of character.Instead of this kind of comic satire, in which toborrow a few words of Old Withers, abuses, whenwhipped, were perhaps stripped a little too bare,we have now the lowest denizens of Grub Streetnarrating, under the flimsy veil of false names, andthrough the medium of a fictitious tale, all thatmalevolence can invent and stupidity propagateconcerning private misfortunes and personal characters. We have our Winters in London, Bath,and Brighton, of which it is the dirty object to dragforth the secret history of the day, and to give toScandal a court of written record. The talentwhich most of these things indicate is that of thelowest newspaper composition, and the acquaintance with the fashionable world precisely whatmight be gleaned from the footman or porter;while the portraits of Bow Street officers, swindlers,and bailiffs, are possibly drawn from a more intimate acquaintance. The shortness of our cruisehas not yet permitted us to fall in with any of thesepicaroons; but let them beware, as LieutenantBowling says, how they come athwart our hawser;VOL. XVIII. L162 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES."C we shall mind running them down no more thanso many porpoises.""Plunging from depth to depth a vast profound,"we at length imagined ourselves arrived at theLimbus Patrum in good earnest. The imitatorsof Mrs Radcliffe and Mr Lewis were before us;personages who, to all the faults and extravagances of their originals, added that of dulness, withwhich they can seldom be charged. We strolledthrough a variety of castles, each of which wasregularly called Il Castello; met with as manycaptains of condottieri; heard various ejacul*tionsof Santa Maria and Diabolo; read by a decayinglamp, and in a tapestried chamber, dozens of legendsas stupid as the main history; examined such suitesof deserted apartments as might fit up a reasonablebarrack; and saw as many glimmering lights aswould make arespectable illumination-Amidtheseflat imitations of the Castle of Udolpho, we lightedunexpectedly upon the work which is the subjectof the present article, and, in defiance of the verybad taste in which it is composed, we found ourselves insensibly involved in the perusal, and attimes impressed with no common degree of respectfor the powers of the author. We have at no timemore earnestly desired to extend our voice to abewildered traveller, than towards this young man,whose taste is so inferior to his powers of imagination and expression, that we never saw a moreremarkable instance of genius degraded by thelabour in which it is employed. It is the resentment and regret which we experience at witnessingMATURIN'S FATAL REVENGE. 163the abuse of these qualities, as well as the wish tohazard a few remarks upon the romantic novel ingeneral, which has induced us (though we areobliged to go back a little) to offer our criticism onthe Fatal Revenge, or the Family ofMontorio.It is scarcely possible to abridge the narrative,nor would the attempt be edifying or entertaining.A short abstract of the story is all for which we canafford room. It is introduced in the followingstriking manner." At the siege of Barcelona by the French, in the year 1697,two young officers entered into the service at its most hot and critical period. Their appearance excited some surprise and perplexity. Their melancholy was Spanish, their accent Italian,their names and habits French." They distinguished themselves in the service by a kind of careless and desperate courage, that appeared equally insensibleof praise or of danger. They forced themselves into all the coupsde main, the wild and perilous sallies that abound in a spiritedsiege, and mark it with a greater variety and vivacity of characterthan a regular campaign. Here they were in their element. Butamong their brother officers , so cold, so distant, so repulsive, thateven they who loved their courage, or were interested in their melancholy, stood aloof in awkward and hesitating sympathy.Still, though they would not accept the offices of the benevolencetheir appearance inspired, they were involuntarily always conci- liating. Their figures and motions were so eminently noble andstriking, their affection for each other so conspicuous, and their youthful melancholy so deep and hopeless, that every one en- quired and sought intelligence of them from an impulse strongerthan curiosity. Nothing could be learnt; nothing was known,or even conjectured ofthem.66 During the siege, an Italian officer, of middle age, arrivedto assume the command of a post of distinction . His first meetingwith these young men was remarkable. They stood speechless and staring at each other for some time. In the mixture ofemotions that passed over their countenances, no one predominantor decisive could be traced by the many and anxious witnesses that surrounded them.164 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES." As soon as they separated, the Italian officer was persecuted with enquiries about the strangers. He answered none of them;yet he admitted that he knew circ*mstances sufficiently extraordinary relating to the young men, who, he said, were natives of Italy." A few days after, Barcelona was taken by the French forces.The assault was terrible; the young officers were in the very rageof the fight; they coveted and courted danger; they stood amid showers of grape and ball; they rushed into the heart of crater and explosions; they literally wrought in the fire . ' The effectsof their dreadful courage were foreseen by all; and cries of recalland expostulation sounded around them on every side, in vain." On the French taking possession of the town, there was ageneral demand for the brothers. With difficulty the bodies werediscovered, and brought with melancholy pomp into the com- mander's presence. The Italian officer was there; every eyewas turned on him. "—Introd. pp. ix. -xiii.The history of these mysterious brethren is toldby the officer who had recognised them, and runsbriefly thus: Orazio, Count of Montorio-for webegin our story with the explanation, which inthe original concludes it-possessed of wealth,honours, and ancestry, is married to a beautifulwoman, whom he loves doatingly, but of whoseaffections he is not possessed. A villanous brotherinstils into his mind jealousy of a cavalier to whomthe countess had formerly been attached. Oraziocauses the supposed paramour to be murdered in the presence of the lady, who also dies: he thenflies from his country with feelings of desperationthus forcibly described:-" My reason was not suspended, it was totally changed. Ihad become a kind of intellectual savage; a being that, with themalignity and depravation of inferior natures, still retains the reason of a man, and retains it only for his curse. Oh! thatmidnight darkness of the soul, in which it seeks for somethingMATURIN'S FATAL REVENGE. 165whose loss has carried away every sense but one of utter and desolate privation; in which it traverses leagues in motion and worlds in thought, without consciousness of relief, yet with adread of pausing. I had nothing to seek, nothing to recover;the whole world could not restore me an atom, could not showme again a glimpse of what I had been or lost; yet I rushed onas if the next step would reach shelter and peace. ”—Vol. iii.p. 380.In this maniac state he reaches an uninhabitedislet in the Grecian archipelago, where, from aconversation accidently overheard between twoassassins sent by his brother to murder him, thewretched Orazio learns the innocence of his victims, and the full extent of his misery. He contrives to murder his murderers, and the effect ofthe subsequent discovery upon his feelings is described in a strain of language, which we werealternately tempted to admire as sublime and toreprobate as bombastic.Orazio determines on revenge, and his plan isdiabolically horrid. He resolves to accomplish the murder of his treacherous brother, who, in consequence of his supposed death, had now assumedthe honours of the family; and he further determined that this act of vengeance should be perpetrated bythe hands of that very brother's ownsons, two amiable youths, who had no cloud upontheir character, excepting an attachment to mysterious studies, and a strong propensity to superstition.We do not mean to trace this agent of vengeance through the various devices and stratagemsby which he involved in his toils his unsuspecting166 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.nephews, assumed in their apprehension the character of an infernal agent, and decoyed them firstto meditate upon, and at length actually to perpetrate, the parricide which was the crown and summit of his wishes. The doctrine of fatalism, onwhich he principally relied for reconciling his victims to his purpose, is in various passages detailedwith much gloomy and terrific eloquence. Therest of his machinery is composed of banditti,caverns, dungeons, inquisitors, trap-doors, ruins,secret- passages, soothsayers, and all the usualaccoutrements from the property-room of MrsRadcliffe. The horror of the piece is completedbythe murderer discovering that the youths whomhe has taken such pains to involve in parricide arenot the sons of his brother, but his own offspringby his unfortunate wife. We do not dwell upon any of these particulars, because the observationswhich we have to hazard upon this neglected novelapply to a numerous class of the same kind, andbecause the incidents are such as are to be found inmost of them.In the first place, then, we disapprove of themode introduced by Mrs Radcliffe, and followedby Mr Murphy and her other imitators, by windingup their story with a solution by which all the incidents, appearing to partake of the mystic andmarvellous, are resolved by very simple and natural causes. This seems, to us, to savour of theprecaution of Snug the Joiner; or, rather, it is asif the mechanist, when the pantomime was over,should turn his scenes "the seamy side without,"MATURIN'S FATAL REVENGE. 167and expose the mechanical aids by which the delusions were accomplished. In one respect, indeed,it is worse mismanagement; because the understanding spectator might be in some degree gratified by the view of engines which, however rude,were well adapted to produce the effects which hehad witnessed. But the machinery of the Castle ofMontorio, when exhibited, is wholly inadequate tothe gigantic operations ascribed to it. There is atotal and absolute disproportion between the causeand effect, which must disgust every reader muchmore than if he were left under the delusion ofascribing the whole to supernatural agency. Thelatter resource has indeed many disadvantages;some of which we shall briefly notice. But it isan admitted expedient; appeals to the belief of allages but our own; and still produces, when wellmanaged, some effect even upon those who aremost disposed to contemn its influence. We cantherefore allow of supernatural agency to a certainextent and for an appropriate purpose, but wenever can consent that the effect of such agencyshall be finally attributable to natural causes totallyinadequate to its production. We can believe, forexample, in Macbeth's witches, and tremble at theirspells; but had we been informed, in the conclusionof the piece, that they were only three of his wife'schamber-maids disguised for the purpose of imposing onthe Thane's credulity, it would have addedlittle to the credibility of the story, and entirelydeprived it of the interest. In like manner we fling168 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.us.back upon the Radcliffe school their flat and ridiculous explanations, and plainly tell them that theymust either confine themselves to ordinary andnatural events, or find adequate causes for thosehorrors and mysteries in which they love to involveYet another word on this subject. We knownot if a novel writer ofthe present day expects ordesires his labours to be perused oftener than once;but as there may be here and there a maiden auntin a family, for whose advantage it must be againread over by the young lady who has already devoured it in secret, we advise them to considerhow much they suffer from their adherence to thisunfortunate system. We will instance the incidentof the black veil in the castle of Udolpho Attention is excited, and afterwards recalled, by a hundred indirect artifices, to the dreadful and unexplained mystery which the heroine had seen beneathit; and which, after all, proves to be nothing morenor less than a waxen doll. This trick may indeedfor once answer the writer's purpose; and has, wesuppose, cost many an extra walk to the circulatinglibrary, and many a curse upon the malicious concurrent who always has the fourth volume in hand.But it is as impossible to reperuse the book without feeling the contempt awakened by so pitiful acontrivance as it is for a child to regain its originalrespect for King Solomon after he has seen themonarch disrobed of all his glory, and deposited inthe same box with Punch and his wife. And, infact, we feel inclined to abuse the author in such aMATURIN'S FATAL REVEnge. 169case as the watch do Harlequin, when they find outhis trick of frightening them by mimicking thereport of a pistol." Faquin, maraud, pendard, impudent, téméraire,Vous osez nous faire peur!39In the second place, we are of opinion that theterrors of this class of novel writers are too accumulated and unremitting. The influence of fear-and here we extend our observations as well tothose romances which actually ground it uponsupernatural prodigy as to those which attempt asubsequent explanation-is indeed a faithful andlegitimate key to unlock every source of fancyand of feeling. Mr Murphy's introduction isexpressed with the spirit and animation which,though often misdirected, pervade his whole work." I question whether there be a source of emotion in thewhole mental frame so powerful or universal as the fear arising from objects of invisible terror. Perhaps there is no other that has been, at some period or other of life, the predominant and indelible sensation of every mind, of every class, and under everycirc*mstance. Love, supposed to be the most general of passions,has certainly been felt in its purity by very few, and by some not at all , even in its most indefinite and simple state." The same might be said, à fortiori, of other passions. But who is there that has never feared? Who is there that has notinvoluntarily remembered the gossip's tale in solitude or in dark- ness? Who is there that has not sometimes shivered under aninfluence he would scarce acknowledge to himself? I might trace this passion to a high and obvious source." It is enough for my purpose to assert its existence and pre- valency, which will scarcely be disputed by those who rememberit. It is absurd to depreciate this passion, and deride its influence.It is not the weak and trivial impulse of the nursery, to be forgotten and scorned by manhood. It is the aspiration of a spirit;it is the passion of immortals, ' that dread and desire of their final habitations. "-Pref. pp. 4 & 5.170 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Wegrant there is much truth in this propositiontaken generally. But the finest and deepest feelings are those which are most easily exhausted.The chord which vibrates and sounds at a touch,remains in silent tension under continued pressure.Besides, terror, as Bob Acres says of its counterpart, courage, will come and go; and few peoplecan afford timidity enough for the writer's purposewho is determined on " horrifying " them throughthree thick volumes. The vivacity of the emotionalso depends greatly upon surprise, and surprisecannot be repeatedly excited during the perusal ofthe same work. It is said respecting the cruelpunishment of breaking alive upon the wheel, thesufferer's nerves are so much jarred by the firstblow, that he feels comparatively little pain fromthose which follow. There is something of thisin moral feeling; nor do we see a better remedy for it than to recommend the cessation of theseexperiments upon the public, until their sensibilityshall have recovered its original tone. The tastefor the marvellous has been indeed compared to thehabit of drinking ardent liquors. But it fortunately differs in having its limits: he upon whom onedram does not produce the effect, can attain thedesired degree of inebriation by doubling the dose.But when we have ceased to start at one ghost,we are callous to the exhibition of a whole Pandemonium. In short, the sensation is generally astransient as it is powerful, and commonly dependsupon some slight circ*mstances which cannot berepeated.MATURIN'S FATAL REVENGE. 171" The time has been, our senses would have cool'dTo hear a night-shriek; and our fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir As life were in't. We have supped full with horrors;And direness, now familiar to our thoughts,Cannot once start us." [Macbeth, act v. sc. 5. ]These appear to us the greatest disadvantagesunder which any author must at present struggle,who chooses supernatural terror for his engineof moving the passions. We dare not call theminsurmountable, for how shall we dare to limit theefforts of genius, or shut against its possessor anyavenue to the human heart or its passions? MrMurphy himself, for aught we know, may be destined to show us the prudence of this qualification. He possesses a strong and vigorous fancy,with great command of language. He has indeedregulated his incidents upon those of others, andtherefore added to the imperfections which wehave pointed out, the want of originality. But hisfeeling and conception of character are his own,and from these we judge of his powers. In truth,we rose from his strange chaotic novel romance asfrom a confused and feverish dream, unrefreshedand unamused, yet strongly impressed by many ofthe ideas which had been so vaguely and wildlypresented to our imagination.It remains to notice the pieces of poetry scatteredthrough these volumes, many of which claim ourattention; but we cannot stop to criticise them.There is a wild and desultory elegy, vol. ii.pp. 305-309, which, though not always strictlymetrical, has passages of great pathos, as well asfancy. If the author of it be indeed, as he des-172 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.cribes himself, young and inexperienced, withoutliterary friend or counsellor, we earnestly exhorthim to seek one on whose taste and judgment hecan rely. He is now like an untutored colt, wasting his best vigour in irregular efforts, withouteither grace or object; but there is much in thesevolumes which promises a career that may at somefuture time astonish the public.

ARTICLE VII. WOMEN; OR. POUR ET CONTRE.

[Women; or, Pour et Contre: A Tale. Bythe Author ofBERTRAM, & C. From the Edinburgh Review, June,1818.]THE author of a successful tragedy has, in thegeneral decay of the dramatic art which marks ourage, a good right to assume that distinction in histitlepage, and claim the attention due to superiorand acknowledged talent. The faults of Bertramare those of an ardent and inexperienced author;but its beauties are undeniably of a high order;and the dramatist who has been successful in exciting pity and terror in audiences assembled to gapeand stare at shows and processions, rather than toweep or tremble at the convulsions of human pas-WOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 173sion, has a title to the early and respectful attentionof the critic.Mr Maturin, the acknowledged author of Bertram, a tragedy, is a clergyman on the Irish establishment, employed chiefly, if we mistake not, inthe honourable task of assisting young personsduring their classical studies at Trinity College,Dublin. He has been already a wanderer in thefield of fiction, and is the author of the House ofMontorio, a romance in the style of Mrs Radcliffe,the Wild Irish Boy, and other tales. The present work is framed upon a different and moreinteresting model, pretending to the merit ofdescribing the emotions of the human heart, ratherthan that of astonishing the reader by the accumulation of imaginary horrors, or the singular combinations of marvellous and perilous adventures.Accordingly, we think we can perceive marks ofgreater care than Mr Maturin has taken thetrouble to bestow upon his former works of fiction;and that which is a favourite with the author himself, is certainly most likely to become so with the1 [ The Rev. Charles Robert Maturin, curate of St Peter's,Dublin, an eccentric character, but a man of genius, shared theusual fate of irregular and incoherent genius, in a continued family warfare, with " elegant desires, " poverty, and bailiffs. He died in October, 1824. Besides the present and preceding articles of review, Mr Maturin published tales, called, The Milesian Chief, 4vols.; The Wild Irish Boy, 3 vols .; Melmoth the Wanderer,4 vols.; and The Albigenses, 4 vols.; two Tragedies- Bertram,and Manuel; The Universe, a Poem; and two volumes ofsermons.Among other fantastic humours of this gentleman, it is said that when he wished his family to be aware that the fit was on him,he used to stick a wafer on his forehead. ]174 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.public and with the critic. Upon his former works,the author has, in his preface, passed the followingsevere sentence." None of myformer prose works have been popular. The strongest proof of which is, none of them arrived at a secondedition; nor could I dispose of the copyright of any but of theMilesian, which was sold to Mr Colburn for L.80, in the year 1811."Montorio (misnomed by the bookseller The Fatal Revenge, a very bookselling appellation) had some share of popularity, but it was only the popularity of circulating libraries:it deserved no better; the date of that style of writing was out when I was a boy, and I had not powers to revive it. When Ilook over those books now, I am not at all surprised at theirfailure; for, independent of their want of external interest (thestrongest interest that books can have, even in this reading age),they seem to me to want reality, vraisemblance; the characters,situations, and language are drawn merely from imagination;my limited acquaintance with life denied me any other resource.In the tale which I now offer to the public, perhaps there maybe recognised some characters which experience will not disown.Some resemblance to common life may be traced in them.this I rest for the most part the interest of the narrative.paucity of characters and incidents (the absence of all that constitutes the interest of fictitious biography in general) excludesthe hope of this work possessing any other interest. "OnTheThe preface concludes with an assurance, thatthe author will never trespass again in this kind;—apromise or threat which is as often made and asoften broken as lovers' vows, and which the reader .has no reason to desire should in the present casebe more scrupulously adhered to, than by otherauthors of ancient and modern celebrity. Let usonly see, what the work really deserves, a favourable reception from the public; and we trust MrMaturin may be moved once more to resume aWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 175species of composition so easy to a writer of richfancy and ready powers, so delightful to the numerous class of readers, who have Gray's authority forsupposing it no bad emblem of paradise to lie allday on a couch and read new novels.ItIn analyzing Women, we are tempted to hesitate which end of the tale we should begin with.It is the business of the author to wrap up his narrative in mystery during its progress, to withdrawthe veil from his mystery with caution, and inch asit were by inch, and to protract as long as possiblethe trying crisis " when any reader of commonsagacity may foresee the inevitable conclusion; "a period after which neither interest of dialoguenor splendour of description, neither marriagedresses, nor settlement of estates, can protract theattention of the thorough-bred novel reader. Thecritic has an interest the very reverse of this.is his business to make all things brief and plain tothe most ordinary comprehension. He is a matterof-fact sort of person, who, studious only to bebrief and intelligible, commences with the commencement, according to the instructions of thegiant Moulineau, “ que tous ces recits qui commencent par le milieu ne font qu'embrouiller l'imagination." It is very true, that, in thus exercisingour privilege, the author has something to complainof. We turn his wit the seamy side without,explain all his machinery, and the principles onwhich it moves before he causes it to play; and,like the persecution which the petty jealousy of hisgreat neighbours at Hagley exercised on poor176 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Shenstone, it seems as if we perversely conductedour readers to inconvenient points of view, andintroduced them at the wrong end of a walk todetect a deception. Of such injuries, according toJohnson, the bard of the Leasowes was wont tocomplain heavily; and perhaps Mr Maturin maybe equally offended with us for placing the conclusion of his book at the beginning of our recital.But " let the stricken deer go weep; "—the cookwould have more than enough to do, who thoughtit necessary to consult the eel at which extremityhe would like the flaying to begin.There was then once upon a time, in a remoteprovince of Ireland, a certain man of wealth andwickedness, who combined the theory of infidelitywith the practice ofthe most unbounded libertinism .By one of his mistresses, a female of a wild andenthusiastic character, who, though she had sacrificed her virtue, retained the most bigoted attachment to the Catholic religion, this person had abeautiful and gifted daughter. The unfortunatemother, sensible of the dangers which the childmust incur under the paternal roof, was detectedin an attempt to remove it elsewhere, and drivenby violence from the house of her paramour; not,however, before she had poured upon him and hisinnocent offspring, a curse the most solemn, bitterand wild that ever passed the lips of a humanbeing. The daughter was bred up in the midst ofluxury, and sedulously instructed in all that couldimprove an excellent understanding, by teachers ofevery language, and masters of every art. At theWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 177early age of fifteen, her chief instructor was anartful and accomplished Italian, who abused histrust, and seduced his pupil into a private marriage. A female child was the consequence of thisunion, and occasioned its being discovered. Thefather was inexorable, and drove the daughter fromhis presence; while the sordid husband, disappointed in his avaricious views, tore the child from themother, returned it upon the hands of his relentlesspatron, carried off his wife to Italy; and turned toprofit her brilliant talents of every kind, as anactress upon the public stage, where she becamethe most distinguished performer by whom it hadever been trod. The selfish husband, or rathertyrant, by whose instructions she had been taughtto attain this eminence, died at length, when shehad obtained the zenith of her reputation, and leftZaira under the assumed title of Madame Dalmatiani, mistress of her own destiny.About this period her daughter had attained theage of fifteen years. The infidel grandfather hadput her, while an infant, under the charge of anexcellent woman, the wife of a wealthy banker.Both professed evangelical doctrines, or what istechnically called Calvinistic Methodism. Eva was bred up in the same tenets, shared their religious,gloomy, and sequestered life, and passed for theniece of Mr and Mrs Wentworth. The grandfather made large remittances, which reconciledthe banker to this adoption; the heart of his moreamiable wife was won by the beauty and engagingdisposition of her youthful ward.VOL. XVIII. M178 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Adanger, however, hovered over Eva, from thesuperstitious and frantic obstinacy of her grandmother, who, as Zaira was beyond her reach, hadtransferred to Eva the anxious and unhesitatingzeal with which she laboured to make acquisitionof the souls of her descendants for the benefit ofthe Catholic Church. Reduced by choice morethan necessity to the situation of a wanderingbeggar, this woman retained, it seems, amid herinsanity, the power of laying schemes of violence;and, amongst her rags, possessed the means of carrying them into execution. She contrived forciblyto carry off her grand- daughter Eva, and to placeher in a carriage, which was to transport her to anobscure hut in the vicinity of Dublin.These events compose the underground or basem*nt story of the narrative, to which the authorintroduces his company last of all, although we havethought proper to show its secret recesses, and themachinery which they contain, before examiningthe superstructure.Without a metaphor the novel thus commences.De Courcy, a youth of large property, of talentsand of virtue, fair and graceful in person, and cultivated in taste and understanding, but of a disposition at once fickle and susceptible, appears as thehero of the tale. In his seventeenth year, he isabout to enter himself a student in Christ- ChurchCollege. The breaking down of a carriage hadrendered him a pedestrian; and as he made hisapproach to the capital of Ireland through theshades of a delightful summer night, the chaiseWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE . 179passes him, in which ruffians, hired as we haveseen by no desperate admirer, as is usual on suchoccasions, but by her old frantic grandmother, arein the act of transporting Eva into the power ofthat person. To hear the cry of a female in distress, and to pursue the ravishers, although uponfoot, was one and the same thing. An interestingand animated account of the chase is given, rendered more true by the knowledge of the localitiesexhibited by the author. De Courcy, losing andrecovering the object of his pursuit as the carriageoutstrips him in speed or is delayed by accident,follows them through the Phoenix park, and alongthe road to Chapel- Izod. Here, in a miserablecottage, he lights at last upon the object of hispursuit, in the keeping of the old hag by whoseaccomplices she had been carried off, and who,while they were absent about the necessary repairsof some damage sustained bythe carriage, awaitedtheir return to carry her to some place of greatersecurity. She is thus forcibly described." Charles, who knew not what to answer, advanced; a womanthen started forward from a dark corner, and stood wildly beforehim, as if wishing to oppose him, she knew not how. She wasa frightful and almost supernatural object; her figure was low,and she was evidently very old; but her muscular strength and activity were so great, that, combined with the fantastic wildnessofher motions, it gave them the appearance of the gambols of ahideous fairy. She was in rags; yet their arrangement hadsomething of a picturesque effect. Her short tattered petticoats,of all colours and of various lengths, depending in angular shreds,her red cloak hanging on her back, and displaying her bare bonyarms, with hands whose veins were like ropes, and fingers liketalons; her naked feet, with which, when she moved, she stamped,jumped, and beat the earth like an Indian squaw in a war dance;180 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.her face tattooed with the deepest indentings of time, want,wretchedness, and evil passions; her wrinkles, that looked likechannels of streams long flowed away; the eager motion withwhich she shook back her long matted hair, that looked likestrings of the grey bark of the ash-tree, while eyes flashedthrough them whose light seemed the posthumous offspring ofdeceased humanity, ―her whole appearance, gestures, voice, anddress, made De Courcy's blood run cold within him. Theygazed on each other for some time, as if trying to make out eachother's purpose, from faces dimly seen, till the woman, whosefeatures seemed kindling by the red light into a fiend- like glare,appeared to discover that he was not the person whom she expected, and cried , in a voice at once shrill and hollow, like aspent blast, ' What is it brought you here? ' -and, before hecould answer, rushing forward, stood with her back against adoor (which but for this motion he would not have observed) ,and waving her lean nervous arms, exclaimed fiercely, ' Come nofarther at your peril! "" Vol. i. 15-17.The threats of this demoniacal personage wereinsufficient to deter De Courcy from forcing hisway to the interior of the hut, where he beheld abeautiful, but almost inanimate form, lie stretchedon a wretched pallet. Upon De Courcy's attemptto remove her, the frantic guardian again breaksinto a transport of rage, which, however, does notprevent him from accomplishing his purpose amidthe dire curses which she heaped upon him, andwhich are expressed in a tone of energy whichmarks the dialogue of this author." Take her, take her from me if you will, but take my curse with you; it will be heavier on your heart than her weight is on your arm. I never cursed the grass but it withered, or the skybut it grew dark, or the living creatures but they pined and wasted away. Now you bear her away like a corpse in your arms; and I see you following her corpse to the churchyard, and the white ribbons tying her shroud; her maiden name on her tomb- stone; no child to cry for her, and you that sent her to her grave wishing it was dug for you. " -Vol. i. p. 24,WOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 181Unappalled by these denunciations of future vengeance, De Courcy conveyed Eva in his arms to aplace of safety, and found the means of restoringher to her guardians the Wentworths. The seedsof a fever which had lurked in his constitution hadbeen called into action by De Courcy's exertionsupon this memorable night. On his recovery, afriend and fellow- student, himself something of aMethodist, conducts him to a place of worship frequented by those who held that persuasion, whenhe finds himself unexpectedly seated close to thatlovely vision which he had seen but briefly on thenight when he released her, and which had nevertheless haunted, ever since, not merely the delirious dreams of his fever, but the more sober moments of his reconvalescence. He is invited to thehouse of her guardians, where the society and conversation is described with the pencil of a master.The various effect of the peculiar doctrines whichthey professed, is described as they affected MrsWentworth, a woman of strong sense, rigid rectitude, and a natural warmth of temper whichreligion had subdued; her husband, a cold-heartedPharisee, whose head was so full of theology, thathis heart had no room for Christian charity orhuman feeling; and Mr Macowen, a preacher ofthe sect, a sensual hypocrite, whose disgustingattributes are something too forcibly described.The conversation of such a society was limited toevangelical subjects; or whatever appeared todiverge from the only tolerated topic, was broughtback to it by main force, according to the manner182 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.in which the preachers of the seventeenth centuryspiritualized all temporal incidents and occupations,or rather degraded doctrines of the highest andmost reverent import, by the base comparisonsand associations with which they dared to interweave them.Dr" One man talked incessantly of the election of grace; ' hismind literally seemed not to have room for another idea; every sentence, if it did not begin, ended with the same phrase, and every subject only furnished matter for its introduction.Thorpe's last sermon at Bethesda was spoken of in terms of highand merited panegyric.-' Very true, ' said he; ' but-a-Did you think there was enough of election in it? ' A late work ofthe same author (his clever pamphlet on the Catholic petition)was mentioned. ' But does he say any thing of election in it? 'There was no opportunity, ' said Mr Wentworth. " Then he should have made one--Ah, I would give very little for a book that did not assert the election of grace! ' Once seated in hiselection-saddle, he posted on with alarming speed, and ended with declaring, that Elisha Coles on God's Sovereignty, was worth all the divinity that ever was written. I have a large collection of the works of godly writers, ' said he, turning to De Courcy,' but not one work that ever was, would I resign for that of Elisha Coles. Won't you except the Bible? ' said De Courcy,smiling. Oh, yes-the Bible-ay, to be sure, the Bible,said the discomfited champion of election; but still, you know,"-and he continued to mutter something about Elisha Coles on God's Sovereignty.-" Another, who never stopped talking, appeared to De Courcy a complete evangelical time-keeper; -the same ceaseless ticking sound; the same vacillating motion of the head and body; andhis whole conversation turning on the various lengths of thesermons he had heard, of which it appeared, he was in the habit of listening to four every Sunday. Mr Matthias preachedexactly forty-eight minutes. I was at Mr Cooper's exhortation atPlunket- street in the evening, and it was precisely fifty-three minutes. And how many seconds? ' said Mrs Wentworth,smiling-for she felt the ridicule of this." Close to De Courcy were two very young men, who wereWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 183comparing the respective progress they had made in the conver- sion of some of their relations. They spoke on this subject witha familiarity that certainly made De Courcy start.- ' My aunt is almost entirely converted, ' said one. ' She never goes to churchnow, though she never missed early prayers at St Thomas's forforty years before. Now, ' with a strange sort of triumph, ' now,is your sister converted, as much as that? ' - Yes -yes-she is .'answered the other, eagerly; for she burned her week's pre- paration yesterday, and my mother's too along with it. ' "-Vol. i.64-67.De Courcy in vain attempted to assimilate hisconversation to that of the party, by quoting suchreligious works as were known to him. The chilling words " Arminian " or "heterodox " wereapplied to those popular preachers whose sermonshe ventured to quote; and even Cœlebs was appealed to without effect, as he was given to understandthat Hannah More, however apostolical in the eyesof Lord Orford, was held light in the estimation ofthe present system. Thus repulsed from the society of the gentlemen-" When he arrived in the drawingroom, the same monotonous and repulsive stillness; the same dry circle (in whose vergeno spirit could be raised) reduced him to the same petrifying medium with all around. The females were collected round thetea-table; the conversation was carried on in pensive whispers;a large table near them was spread with evangelical tracts, &c.The room was hung with dark- brown paper; and the four unsnuffed candles burning dimly (the light of two of them almostabsorbed in the dark baize that covered the table on which theystood), gave just the light that Young might have written by,when the Duke of Grafton sent him a human skull, with ataperin it, as an appropriate candelabrum for his tragedy writing- desk.The ladies sometimes took up these tracts, shook a head of deepconviction over their contents, laid them down, and the same stillness recurred. The very hissing of the tea-urn, and thecrackling of the coals , was a relief to De Courcy's ears. ”—Vol. i .69, 70.184 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Notwithstanding the gloom and spiritual pridein which she had been educated, the beauty andsweet disposition of Eva burned with pure and palesplendour, like a lamp in a sepulchre; and DeCourcy nourished for her that desperate attachmentwith which youths of seventeen resign themselvesto the first impression of the tender passion. Hebecomes in love-to pining, to sickness, almost todeath; and at length prevails upon his worthy andaffectionate guardian to make proposals for him tothe guardians of Eva. Mr and Mrs Wentworthboth urge the utter impropriety of their countenancing a connexion between young persons soopposite in religious opinions; but are graduallycompelled to give ground, the former by consideration of De Courcy's worldly wealth, to which hisreligious opinions had not rendered him indifferent, and his more amiable wife, by her compassionfor the state of the young Eva, and her discoveringthat he had awakened sentiments in the breast ofEva corresponding to his own.De Courcy is therefore received, on the footingof an acknowledged lover, into the house of theWentworths, exposed, however, to the persecutionsof the father and many of his visiters, who wereresolved at all rates to achieve his conversion." Charles at first yielded from timidity, or answered from complaisance, but at length found himself, by the pertinacity of the disputants, inextricably involved in the mazes of controversy.Every hour he was called on to discuss or to decide on points above human comprehension; he was pressed with importunities about his spiritual state, which was represented to depend on hisadopting the separate creed of every individual speaker, withWOMEN; OR, POUR ET contre. 185all its divisions and subdivisions, and shades of difference, thatseemed to him to give to airy nothing a local habitation and aname.""-P. 117.Even when he turned from this persecution toEva, he did not all times find the relief which heexpected. Her purity, her inexperience, her timidity, and the absolute subjection of her mind toreligious feeling exclusively, prevented her fromunderstanding or returning the warmth of affectionwith which her lover regarded her. She was coldand constrained; blamed herself for the slightestdeviation into worldly passion and human feeling-in short, the person in the world least qualifiedto return the affection of an enthusiastic youngIrishman. Her accomplishments were upon thesame narrow and constrained scale as her feelings.She could discourse exquisite music, but not oneearthly song; and the warm expressions of humanpassion which occurred in her evangelical hymnswere only addressed to the Deity with an amorouspastoral feeling, which seemed to her lover equallyunsuitable and nonsensical. Again, Eva, in herlittle sphere of enjoyments, cultivated drawing;but it was only that of flowers, -objects as pure, asfair, and as inanimate, we had almost said, as herself. To feelings of imagination and passion, shewas equally averse and impassive; and such appeared to be the tranquil purity of her still and orderlyexistence, that De Courcy felt it almost criminal tostrive to awaken her imagination, " to delude herwith the visions of fancy; " and that it resembledthe attempt of the fallen angels in Milton to " min-186 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.gle strange fire " with the lights of heaven. He didhis best, however, and called in the aid of ancientand modern bards to enable him to dispute the tooexclusive empire of heaven in her bosom.666 Why are you so silent, Eva? ' he said, as they returned from the conventicle which the Wentworths frequented. ' I wasthinking of that fine text.'-' What was it? '-' What was it? ' said Eva, almost relinquishing his arm, from a feelingstronger and more unpleasant than surprise, for she had no ideaof any one forgetting the text so soon. I have a bad memory—or a bad headach, ' said De Courcy, trying to smile away heramazement— or, perhaps, I would rather hear it from your lips than those of that dark- browed sallow man.'-' It is little mat- ter,' said Eva, from what lips we hear the truth. The textwas, God is Love. ' " ' Oh, Eva! ' said De Courcy, underan impulse he could not resist, do we require any thing more than this dark-blue sky, this balmy air, those lovely stars thatglitter like islands of light in an immeasurable ocean, and point out our destination amid its bright and boundless infinity, to tell us that God is Love? ' Why must we learn it in the close andheated air ofa conventicle, with all its repulsive accompaniments of gloomy looks, sombre habits, dim lights, nasal hymns? Are these the interpreters the Deity employs as the intimations of hislove?' They are, ' said Eva, awakened to an answer,but neverthus awakened for more than a moment ' they are. For to thepoor the gospel is preached, and they seldom feel any thing ofthe atmosphere but its inclemency, -to the sick, and they cannotencounter it, to the unhappy, and they cannot enjoy it. ' ”P. 142-144.-It was scarce possible that this conflict shouldhave long continued, without the lover becomingcolder, and more sensible to the various disagreeable points of his situation, or the beloved condescending to descend a few steps towards earth fromthe point of quietism which she occupied. DeCourcy began to relax. Ball- rooms, billiard- tables,and theatres disputed the charms even of Eva'sWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 187society, since he could only enjoy it in the gloomyconventicle, or scarce less gloomy mansion of theWentworths; and then, alternately repulsed by hercoldness, and exasperated by the officious zeal ofWentworth, or the more studied insults of Macowen, who looked upon his addresses to Eva asan interference with his own views. At the moment when the irreconcilable difference betweenhis sentiments and habits, and those of all in Dominic Street, became less capable of disguise, andjust as the good man Wentworth was triumphingin an approaching controversy, in which a Socinian,a Catholic, an Arian, and an Arminian were, inknightly phrase, to keep the barriers against twelveresolute Catholics, De Courcy discovers in thepapers the arrival of Madame Dalmatiani, the firstsinger, as well as the first tragic actress in Europe.This lady was pronounced, by the general reportof Europe, to be a Siddons, a Catalani, a La Tiranna, with all the terrible Medea graces, all theMuses in short, and all the Graces embodied in theform of a female of exquisite beauty. To DeCourcy's ill-timed eulogium on this celebrated performer, Wentworth answered in a strain of triumph."Every histriomastrix, from Tertullian down toPrynne and Collier, might have been raised fromthe dead with joy. He cursed stages, stage- playsstage-players, frequenters and abettors, from Thespis down to Mr Harris and the committee of Drury-Lane, lamp-lighters, scene-shifters, and candlesnuffers inclusive, not forgetting a by-blow at DeCourcy for visiting those tents of Kedar." The188 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.votary of the drama and its abominator parted inmutual wrath, and De Courcy had an additionalmotive, besides those of curiosity and interest, togo to the theatre: he desired to showhis independence, and his sense of Wentworth's illiberal prejudices.To the theatre, accordingly, he went, and theappearance and effect produced by this celebratedactress, is thus vividly described.He" Abrilliant audience, lights, music, and the murmur of de- lighted expectation, prepared Charles for a far different object from Eva. What a contrast, in the very introduction, betweenthe dark habits, pale lights , solemn music, and awful language ofa conventicle, and the gaiety and splendour of a theatre!felt already disposed to look with delight on one who was sobrightly harbingered, though it was amid a scene so different his first impressions of passion had been received and felt. The curtain rose and, in a few moments after, Madame Dalmatianientered. She rushed so rapidly on the stage, and burst with such an overwhelming cataract of sound on the ear, in a bravura thatseemed composed apparently not to task, but to defy the human voice, that all eyes were dazzled, and all ears stunned; and several minutes elapsed before a thunder of applause testified the astonishment from which the audience appeared scarcely then torespire. She was in the character of a princess, alternately re- proaching and supplicating a tyrant for the fate of her lover; andsuch was her perfect self- possession, or rather the force with which she entered into the character, that she no more noticedthe applauses that thundered round her, than if she had been theindividual she represented; and such was the illusion of her figure,her costume, her voice, and her attitudes, that in a few momentsthe inspiration with which she was agitated was communicated to every spectator. The sublime and sculpture-like perfection of her form the classical, yet unstudied undulation of her attitudes,almost conveying the idea of a sybil or a prophetess under the force of ancient inspiration-the resplendent and almost over- powering lustre of her beauty, her sun-like eyes, her snowy arms,her drapery blazing with diamonds, yet falling round her figurein folds as light as if the zephyrs had flung it there, and delightedWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 189to sport among its wavings; her imperial loveliness, at once attractive and commanding, and her voice developing all that naturecould give, or art could teach, maddening the ignorant with thediscovery of a new sense, and daring the scientific beyond thebounds of expectation or of experience -mocking their amaze ment, and leaving the ear breathless-All these burst at once onCharles, whose heart, and senses, and mind, reeled in intoxication, and felt pleasure annihilated by its own excess.Her" It was for the last scene she had reserved her powers-those astonishing powers that could blend the most exquisite tones ofmelody with the fiercest agitations of passion, that could delight the ear, while they shook the soul. She came forward, afterhaving stabbed the tyrant to avenge the fate of her lover.dress was deranged-her long black hair floated on her shoulders-the flowers and diamonds that bound it were flung back-and her bare arms, her dark fixed eyes, the unconscious look withwhich she grasped the dagger, and the unfelt motion with whichfrom time to time she raised her hand to wipe off the trace of blood from her pale forehead, made the spectators almost tremble for the next victim of one who seemed armed with the beauty,the passions, and the terrors of an avenging goddess. Applauses that shook the house had marked every scene but the last. Whenthe curtain dropt, a dead silence pervaded the whole theatre, anda deep sigh proclaimed relief from oppression no longer support- able."-Vol. i. P. 160-164.It cannot have escaped the intelligent reader,that this superb Queen of terror and sorrow, thismistress of all the movements of the human heart,is the highly accomplished, brilliant, and fascinating Zaira, the mother of the simple, retired, andevangelical Eva; and it can as little escape hispenetration, that she is about to become the unconscious rival of her unfortunate child, in the affections of the fickle De Courcy . The death of herwretched husband had left Zaira possessed of thewealth which her talents had acquired, and shewas now come to Ireland, with the hope of obtaining from her father, some lights concerning the190 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.destiny of her infant child . By his stern injunction, she retained her borrowed name and public character.De Courcy had a nominal guardian, a silly manof fortune, called Sir Richard Longwood, whosesilly wife had presented him with two daughterswhom we must pronounce rather too silly for therank which they are represented as holding in goodsociety. At the house and the parties of LadyLongwood, De Courcy is thrown into the societyof Zaira, rendered doubly dangerous by her various talents and extent of cultivation, as well as herbrilliancy of taste, feeling, mind, and manners,forming so strong a contrast with the uniform simplicity and limited character of poor Eva. Yet itwas Eva whom he visited after the first eveningspent in the fascinating society of Zaira, ere yethe paid his respects to the syren whose image hadbegun to eclipse her in his bosom." Eva and her aunt were at work; the room was large; thedark-brown paper, two candles dimly burning on the work table,the silent quiet figures that sat beside it, the shelves loaded with volumes of divinity, the still sombrous air of every thing; no musical instrument, no flowers, no paintings; what a contrast to the scene he had last witnessed, and to the scene he was hasten- ingto! "-P. 199.Here he asked for books, and had his choice ofSandeman's Letters, Boston's Fourfold State, Gillon Isaiah, or Owen on the Hebrews. Milton wasthe only author of genius permitted to hold a placeon these well-purged shelves. Milton, De Courcybegan to read, but was soon silenced by Mrs Wentworth's severe remarks on the lapse of that greatWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 191poet into the tenets of Baxterianism. The dulnessof the party was disturbed, not enlivened, by thearrival of old Wentworth, full primed for controversy, and his pockets stuffed with evangelicalpamphlets. His violence and prejudices againhurry the fickle lover to the house of MadameDalmatiani, where all was light and music, garlands and colours, beauty and genius. The mistress passed through apartments filled with groupesof the gay and the learned, where speech waswithout effort, and silence without ennui; whererare volumes, rich ornaments, classical statues andpictures, as well as the number of the attendantsand splendour of the establishment, showed thatthe proprietor was the favourite of fortune, as wellas of nature. But her own presence was the principal charm. Her beauty, her musical talents, hertaste, were alternately taxed for their share of thefestival. She conversed with the various professors of the arts of poetry and of general literature, in a style various, as suited their differentpursuits, like Cleopatra, giving audience to eachambassador at her court in his own native language.A friend, by name Montgomery, the same whofirst conducted De Courcy to a methodist meetinghouse, and who himself nourished a hopeless, butmost generous passion for Eva, saw with alarm,that De Courcy preferred the dangerous mansion ofMadame Dalmatiani, and endeavoured, more zealously than wisely, to reclaim the wanderer.What had Dominic Street to present, that couldbe opposed to Zaira's palace of enchanted enjoy-192 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ments? At one time a fierce controversy betwixtMacowen and one of his pupils, a “ babe in grace,”as his spiritual guide termed him, " to be fed withmilk."" He was a man turned of fifty, six feet two inches high,broad and bulky in proportion, with an atrabilious complexion, avoice of thunder, and a tread that shook the room. The contrast was unspeakably ridiculous. ' Babe! ' murmured De Courcy;" Babe! ' echoed Montgomery, and both had some difficulty insubduing their rebellious muscles to the placid stagnation that overspread the faces around them. -But the calm was of shortcontinuance. This Quinbus Flestrin, this man- mountain of acatechumen, came, not to sit with lowly docility at the feet of his teachers, but to prove that he was able to teach them. Ifhe was a babe, as De Courcy said, ' tetchy and wayward was hisinfancy; ' no ill- nursed, ill- tempered, captious, squalling brat,was ever a greater terror and torment in the nursery. He resisted,he retorted, he evaded, he parried, he contradicted, carped and ' cavilled on the ninth part of a hair. '" Macowen lost his ground; then he lost his breath; then helost his temper; scintillating eyes, quivering lips, and streaks of stormy red marking their brown cheeks, gave signal of fiercedebate. All the weapons of fleshly warfare were soon drawn in the combat, and certain words that would have led to a differenttermination ofthe dispute among men of this world, passed quick and high between them. Struck with shame, they paused-adreary pause of sullen anger and reluctant shame. Now, shan'twe have a word of prayer, ' said Mr Wentworth, who had been watching them with as much deliberate enjoyment as an ancientRoman would a spectacle of gladiators. " -P. 239–241.A more edifying scene was that of Eva herselfengaged in teaching a school of little orphans,whom she maintained out of her allowance, andeducated from her own lips. Yet, even amid thismost laudable employment, could the fantastic delicacy of De Courcy, rendered more punctilious bythe society of Zaira, find matter of offence. Thedulness of the children, their blunders, their min-WOMEN; OR, POUR ET contre.193gled brogues, their dirt, and all else that wasunpleasing to the sense and the imagination, rendered the task even of clothing the naked, andinstructing the ignorant and fatherless, disgustingin the eyes of a delicate and somewhat selfish loverof the fine arts .These and similar scenes of contrast succeed toeach other with great effect; and the feeble andvacillating mind of De Courcy is alternately agitated by returning affection for Eva, aided by compassion and by a sense of the cruelty and dishonourof deserting her, and by the superior force of character of her more accomplished rival. It becomesdaily more and more plain, that the weaker feelingmust give way to that which was more strong andenergetic, especially when Zaira, after one or twotrying interviews, agrees to banish the name oflove from their intimacy, and to term it only anintimate friendship, resolves herself to adopt thetask of preceptress to the bride of De Courcy, andtransfer to her those accomplishments which toovisibly enchanted the heart of her susceptible friend .This specious arrangement is well ridiculed byZaira's correspondent, a French lady of fashion,having all the frivolity, the good nature, the tactand perception of character proper to one who filleda high place in the Parisian beau monde; andZaira's eyes become opened to the real state of heraffections. Mean while, the continued operation ofcontrast alienates De Courcy still further from thegentle Eva, and attaches him more firmly to herbrilliant rival. A thunder-storm frightens EvaVOL. XVIII. N194 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.into a state of insensibility. Another thunderstorm surprising a party of pleasure, amid theromantic scenery of the Wicklow mountains, givesZaira the opportunity of exhibiting courage at onceheroic and philosophical. All circ*mstances combine to show that De Courcy's hastily formedengagement with Eva will not and cannot come toa good issue. The fiendish hag from whose powerDe Courcy had delivered her, appears upon thescene, again and again crossing the stage like anevil-presaging apparition. One of the most frightful of these appearances takes place during a greatfire in Dublin, to the progress of which Zaira andDe Courcy are witnesses. The scene is describedwith much terrible grandeur." All was life, though it was the hour of repose; and all was light, terrible light, though the sky was as dark as December midnight. They attempted to ascend Cork-hill; that was rendered impossible by the crowd; and winding another way through lanes, of which the reader may be spared the names, they got into Fishamble street. Many fearful intimations of the dangerstruck them there. -The hollow rolling of the fire- engines, so distinct in their sound; -the cries of clear the way, ' from thecrowd, who opened their dense tumultuous mass for the passage,and instantly closed again; -the trampling of the cavalry on thewet pavement, threatening, backing, facing among the crowd;the terrible hollow knocking on the pavement, to break open the pipes for water, which was but imperfectly supplied; -the bellsof all the neighbouring churches, St John's, St Werburgh's,St Bride's, and the deep tremendous toll of Christ- church,mingled with, but heard above all, as if it summoned the sufferersto prepare, not for life but for death, and poured a kind of defi- ance on the very efforts it was rung to invite them to. All thiscame at once on them, as they entered Fishamble street, from awretched lane through which they had been feeling their way.They emerged from it; and when they did, the horrors of the conflagration burst on them at once. The fire, confined in theWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 195sphere of its action, amidst warehouses thickly enclosed, burst in terrible volumes above the tops of the houses, and seemed like avolcano, of which no one could see the crater." On the steps of St John's Church, a number were col- ected. They had snatched the furniture from their miserablelodgings; piled it up in the street, where the guard were watching it, and now sat patiently in the open air to see their habita- tions reduced to ashes, unknowing where they were to rest their heads that night." All the buildings in the neighbourhood were strongly illuminated bythe fire, and still more strongly (though partially fromtime to time) by lights held out by the inhabitants from theirwindows, from the shops to the attics, six stories high; and thegroupes below flashing out in the light, and disappearing in thedarkness, their upturned faces, marked with the shifting tracesof fear, horror, defiance, and despair, presented a subject forSalvator. No banditti, in the darkest woods of the Apennines,illuminated only by lightning, ever showed more fearful wildnessof expression, or more picturesque distortion of attitude. Justthen the flames sunk for a moment, but, rising again, instantlypoured forth a volume of light, that set the whole horizon in ablaze. There was a shriek from the crowd, that seemed ratherlike the cry of triumph than despair. It is certain, that a people like the Irish, whose imagination is stronger than any other oftheir intellectual faculties , can utter cries of delight at the sightof a splendid conflagration that is consuming their dwellings." The last burst of flames produced a singular effect. Thebuildings in Castle street (below the range of the illumination)lay in complete darkness-darkness more intense from the surrounding light, and the tower and spire of St Werburgh's, ithad then a fantastically elegant spire) , by their height in thehorizon, caught the whole effect of the fire, and appeared like afairy palace of flame, blazing and built among the clouds. ”—Vol.ii. pp. 101-105.Amidst this scene of horror and sublimity, rushesforththe beggar maniac, bursting through the crowdwith irresistible force, and planting herself oppositeto Zaira." She was, as usual, in rags, and as the strong light gleamed on her hoary streaming hair, her wild features, and her wilder196 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.attire, she seemed fit to act the prompting and exulting fury whostood by Nero when he surveyed from his tower Rome in flames,which his own orders had kindled, and which his own orders (it is said) forbid to be extinguished. She began her usual wild dance,regardless of the crowd, and of the terrible cause of their assembling, and mingled, from time to time, exclamations in a voicebetween recitative and singing, that seemed modulated to the music of invisible and infernal spirits. It was very singular ofthis woman, that though her accent was perfectly Irish , her ex- pressions were not so; her individual feeling seemed to swallowup and overwhelm her nationality. Wherever she was, she seemed perfectly alone-alone alike amid the mountains of Wick- low or the multitudes of Dublin; all times, circ*mstances, andpersons seemed to yield to the single, mysterious, undefinable feeling that always governed and inspired her; and while it madeher an object of supreme terror to all others, made all othersobjects of supreme contempt to her. "-Vol. ii. pp. 107, 108.As she attempted to seize upon Zaira, of whoseindividuality she retained some imperfect recollection, she was forced back by De Courcy." Have you no touch of nature in ye? ' said the woman,suddenly and fearfully altering her tone, and clinging close and closer to Zaira. Do you know who (whom) it is you driveaway? Have ye no touch of nature in ye?-Oh, these handsare withered, but how often they have clasped you round that white neck! —Oh, these hairs are grey, but how often have you played with them when they were as black and as bright as your own! -Sorrow for you has turned them white. Oh, look uponme, -look upon me on my knees. I don't know your name now,but you should never have forgot mine. Oh, have ye no naturein you, and I kneeling on the cold stones before my own! ' ”—Vol. ii. pp. 112, 113.These ominous curses were prophetic. Thedeparture of Zaira for the Continent brought DeCourcy's apostasy to a crisis. Her father havingdied suddenly, deprived her of every clue, as shethought, to discover where her child existed; andthe discovery of how far her affections were like toWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 197hurry her, was another motive for her departure.She saw De Courcy once more, however, and theresult of their interview was, his obtaining permission to attend her to the Continent on the footingofa companion, who, at the expiry ofa twelvemonth,might claim possession of her hand. There is aletter of the deserted and heart-broken Eva to herfaithless lover, which abounds with touches ofbeautiful and natural feeling. She thanked himfor the wholesome cruelty which had restored toheaven a heart which, for his sake, had begun tolove the world. She forgave him, and concludedwith this pathetic prophecy." You will return in spring; in spring, you will be back with your triumphant beautiful bride: perhaps you will visit thisroom from some lingering feeling; you will see the flowers , the books, the music you once loved, all in their place, where youformerly wished to see them; and perhaps you will ask, where am I.—' I came,' says the eastern tale you told me, ' to thetombs of my friends, and asked where are they? and echo answered, Where? ' "-Vol. ii. p. 276..In the hope of rendering her juvenile lover allthat was worthy, as she already accounted him allthat was amiable, Zaira had yielded to the culpable weakness of becoming accessory to his breachof promise. She had not doubted that she couldattach him to her by the double charms of beautyand talent, added to those of superior intellect. ButParis-that Paris in which even the lover of thePrincess of Babylon became disloyal—was doomedto prove the vanity of her expectations.The fidelity of a man is like the virtue of a femalewhen it has succumbed in one temptation,-the198 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.sense of fine feeling is lost, and it seldom resistsanother. Yet, we are far from thinking the seconddefection of Charles de Courcy, amiable and generous as he is painted, as half so probably motived ashis first offence against the code of constancy. Hisdesertion of the simple and narrow-minded Eva fora woman of such brilliant talent and powers asZaira, while it was highly blameworthy, is but tooprobable an occurrence. But that, unsated bypossession, and witnessing the prodigious effectsproduced by Zaira's talents on all that was braveand illustrious in Europe, and which was then (in1814) assembled in Paris, he should have wantonlydeserted the sacred object of his affections, andpreferred to her, for ever so short a space, a certainEulalie de Terranges, so inferior to her in allrespects, exceeds every extended limit ofindulgencewhich we can allow to a susceptible and fickle disposition, fixes upon Mr Maturin's hero the odiouscharacter of a male coquette, and makes us almostidentify a character so effeminate with that ascribedby the satirist to a countryman of De Courcy'sAmotley figure of the Fribble tribe,Which heart can scarce conceive or pen describe,Nor male nor female neither, and yet both,Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth,Asix foot suckling, mincing in its gait,Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate. "Lest we should appear, however, to have judgedtoo harshly of De Courcy, we will briefly recapitulate the various motives alleged for his a secondtime breaking the most solemn ties that a man canWOMEN; OR, POUR ET contre. 199form, and deserting Zaira in Paris, as he had deserted Eva in Dublin. The blaze of Zaira's mentalsuperiority seems to have become too scorching forDe Courcy to bear, when he was no longer screenedby the opportunity of retiring to contrast its brilliancy with the more calm moonlight character ofEva. She had pretensions, besides, to guide andto instruct him; and no man cares to be guided andinstructed by a woman. Moreover, in the opinionof an experienced Frenchman, Zaira was tropexigeante, too determined to dazzle and to delight,and to inspire every moment with rapture of onedescription or another. " Pleasure itself, so protracted," says this connoisseur, " so exaggerated,must become pain. It is like the punishment ofRegulus, cutting off the eyelids to turn the lightof the sun into torture." Besides, there was thedissipation of Parisian society, and the shame ofbeing seen one of the train of an actress-he agentleman of fortune and birth; and there was thediscovery, that Zaira had been a wife and a mother,which she had imprudently left him to receive fromothers; and there was a letter of expostulation fromhis kind guardian, conjuring him to avoid a disgraceful alliance, and not to suffer himself to betrailed over the Continent, the overgrown pupil ofa female pedagogue. Lastly, there was a naturallove of change, and some regret after the discardedEva. Ifall these reasons cannot palliate De Courcy'ssecond apostasy to the reader, we must abandon himto their severest condemnation for deserting Zaira,and announce his speedy return to Ireland. It was200 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.in vain that she degraded herself by following himeven in the streets-it was impossible to recall hisaffections. The arrival of Montgomery, with intelligence that Eva was in a deep decline, broughthis resolution to a crisis, and he quitted Paris.From this period there is little more occasion fornarrative. The author traces the various steps bywhich Eva approaches to the harbour where thereis rest from each earthly storm-the affectionateservices of her adopted mother-the selfish speculations of Wentworth, and the more basely selfishbrutalities of the vile Tartuffe Macowen. Withthe history of Eva's graduated decline, is contrastedthe despairing state of Zaira; her conferences andcontroversies with Cardonneau, a French scepticalphilosopher; her escape from his snares; her resolution to become a devotee, and her horror at finding herself unable to entertain that warmth ofenthusiastic zeal necessary to give effect to theCatholic nostrum of penance; her resolution to putherself to death, with all the preparations whichshe solemnly adopted; and her abandoning herpurpose, startled by an impressive dream or vision,which impelled her to follow her versatile lover toIreland. All these moods of a despairing mindare well described, but too much protracted. Themind becomes weary of accumulated horrors, havingall reference to the same person and set of events,and belonging to a catastrophe which is inevitable,and full in view. The skill of the author, his knowledge ofthe human mind, his talent at expressingsorrow, in all the varieties of her melancholy lan-WOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 201guage, proves unequal to the task-during the firstperusal at least-of securing unwearied attention.His labours seem as if they were employed todiversify or adorn a long strait avenue of yewsand cypresses, terminating in the full view of asepulchre.At length, however, the various persons of thenarrative, pursuers and pursued, are reassembledin Dublin. De Courcy- his own health destroyedbyremorse and the conflict of contending passions,dares to solicit an interview with Eva-dares toconfide his repentance to Mrs Wentworth, withwhose character, naturally warm and even passionate, though now subjected to the control ofreligion, the reader has been already made acquainted. We have no hesitation in placing themeeting betwixt this lady and the penitent whohad wounded her peace so bitterly, by the side ofthe pathetic scenes ofthe same sort in Richardson.But we have been already too liberal in quotations; and the conclusion of the tale must be brieflysummed up. In her wanderings through Dublin,Zaira finds her maniac mother on her deathbed;and learns from her the fact, that she had been theunconscious rival of her own daughter, and themeans of her descending to an untimely grave.After this communication, made with the samewild and impressive dignity with which Mr Maturin has all along invested this person, the unhappywoman expires; and the yet more unhappy Zairahastens to Wentworth- street, where she finds Evajust dead. De Courcy also slept, to awake no202 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.more; and the author thus closes his melancholynarrative." The following spring, the Miss Longwoods, gay and happy,were escorted by youthful, titled bridegrooms into that verychurch. They entered it fluttering in bridal finery; and as theyquitted it, their steps trod lightly on the graves of De Courcy and Eva. Such is the condition of life."Zaira still lives, and lives in Ireland. A spell seems to bind her to the death-place of her daughter and lover. Hertalents are gone, at least they are no longer exerted: The oracles may still be there, but it is only the tempest of grief that now scatters their leaves. Like Carathis in the vaults of Eblis, herhand is constantly pressed on her heart, in token of the fire that is burning there for ever; and those who are near her, con- stantly hear her repeat, My child-I have murdered my child! 'When great talents are combined with calamity, their union forms the tenth wave of human suffering; -grief becomes inex- haustible from the unhappy fertility of genius, -and the serpents that devour us are generated out of our own vitals . ”—Vol. iii .pp. 407, 408.CThe length of our analysis, and ofour quotations,are the best proof of the pleasure with which wehave read this moral and interesting tale, -andmay stand in place of eulogy. We have alsohinted at some of the author's errors; and we mustnow, in all candour and respect, mention one ofconsiderable importance, which the reader hasperhaps anticipated. It respects the resemblance betwixt the character and fate of Zaira and Corinne-a coincidence so near, as certainly to deprive MrMaturin of all claim to originality, so far as thisbrilliant and well- painted character is concerned.In her accomplishments, in her beauty, in hertalents, in her falling a victim to the passion of afickle lover, Zaira closely resembles her distin-WOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 203guished prototype. Still, however, she is Corinnein Ireland, contrasted with other personages, andsustaining a different tone of feeling and conversation and argument; so that we pardon the wantof originality of conception, in consideration of thenew lights thrown upon this interesting female,who, in the full career of successful talent, andinvested with all the glow of genius, sacrifices theworld of taste and of science for an unhappilyplaced affection. On the other hand, the full praise,both of invention and execution, must be allowedto Maturin's sketch of Eva-so soft, so gentle, soself- devoted-such a mixture ofthe purity ofheavenwith the simplicity of earth, concealing the mostacute feelings under the appearance of devoutabstraction, and unable to express her passionotherwise than by dying for it. The various impressions received by good and by bad dispositionsfrom the profession of methodistical or evangelicaltenets, form a curious chapter in the history of ourmodern manners. Mr Maturin has used the scalpel,not we think unfairly, but with professional rigourand dexterity, in anatomizing the effects of asystem which is making way amongst us withincreasing strength, and will one day have its influence on the fate perhaps of nations. But weresume our criticisms. The character of De Courcywe will not resume; -it is provokingly inconsis- tent; and we wish the ancient fashion of the Devilflying off with false-hearted lovers, as in the balladof the Wandering Prince of Troy, had sustainedno change in his favour.204 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.EvaIndeed, such a catastrophe would not have beenalien to the genius of Mr Maturin, who, in thepresent, as well as in former publications, has shownsome desire to wield the wand of the enchanter,and to call in the aid of supernatural horrors.While De Courcy was in the act of transferring hisallegiance from Eva to Zaira, the phantom of theformer, her wraith-as we call in Scotland the apparition of a living person-glides past him, arrayed inwhite, with eyes closed, and face pale and colourless, and is presently afterwards seen lying beneathhis feet as he assists Zaira into the carriage.has a dream, corresponding to the apparition in allits circ*mstances. This incident resembles onewhich we have read in our youth in Aubrey, Baxter, or some such savoury and sapient collector ofghost-stories; but we chiefly mention it, to introduce a remarkable alteration in the tragedy ofBertram, adopted by the author, we believe, withconsiderable regret. It consists in the retrenchment of a passage or two of great poetical beauty,in which Bertram is represented as spurred to thecommission ofhis great crimes, by the direct agencyof a supernatural and malevolent being. We havebeen favoured with a copy of the lines by a particular friend and admirer of the author, to whomhe presented the manuscript copy of his play, inwhich alone they exist. The Prior, in his dialogue with Bertram, mentions." the dark knight of the forest,So from his armour named and sable helm,Whose unbarred vizor mortal never saw.WOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 205He dwells alone; no earthly thing lives near him,Save the hoarse raven croaking o'er his towers,And the dank weeds muffling his stagnant moat.Bertram. I'll ring a summons on his barred portalShall make them through their dark valves rock and ring.Prior. Thou'rt mad to take the quest.One solitary man did venture there- Within my memoryDark thoughts dwelt with him, which he sought to vent.Unto that dark compeer we saw his steps ,In winter's stormy twilight, seek that passBut days and years are gone, and he returns not.Bertram. What fate befel him there?Prior. The manner of his end was never known.Bertram. That man shall be my mate-Contend not with me— Horrors to me are kindred and society.Or man, or fiend, he hath won the soul of Bertram.Bertram is afterwards discovered alone, wandering near thefatal tower, and describes the effect of the awful interview which he had courted.Bertram. Was it a man or fiend?-Whate'er it wasIt hath dwelt wonderfully with meAll is around his dwelling suitable;The invisible blast to which the dark pines groan,The unconscious tread to which the dark earth echoes,The hidden waters rushing to their fall,These sounds of which the causes are not seenI love, for they are like my fate mysterious- How tower'd his proud form through the shrouding gloom,How spoke the eloquent silence of its motion,How through the barred vizor did his accents Roll their rich thunder on their pausing soul!And though his mailed hand did shun my grasp,And though his closed morion hid his feature,Yea, all resemblance to the face of man,I felt the hollow whisper of his welcome,I felt those unseen eyes were fix'd on mine,If eyes indeed were thereForgotten thoughts of evil, still- born mischiefs,Foul fertile seeds of passion and of crime,That wither'd in my heart's abortive core,Rous'd their dark battle at his trumpet- peal ,206 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.So sweeps the tempest o'er the slumbering desert,Waking its myriad hosts of burning death:So calls the last dread peal the wandering atomsOf blood and bone and flesh and dust-worn fragments,In dire array of ghastly unity,To bide the eternal summonsI am not what I was since I beheld himI was the slave of passion's ebbing sway- All is condensed, collected , callous nowThe groan, the burst, the fiery flash is o'er,Down pours the dense and darkening lava- tide,Arresting life and stilling all beneath it.Enter two ofhis band observing him.First Robber. Sees't thou with what a step of pride he stalks.— Thou hast the dark knight of the forest seen;For never man, from living converse come,Trod with such step or flash'd with eye like thine.Second Robber. And hast thou of a truth seen the dark knight?Bertram (turning on him suddenly) . Thy hand is chill'd with fear-Well! shivering craven,Say I have seen him-wherefore dost thou gaze?Long'st thou for tale of goblin-guarded portal?Of giant champion whose spell - forged mail Crumbled to dust at sound of magic horn- Banner of sheeted flame whose foldings shrunkTo withering weeds that o'er the battlements Wave to the broken spell-or demon-blast Of winded clarion whose fell summons sinksTo lonely whisper of the shuddering breeze O'er the charm'd towersFirst Robber. Mock me not thus-Hast met him of a truth?—Bertram. Well, foolFirst Robber. Whythen heaven's benison be with you.Upon this hour we part-farewell for ever.For mortal cause I bear a mortal weaponBut man that leagues with demons lacks not man. '19The description of the fiend's port and language,-the effect which the conference with him produces upon Bertram's mind, the terrific dignitywith which the intercourse with such an associateWOMEN; OR, POUR ET CONTRE. 207invests him, and its rendering him a terror even tohis own desperate banditti, -is all well conceived,and executed in a grand and magnificent strain ofpoetry; and, in the perusal, supposing the readerwere carrying his mind back to the period whensuch intercourse between mortals and demons wasconsidered as matter of indisputable truth, thestory acquires probability and consistency, evenfrom that which is in itself not only improbable butimpossible. The interview with the incarnatefiend of the forest, would, in these days, be supposed to have the same effect upon the mind ofBertram, as the " metaphysical aid " of the witchesproduces upon that of Macbeth, awakening andstimulating that appetite for crime, which slumbered in the bosom of both, till called forth bysupernatural suggestion. At the same time, whilewe are happy to preserve a passage of such singular beauty and power, we approve of the tastewhich retrenched it in action. The suadente diabolo is now no longer a phrase even in our indictments; and we fear his Satanic Majesty, were heto appear on the stage in modern times, would certainly incur the appropriate fate of damnation1 [" I take some credit to myself, " says Lord Byron, " for having done my best to bring out Bertram. Walter Scott wasthe first who mentioned Maturin, which he did to me with greatrecommendation in 1815. Maturin sent his Bertram, and a letter without his address, so that at first I could give him no answer. When I at last hit upon his residence, I sent him a favour- able answer, and something more substantial. " Bertram was successful. But Mr Maturin's second dramatic attempt proveda failure. Lord Byron terms Manuel " the absurd work of a208 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.To return to the present work. We observe,with pleasure, that Mr Maturin has put his geniusunder better regulation than in his former publications, and retrenched that luxuriance of language,and too copious use of ornament, which distinguishes the authors and orators of Ireland, whoseexuberance of imagination sometimes places themin the predicament of their honest countryman,who complained of being run away with by hislegs . This excessive indulgence of the imagination is proper to a country where there is moregenius than taste, and more copiousness than refinement of ideas. But it is an error to suffer theweeds to rush up with the grain, though theirappearance may prove the richness of the soil.There is a time when an author should refrain,like Job, " even from good words-though itshould be pain to him.” —And although we thinkMr Maturin has reformed that error indifferentlywell, in his present work, we do pray him, in hisfuture compositions, to reform it altogether.the rest, we dismiss him with our best wishes, andnot without hopes that we may again meet him inthe maze of fiction, since, although he has threatened, like Prospero, to break his wand, we havedone our poor endeavour to save his book frombeing burned.Forclever man, " and, " with the exception of a few capers, as heavy a nightmare as ever bestrode indigestion."][ 209 ]ARTICLE VIII.MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS.[Northanger Abbey, and Persuasion. By Miss AUSTEN. '4 vols. Quarterly Review, January, 1821. ]THE times seem to be past when an apologywas requisite from reviewers for condescending tonotice a novel; when they felt themselves boundin dignity to deprecate the suspicion of paying muchregard to trifles, and pleaded the necessity of occasionally stooping to humour the taste of their fairreaders. The delights of fiction, if not more keenlyor more generally relished, are at least more readilyacknowledged by men of sense and taste; and wehave lived to hear the merits of the best of thisclass of writings earnestly discussed by some ofthe ablest scholars and soundest reasoners of thepresent day.We are inclined to attribute this change, not somuch to an alteration in the public taste, as in thecharacter of the productions in question. Novelsmay not, perhaps, display more genius now thanformerly, but they contain more solid sense; they[Author of Sense and Sensibility; Pride and Prejudice;Mansfield Park; and Emma. ]VOL. XVIII.210 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES .may not afford higher gratification, but it is of anature which men are less disposed to be ashamedofavowing. We remarked, in a former Number,in reviewing a work of the author now before us,that " a new style of novel has arisen, within thelast fifteen or twenty years, differing from the former in the points upon which the interest hinges;neither alarming our credulity nor amusing ourimagination by wild variety of incident, or by thosepictures of romantic affection and sensibility, whichwere formerly as certain attributes of fictitiouscharacters as they are of rare occurrence amongthose who actually live and die. The substitutefor these excitements, which had lost much of theirpoignancy by the repeated and injudicious use ofthem, was the art of copying from nature as shereally exists in the common walks of life, and presenting to the reader, instead of the splendid scenesof an imaginary world, a correct and striking representation of that which is daily taking placearound him."Now, though the origin of this new school offiction may probably be traced, as we there suggested, to the exhaustion of the mines from whichmaterials for entertainment had been hithertoextracted, and the necessity of gratifying the natural craving of the reader for variety, by strikinginto an untrodden path; the consequences resultingfrom this change have been far greater than themere supply of this demand. When this Flemishpainting, as it were, is introduced-this accurateand unexaggerated delineation of events and cha-MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 211racters-it necessarily follows, that a novel, whichmakes good its pretensions, of giving a perfectlycorrect picture of common life, becomes a far moreinstructive work than one of equal or superiormerit of the other class; it guides the judgment,and supplies a kind of artificial experience. It isa remark of the great father of criticism, thatpoetry (i.e. narrative, and dramatic poetry) is of amore philosophical character than history; inasmuch as the latter details what has actually happened, of which many parts may chance to beexceptions to the general rules of probability, andconsequently illustrate no general principles;whereas the former shows us what must naturally,or would probably, happen under given circ*mstances; and thus displays to us a comprehensiveview of human nature, and furnishes general rulesof practical wisdom. It is evident that this willapply only to such fictions as are quite perfect inrespect of the probability of their story; and thathe, therefore, who resorts to the fabulist ratherthan the historian, for instruction in human character and conduct, must throw himself entirely onthe judgment and skill of his teacher, and give him credit for talents much more rare than the accuracy and veracity which are the chief requisites inhistory. We fear, therefore, that the exultationwhich we can conceive some of our gentle readersto feel, at having Aristotle's warrant for (whatprobably they had never dreamed of) the philosophical character of their studies, must, in practice .be somewhat qualified, by those sundry little vio-212 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.lations of probability which are to be met with inmost novels; and which so far lower their value,as models of real life, that a person who had noother preparation for the world than is afforded bythem, would form, probably, a less accurate idea ofthings as they are, than he would of a lion fromstudying merely the representations on China teapots,Accordingly, a heavy complaint has long lainagainst works of fiction, as giving a false pictureof what they profess to imitate, and disqualifyingtheir readers for the ordinary scenes and everyday duties of life. And this charge applies, weapprehend, to the generality of what are strictlycalled novels, with even more justice than toromances. When all the characters and eventsare very far removed from what we see around us,-when, perhaps, even supernatural agents areintroduced, the reader may indulge, indeed, inoccasional day-dreams, but will be so little remindedof what he has been reading, by any thing thatoccurs in actual life, that though he may perhapsfeel some disrélish for the tameness of the scenebefore him, compared with the fairy- land he hasbeen visiting, yet, at least, his judgment will notbe depraved, nor his expectations misled; he willnot apprehend a meeting with Algerine banditti onEnglish shores, nor regard the old woman whoshows him about an antique country seat, as eitheran enchantress or the keeper of an imprisoned damsel. But it is otherwise with those fictionswhich differ from common life in little or nothingMISS AUSTEN's novels. 213but the improbability of the occurrences: the readeris insensibly led to calculate upon some of thoselucky incidents and opportune coincidences, ofwhich he has been so much accustomed to read,and which, it is undeniable, may take place in reallife; and to feel a sort of confidence, that howeverromantic his conduct may be, and in whatever difficulties it may involve him, all will be sure to comeright at last, as is invariably the case with the heroof a novel.On the other hand, so far as these perniciouseffects fail to be produced, so far does the examplelose its influence, and the exercise of poetical justice is rendered vain. The reward of virtuousconduct being brought about by fortunate accidents,he who abstains (taught, perhaps, by bitter disappointments) from reckoning on such accidents,wants that encouragement to virtue, which alone has been held out to him. " If I were a man ina novel," we remember to have heard an ingeniousfriend observe, " I should certainly act so and so,because I should be sure of being no loser by themost heroic self- devotion, and of ultimately succeeding in the most daring enterprises."It may be said, in answer, that these objectionsapply only to the unskilful novelist, who, fromignorance of the world, gives an unnatural representation of what he professes to delineate. Thisis partly true, and partly not; for there is a distinction to be made between the unnatural and themerely improbable: a fiction is unnatural whenthere is some assignable reason against the events214 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.taking place as described, —when men are represented as acting contrary to the character assignedthem, or to human nature in general; as when ayounglady of seventeen, brought up in ease, luxury,and retirement, with no companions but the narrowminded and illiterate, displays (as a heroine usuallydoes), under the most trying circ*mstances, suchwisdom, fortitude, and knowledge of the world, asthe best instructors and the best examples canrarely produce without the aid of more mature ageand longer experience. On the other hand, a fiction is still improbable, though not unnatural, whenthere is no reason to be assigned why things shouldnot take place as represented, except that the overbalance ofchances is against it; the hero meets, inhis utmost distress, most opportunely, with the veryperson to whom he had formerly done a signal service, and who happens to communicate to him apiece of intelligence which sets all to rights. Whyshould he not meet him as well as any one else?all that can be said is, that there is no reason whyhe should. The infant who is saved from a wreck,and who afterwards becomes such a constellationof virtues and accomplishments, turns out to be noother than the nephew of the very gentleman, onwhose estate the waves had cast him, and whoselovely daughter he had so long sighed for in vain:there is no reason to be given, except from thecalculation of chances, why he should not havebeen thrown on one part of the coast as well asanother. Nay, it would be nothing unnatural,though the most determined novel-reader wouldMISS AUSTEN's novels. 215be shocked at its improbability, if all the hero'senemies, while they were conspiring his ruin, wereto be struck dead together by a lucky flash oflightning yet many dénouements which are decidedly unnatural, are better tolerated than thiswould be. We shall, perhaps, best explain ourmeaning by examples, taken from a novel of greatmerit in many respects. When Lord Glenthorn,in whom a most unfavourable education has actedon a most unfavourable disposition, after a life oftorpor, broken only by short sallies of forced exertion, on a sudden reverse of fortune, displays atonce the most persevering diligence in the mostrepulsive studies, and in middle life, without anyprevious habits of exertion, any hope of early business, or the example of friends, or the stimulus ofactual want, to urge him, outstrips every competitor, though every competitor has every advantageagainst him; this is unnatural.-When Lord Glenthorn, the instant he is stripped of his estates, meets,falls in love with, and is conditionally accepted bythe very lady who is remotely entitled to thoseestates; when, the instant he has fulfilled the conditions of their marriage, the family of the personpossessed of the estates becomes extinct, and bythe concurrence of circ*mstances, against everyone of which the chances were enormous, the hero ,is re-instated in all his old domains; this is merelyimprobable. The distinction which we have beenpointing out may be plainly perceived in the eventsof real life; when any thing takes place of such anature as we should call, in a fiction, merely im-216 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.probable, because there are many chances againstit, we call it a lucky or unlucky accident, a singularcoincidence, something very extraordinary, odd,curious, &c.; whereas any thing which, in a fiction,would be called unnatural, when it actually occurs(and such things do occur) , is still called unnatural,inexplicable, unaccountable, inconceivable, &c., epithets which are not applied to events that havemerely the balance of chances against them.Now, though an author who understands humannature is not likely to introduce into his fictionsany thing that is unnatural, he will often havemuch that is improbable: he may place his personages, by the intervention of accident, in strikingsituations, and lead them through a course of extraordinary adventures; and yet, in the midst ofall this, he will keep upthe most perfect consistencyof character, and make them act as it would benatural for men to act in such situations and circ*mstances. Fielding's novels are a good illustration ofthis: they display great knowledge of mankind; the characters are well preserved; the personsintroduced all act as one would naturally expectthey should, in the circ*mstances in which they areplaced; but these circ*mstances are such as it isincalculably improbable should ever exist: severalof the events, taken singly, are much against thechances of probability; but the combination of thewhole in a connected series, is next to impossible.Even the romances which admit a mixture ofsupernatural agency, are not more unfit to preparemen for real life, than such novels as these; sinceMISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 217one might just as reasonably calculate on the intervention of a fairy, as on the train of lucky chanceswhich combine first to involve Tom Jones in hisdifficulties, and afterwards to extricate him. Perhaps, indeed, the supernatural fable is of the twonot only (as we before remarked) the less mischievous in its moral effects, but also the morecorrect kind of composition in point of taste: theauthor lays down a kind of hypothesis of the existence of ghosts, witches, or fairies, and professesto describe what would take place under that hypothesis; the novelist, on the contrary, makes nodemand of extraordinary machinery, but professesto describe what may actually take place, accordingto the existing laws of human affairs: if he therefore present us with a series of events quite unlikeany which ever do take place, we have reason tocomplain that he has not made good his profes- sions.When, therefore, the generality, even of themost approved novels, were of this character (tosay nothing of the heavier charges brought, ofinflaming the passions of young persons by warmdescriptions, weakening their abhorence of profligacy, by exhibiting it in combination with the mostengaging qualities, and presenting vice in all itsallurements, while setting forth the triumphs of"virtue rewarded" ) [it is not to be wondered thatthe grave guardians of youth should have generallystigmatized the whole class, as " serving only to fillyoung people's heads with romantic love-stories,and rendering them unfit to mind any thing else."Love218 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.That this censure and caution should in manyinstances be indiscriminate, can surprise no one,who recollects how rare a quality discriminationis; and how much better it suits indolence, as wellas ignorance, to lay down a rule, than to ascertainthe exceptions to it: we are acquainted with acareful mother whose daughters, while they neverin their lives read a novel of any kind, are permitted to peruse, without reserve, any plays thathappen to fall in their way; and with another,from whom no lessons, however excellent, of wisdom and piety, contained in a prose-fiction, canobtain quarter; but who, on the other hand, is noless indiscriminately indulgent to her childrenin the article of tales in verse, of whatever cha- racter.The change, however, which we have alreadynoticed, as having taken place in the character ofseveral modern novels, has operated in a considerable degree to do away this prejudice; and haselevated this species of composition, in some respects at least, into a much higher class. For mostof that instruction which used to be presented tothe world in the shape of formal dissertations, orshorter and more desultory moral essays, such asthose of the Spectator and Rambler, we may nowresort to the pages of the acute and judicious, but.not less amusing, novelists who have lately appeared.If their views of men and manners are no less justthan those of the essayists who preceded them, arethey to be rated lower, because they present to usthese views, not in the language of general descrip-MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 219tion, but in the form of well- constructed fictitiousnarrative? If the practical lessons they inculcate,are no less sound and useful, it is surely no diminution of their merit that they are conveyed byexample instead of precept; nor, if their remarksare neither less wise nor less important, are theythe less valuable for being represented as thrownout in the course of conversations suggested by thecirc*mstances of the speakers, and perfectly in character. The praise and blame of the moralist aresurely not the less effectual for being bestowed,not in general declamation, on classes of men, buton individuals representing those classes, who areso clearly delineated and brought into action beforeus, that we seem to be acquainted with them, andfeel an interest in their fate.Biography is allowed, on all hands, to be one ofthe most attractive and profitable kinds of reading:now such novels as we have been speaking of,being a kind of fictitious biography, bear the samerelation to the real, that epic and tragic poetry,according to Aristotle, bear to history; they present us (supposing, of course, each perfect in itskind) with the general, instead of the particularthe probable instead of the true; and by leavingout those accidental irregularities, and exceptionsto general rules, which constitute the many improbabilities of real narrative, present us with a clearand abstracted view of the general rules themselves; and thus concentrate, as it were, into asmall compass, the net result of wide experience.Among the authors of this school there is no one220 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.superior, if equal, to the lady whose last productionis now before us, and whom we have much regretin finally taking leave of: her death (in the primeof life, considered as a writer) being announced inthis the first publication to which her name is prefixed.' We regret the failure not only of a sourceof innocent amusem*nt, but also of that supply ofpractical good sense and instructive example, whichshe would probably have continued to furnish better than any of her contemporaries:-Miss Edgeworth, indeed, draws characters and details conversations, such as they occur in real life, with aspirit and fidelity not to be surpassed; but herstories are most romantically improbable ( in thesense above explained), almost all the importantevents of them being brought about by most providential coincidences; and this, as we have alreadyremarked, is not merely faulty, inasmuch as itevinces a want of skill in the writer, and gives anair of clumsiness to the fiction, but is a very considerable drawback on its practical utility; the personages either of fiction or history being then onlyprofitable examples, when their good or ill conductmeets its appropriate reward, not from a sort of1 [ Miss Jane Austen was born in 1775, at Steventon, in Hants,of which parish her father was rector upwards of forty years.On his death, she removed with her mother and sister for a shorttime to Southampton, and finally, in 1809, to the pleasant village of Chawton, in the same county; from which place this amiable and accomplished lady sent her novels into the world. In May,1817, symptoms of a deep decay induced her removal to Win- chester, for the benefit of constant medical aid. She died therein July following, in her forty-second year.]MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 221independent machinery of accidents, but as a necessary or probable result, according to the ordinarycourse of affairs. Miss Edgeworth also is somewhat too avowedly didactic: that seems to be trueof her, which the French critics, in the extravagance of their conceits, attributed to Homer andVirgil; viz. that they first thought of a moral, andthen framed a fable to illustrate it; she would, wethink, instruct more successfully, and she would,we are sure, please more frequently, if she kept thedesign of teaching more out of sight, and did notso glaringly press every circ*mstance of her story,principal or subordinate, into the service of a principle to be inculcated, or information to be given.A certain portion of moral instruction must accompany every well-invented narrative. Virtue mustbe represented as producing, at the long run, happiness; and vice, misery; and the accidental events,that in real life interrupt this tendency, are anomalies which, though true individually, are as falsegenerally as the accidental deformities which varythe average outline of the human figure. Theywould be as much out of place in a fictitious narrative, as a wen in an academic model. But anydirect attempt at moral teaching, and any attemptwhateverto give scientific information, will, we fear,unless managed with the utmost discretion, interfere with what, after all, is the immediate and peculiar object of the novelist, as of the poet, to please.If instruction do not join as a volunteer, she will dono good service. Miss Edgeworth's novels put usin mind of those clocks and watches which are con222 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.demned " a double or a treble debt to pay: " which,besides their legitimate object, to show the hour,tell you the day of the month or the week, give you a landscape for a dial-plate, with the secondhand forming the sails of a windmill, or have a barrel to play a tune, or an alarum to remind you ofan engagement: all very good things in their way;but so it is that these watches never tell the time sowell as those in which that is the exclusive objectof the maker. Every additional movement is anobstacle to the original design. We do not denythat we have learned much physic, and much law,from Patronage, particularly the latter, for MissEdgeworth's law is of a very original kind; but it was not to learn law and physic that we took up thebook, and we suspect we should have been morepleased if we had been less taught. With regardto the influence of religion, which is scarcely, if atall, alluded to in Miss Edgeworth's novels, wewould abstain from pronouncing any decision whichshould apply to her personally. She may, for aughtwe know, entertain opinions which would not permit her, with consistency, to attribute more to itthan she has done; in that case she stands acquitted, inforo conscientiæ, of wilfully suppressing anything which she acknowledges to be true and important; but, as a writer, it must still be considered as a blemish, in the eyes at least of those whothink differently, that virtue should be studiouslyinculcated with scarcely any reference to what theyregard as the main spring of it; that vice shouldbe traced to every other source except the want ofMISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 223religious principle; that the most radical changefrom worthlessness to excellence should be represented as wholly independent of that agent whichthey consider as the only one that can accomplish*t; and that consolation under affliction should berepresented as derived from every source exceptthe one which they look to as the only true and sureone: " is it not because there is not a God in Israelthat ye have sent to enquire of Baalzebub the godof Ekron?"Miss Austen has the merit (in our judgment mostessential) of being evidently a Christian writer: amerit which is much enhanced, both on the score ofgood taste, and of practical utility, by her religionbeing not at all obtrusive. She might defy the mostfastidious critic to call any of her novels (as Colebswas designated, we will not say altogether withoutreason), a " dramatic sermon." The subject israther alluded to, and that incidentally, than studiously brought forward and dwelt upon. In factshe is more sparing of it than would be thoughtdesirable by some persons; perhaps even by herself, had she consulted merely her own sentiments;but she probably introduced it as far as she thoughtwould be generally acceptable and profitable forwhen the purpose of inculcating a religious principle is made too palpably prominent, many readers,if they do not throw aside the book with disgust,are apt to fortify themselves with that respectfulkind of apathy with which they undergo a regularsermon, and prepare themselves as they do to swallow a dose ofmedicine, endeavouring to get it down

224 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.in large gulps, without tasting it more than is neces→sary.The moral lessons also of this lady's novels,though clearly and impressively conveyed, are notoffensively put forward, but spring incidentallyfrom the circ*mstances of the story; they are notforced upon the reader, but he is left to collect them(though without any difficulty) for himself: hersis that unpretending kind of instruction which isfurnished by real life; and certainly no author hasever conformed more closely to real life, as well inthe incidents, as in the characters and descriptions.Her fables appear to us to be, in their own way,nearly faultless; they do not consist (like those ofsome of the writers who have attempted this kindof common-life novel writing) of a string of unconnected events which have little or no bearingon one main plot, and are introduced evidently forthe sole purpose of bringing in characters and conversations; but have all that compactness of planand unity of action which is generally produced bya sacrifice of probability: yet they have little ornothing that is not probable; the story proceedswithout the aid of extraordinary accidents; theevents which take place are the necessary or natural consequences of what has preceded; and yet(which is a very rare merit indeed) the final catastrophe is scarcely ever clearly foreseen from thebeginning, and very often comes, upon the generality of readers at least, quite unexpected. We know not whether Miss Austen ever had access tothe precepts of Aristotle; but there are few, ifMISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 225any, writers of fiction who have illustrated themmore successfully.The vivid distinctness of description, the minutefidelity of detail, and air of unstudied ease in thescenes represented, which are no less necessary thanprobability of incident, to carry the reader's imagination along with the story, and give fiction theperfect appearance of reality, she possesses in ahigh degree; and the object is accomplished without resorting to those deviations from the ordinaryplan of narrative in the third person, which havebeen patronised by some eminent masters. Weallude to the two other methods of conducting afictitious story, viz. either by narrative in the firstperson, when the hero is made to tell his own tale,or by a series of letters; both of which we conceivehave been adopted with a view of heightening theresemblance of the fiction to reality. At first sight,indeed, there might appear no reason why a storytold in the first person should have more the air ofa real history than in the third; especially as themajority of real histories actually are in the thirdperson; nevertheless, experience seems to showthat such is the case; provided there be no want ofskill in the writer, the resemblance to real life , of afiction thus conducted, will approach much thenearest (other points being equal) to a deception,and the interest felt in it, to that which we feel inreal transactions. We need only instance Defoe'snovels, which, in spite of much improbability, webelieve have been oftener mistaken for true narratives, than any fictions that ever were composed.VOL. XVIII. P226 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Colonel Newport is well known to have been citedas an historical authority; and we have ourselvesfound great difficulty in convincing many of ourfriends that Defoe was not himself the citizen, whor*lates the plague of London. The reason probablyis, that in the ordinary form of narrative, the writeris not content to exhibit, like a real historian , a baredetail of such circ*mstances as might actually havecome under his knowledge; but presents us with adescription of what is passing in the minds of theparties, and gives an account of their feelings andmotives, as well as their most private conversationsin various places at once. All this is very amusing,but perfectly unnatural; the merest simpleton couldhardly mistake a fiction of this kind for a truehistory, unless he believed the writer to be enduedwith omniscience and omnipresence, or to be aidedby familiar spirits, doing the office of Homer's Muses, whom he invokes to tell him all that couldnot otherwise be known:-Υμείς γας εσε, παρέσε τε, ιτε τε παλα.Let the events, therefore, which are detailed, andthe characters described, be ever so natural, theway in which they are presented to us is of a kindof supernatural cast, perfectly unlike any realhistory that ever was or can be written, and thusrequiring a greater stretch of imagination in the reader. On the other hand, the supposed narratorof his own history never pretends to dive into thethoughts and feelings of the other parties; hemerely describes his own, and gives his conjecturesMISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 227as to those of the rest, just as a real autobiographermight do; and thus an author is enabled to assimilate his fiction to reality, without withholding thatdelineation of the inward workings of the humanheart, which is so much coveted. Nevertheless,novels in the first person have not succeeded sowell as to make that mode of writing become verygeneral. It is objected to them, not without reason,that they want a hero: the person intended tooccupy that post being the narrator himself, who ofcourse cannot so describe his own conduct and character as to make the reader thoroughly acquaintedwith him; though the attempt frequently producesan offensive appearance of egotism.The plan of a fictitious correspondence seemscalculated in some measure to combine the advantages of the other two; since, by allowing eachpersonage to be the speaker in turn, the feelings ofeach may be described by himself, and his characterand conduct by another. But these novels are aptto become excessively tedious; since, to give theletters the appearance of reality (without whichthe main object proposed would be defeated), theymust contain a verylarge proportion of matter whichhas nobearing at all upon the story. There is alsogenerally a sort of awkward disjointed appearancein a novel which proceeds entirely in letters, andholds together, as it were, by continual splicing.Miss Austen, though she has in a few placesintroduced letters with great effect, has on thewhole conducted her novels on the ordinary plan,describing, without scruple, private conversations.228 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.and uncommunicated feelings: but she has notbeen forgetful of the important maxim, so longago illustrated by Homer, and afterwards enforcedby Aristotle, ¹ of saying as little as possible in herown person, and giving a dramatic air to the narrative, by introducing frequent conversations; whichshe conducts with a regard to character hardly exceeded even by Shakspeare himself. Like him, sheshows as admirable a discrimination in the characters of fools as of people of sense; a merit which isfar from common. To invent, indeed, a conversasion full of wisdom or of wit, requires that thewriter should himself possess ability; but the converse does not hold good: it is nò fool that candescribe fools well; and many who have succeededpretty well in painting superior characters, havefailed in giving individuality to those weaker ones,which it is necessary to introduce in order to give afaithful representation of real life: they exhibit tous mere folly in the abstract, forgetting that to theeye of a skilful naturalist the insects on a leaf present as wide differences as exist between theelephant and the lion. Slender, and Shallow, andAguecheek, as Shakspeare has painted them, thoughequally fools, resemble one another no more thanRichard, and Macbeth, and Julius Cæsar; and MissAusten's Mrs Bennet, Mr Rushworth, and MissBates, are no more alike than her Darcy, Knightley, and Edmund Bertram. Some have complained,indeed, offinding her fools too much like nature, and1 yo: v audis. —Arist. Poet.MISS AUSTEN's novels. 229consequently tiresome; there is no disputing abouttastes; all we can say is, that such critics must(whatever difference they may outwardly pay toreceived opinions) find the Merry Wives ofWindsor and Twelfth Night very tiresome; and thatthose who look with pleasure at Wilkie's pictures,or those of the Dutch school, must admit thatexcellence of imitation may confer attraction onthat which would be insipid or disagreeable in thereality.Her minuteness of detail has also been foundfault with; but even where it produces, at the time,a degree of tediousness, we know not whether thatcan justly be reckoned a blemish, which is absolutelyessential to a very high excellence. Now, it isabsolutely impossible, without this, to produce thatthorough acquaintance with the characters, whichis necessary to make the reader heartily interestedin them. Let any one cut out from the Iliad, orfrom Shakspeare's plays, every thing (we are farfrom saying that either might not lose some partswith advantage, but let him reject every thing)which is absolutely devoid of importance and ofinterest in itself; and he will find that what is leftwill have lost more than half its charms. We areconvinced that some writers have diminished theeffect of their works by being scrupulous to admitnothing into them which had not some absolute,intrinsic, and independent merit. They have actedlike those who strip off the leaves of a fruit- tree,as being of themselves good for nothing, with theview of securing more nourishment to the fruit,230 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.which in fact cannot attain its full maturity andflavour without them.Mansfield Park contains some of Miss Austen'sbest moral lessons, as well as her most humorousdescriptions. The following specimen unites both:it is a sketch of the mode of education adopted forthe two Miss Bertrams, by their aunt Norris, whosefather, Sir Thomas, has just admitted into hisfamily a poor niece, Fanny Price (the heroine), alittle younger, and much less accomplished than hisdaughters." Dear mamma, only think, my cousin cannot put the mapof Europe together-or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia- or she never heard of Asia Minor-or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! -Howstrange! Did you ever hear any thing so stupid? '66 6My dear,' their considerate aunt would reply; it is verybad, but you must not expect every body to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself. '" But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!-Do you know,we asked her last night, which way she would go to get to Ireland;and she said she should cross to the isle of Wight. She thinksof nothing but the isle of Wight, and she calls it the Island, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I shouldhave been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the timewhen I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeatthe chronological order of the kings of England, with the datesof their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!'" Yes,' added the other; and of the Roman emperors aslow as Severus; besides a great deal of the Heathen Mythology,and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguishedphilosophers.'" Very true, indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with won- derful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all.MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 231There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin,and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for,much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn.'" Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I musttell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or draw- ing?'" To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But all things considered,I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for,though you know (owing to me) your papa and mamma are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are; -on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference. ' ".P. 33.The character of Sir Thomas is admirablydrawn; one of those men who always judgerightly, and act wisely, when a case is fairly putbefore them; but who are quite destitute of acute- ness of discernment and adroitness of conduct.The Miss Bertrams, without any peculiarly badnatural disposition, and merely with that selfishness, self-importance, and want of moral training,which are the natural result of their education, areconducted by a train of probable circ*mstances, toa catastrophe which involves their father in thedeepest affliction. It is melancholy to reflect howmany young ladies in the same sphere, with whatis ordinarily called every advantage in point ofeducation, are so precisely in the same situation,that if they avoid a similar fate, it must berather from good luck than any thing else. The232 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.care that is taken to keep from them every thingin the shape of affliction, prevents their best feelingsfrom being exercised; and the pains bestowed ontheir accomplishment, raises their idea oftheir ownconsequence: the heart becomes hard, and is engrossed by vanity with all its concomitant vices.Mere moral and religious instruction are not adequate to correct all this. But it is a shame to givein our own language sentiments which are so muchbetter expressed by Miss Austen." Sir Thomas, too , lately became aware how unfavourable to thecharacter of any young people, must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had been always experiencingat home, where the excessive indulgence and flattery of theiraunt had been continually contrasted with his own severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what waswrong in Mrs Norris, by its reverse in himself, clearly saw that he had but increased the evil, by teaching them so to represstheir spirits in his presence, as to make their real disposition un- known to him, and sending them for all their indulgences to aperson who had been able to attach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of her praise." Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was,he gradually grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan of education. Something must have been wanting within, or time would have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active principle, had beenwanting, that they had never been properly taught to govern their inclinations and tempers, by that sense of duty which can alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion,but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments-the authorized object of their youth-could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the mind. He had meant them to begood, but his cares had been directed to the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity of self- denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any lips that could profit them.MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 233" Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely comprehend to have been possible . Wretchedly did he feel, that with all the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought up his daughters without their under- standing their first duties, or his being acquainted with their cha- racter and temper. " —Vol . iii . pp. 330–332.Edmund Bertram, the second son , a sensible andworthy young man, is captivated by a Miss Crawford, who, with her brother, is on a visit at theparsonage with her half- sister, Mrs Grant: theprogress of his passion is very happily depicted:" Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen. The harp arrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good- humour, for she played with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste which were peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be said at the close of every air. Edmund was at theparsonage every day to be indulged with his favourite instrument;one morning secured an invitation for the next, for the lady could not be unwilling to have a listener, and every thing was soon in afair train.1" A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself; and both placed near a window, cut down to the ground,and opening on a little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the richfoliage of summer, was enough to catch any man's heart. The season, the scene, the air, were all favourable to tenderness andsentiment."-Vol. i . pp. 132, 133.He is, however, put in doubt as to her character,by the occasional levity of her sentiments, and heraversion to his intended profession, the church, andto a retired life. Both she and her brother arevery clever, agreeable, and good- humoured, andnot without moral taste (for Miss Austen does notdeal in fiends and angels), but brought up withoutstrict principles, and destitute of real self- denyingbenevolence. The latter falls in love with Fanny234 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Price, whom he had been originally intending toflirt with for his own amusem*nt. She, however,objects to his principles; being not satisfied withreligious belief and practice in herself, and carelessabout them in her husband. In this respect shepresents a useful example to a good many modernfemales, whose apparent regard for religion in themselves, and indifference about it in their partnersfor life, make one sometimes inclined to think thatthey hold the opposite extreme to the Turk's opinion, and believe men to have no souls. Her uncle,Sir Thomas, however, who sees nothing of herobjection, is displeased at her refusal; and thinkingthat she may not sufficiently prize the comforts of wealth to which she has been so long accustomed,without the aid of contrast, encourages her payinga visit to her father, a Captain Price, of the marines,settled with a large family at Portsmouth. Shegoes, accompanied by her favourite brother William, with all the fond recollections, and bright anticipations, of a visit after eight years' absence.With a candour very rare in a novelist, MissAusten describes the remedy as producing its effect.After she has spent a month in the noise, privations,and vulgarities of home, Mr Crawford pays her avisit of a couple of days; after he was gone," Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably secure of not seeing Mr Crawford again, she could not help being low. It was parting with somebody of the nature ofa friend; and though in one light glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by every body; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and she could not thinkof his returning to town, and being frequently with Mary andMISS AUSTEN's novels. 235Edmund, witnout feelings so near akin to envy, as made her hate herself for having them.." Her dejection had no abatement from any thing passing around her; a friend or two of her father's, as always happenedif he was not with them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock to half- past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr Crawford, was the nearest to administering comfort of any thing within the current of her thoughts.Not considering in how different a circle she had been just seeinghim, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle, and regardful of others, than formerly. And if in little things, must it not beso in great? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might notit be fairly supposed, that he would not much longer persevere in asuit so distressing to her? "-Vol. iii . pp. 224, 225.•Fanny is, however, armed against Mr Crawfordbya stronger feeling than even her disapprobation;by a vehement attachment to Edmund. The silencein which this passion is cherished the slenderhopes and enjoyments by which it is fed-the restlessness and jealousy with which it fills a mindnaturally active, contented and unsuspicious- themanner in which it tinges every event and everyreflection, are painted with a vividness and a detailof which we can scarcely conceive any one but afemale, and we should almost add, a female writingfrom recollection, capable.To say the truth, we suspect one of MissAusten's great merits in our eyes to be, the insightshe gives us into the peculiarities of female character. Authoresses can scarcely ever forget theesprit de corps-can scarcely ever forget that theyare authoresses. They seem to feel a sympathetic236 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.shudder at exposing naked a female mind. Ellessepeignent en buste, and leave the mysteries ofwomanhood to be described by some interlopingmale, like Richardson or Marivaux, who is turnedout before he has seen half the rites, and is forcedto spin from his own conjectures the rest. Nowfrom this fault Miss Austen is free. Her heroinesare what one knows women must be, though onenever can get them to acknowledge it . As liableto " fall in love first," as anxious to attract theattention of agreeable men, as much taken witha striking manner, or a handsome face, as unequally gifted with constancy and firmness, asliable to have their affections biassed by convenience or fashion, as we, on our part, will admitmen to be. As some illustration of what we mean,we refer our readers to the conversation between Miss Crawford and Fanny, vol. iii . p. 102.Fanny's meeting with her father, p. 199, her reflections after reading Edmund's letter, 246, her happiness (good, and heroine though she be) in themidst of the misery of all her friends, when shefinds that Edmund has decidedly broken with herrival; feelings, all of them, which, under theinfluence of strong passion, must alloy the purestmind, but with which scarcely any authoress butMiss Austen would have ventured to temper theetherial materials of a heroine.But we must proceed to the publication of whichthe title is prefixed to this article. It contains, itseems, the earliest and the latest productions ofthe author; the first of them having been pur-MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 237chased, we are told, many years back by a bookseller, who, for some reason unexplained, thoughtproper to alter his mind and withhold it. Wedonot much applaud his taste; for though it is decidedly inferior to her other works, having less plot,and what there is, less artificially wrought up, andalso less exquisite nicety of moral painting; yetthe same kind of excellences which characterise theother novels may be perceived in this, in a degreewhich would have been highly creditable to mostother writers of the same school, and which wouldhave entitled the author to considerable praise, hadshe written nothing better.We already begin to fear that we have indulgedtoo much in extracts, and we must save some roomfor Persuasion, or we could not resist giving a specimen of John Thorpe, with his horse that cannotgo less than ten miles an hour, his refusal to drivehis sister " because she has such thick ankles,"and his sober consumption of five pints of porta-day; altogether the best portrait of a species,which, though almost extinct, cannot yet be quiteclassed among the Palæotheria, the Bang-upOxonian. Miss Thorpe, the jilt of middling life,is, in her way, quite as good, though she has notthe advantage of being the representative of a rareor a diminishing species. We fear few of ourreaders, however they may admire the naïveté, willadmit the truth of poor John Morland's postscript,"I can never expect to know such another woman."The latter of these novels, however, Persuasion,which is more strictly to be considered as a posthu-238 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.mous work, possesses that superiority which mightbe expected from the more mature age at which itwas written, and is second, we think, to none ofthe former ones, if not superior to all. In the humorous delineation of character it does not aboundquite so much as some of the others, though it hasgreat merit even on that score; but it has more ofthat tender and yet elevated kind of interest whichis aimed at bythe generality of novels, and in pursuit of which they seldom fail of running intoromantic extravagance: on the whole, it is one ofthe most elegant fictions of common life we everremember to have met with.Sir Walter Elliot, a silly and conceited baronet,has three daughters, the eldest two, unmarried,and the third, Mary, the wife of a neighbouringgentleman, Mr Charles Musgrove, heir to a considerable fortune, and living in a genteel cottage inthe neighbourhood of the Great House which he ishereafter to inherit. The second daughter, Anne,who is the heroine, and the only one of the familypossessed of good sense (a quality which Miss Austen is as sparing of in her novels, as we fear hergreat mistress, Nature, has been in real life ), whenon a visit to her sister, is, by that sort of instinctwhich generally points out to all parties the personon whose judgment and temper they may rely,appealed to in all the little family differences whicharise, and which are described with infinite spiritand detail.The following touch reminds us, in its minutefidelity to nature, of some of the happiest strokesMISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 239in the subordinate parts of Hogarth's prints: MrC. Musgrove has an aunt whom he wishes to treatwith becoming attention, but who, from being of asomewhat inferior class in point of family andfashion, is studiously shunned by his wife, who hasall the family pride of her father and elder sister:he takes the opportunity of a walk with a largeparty on a fine day, to visit this despised relation,but cannot persuade his wife to accompany him;she pleads fatigue, and remains with the rest toawait his return; and he walks home with her, notmuch pleased at the incivility she has shown." She (Anne Elliot) joined Charles and Mary, and was tiredenough to be very glad of Charles's other arm; -but Charles,though in very good-humour with her, was out of temper with his wife. Mary had shown herself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence, which consequence was his drop- ping her arm almost every moment, to cut off the heads of somenettles in the hedge with his switch; and when Mary began to complain of it, and lament her being ill- used, according to cus- tom, in being on the hedge side, while Anne was never incom- moded on the other, he dropped the arms of both to hunt aftera weasel which he had a momentary glance of; and they couldhardly get him along at all. "—Vol. iii. pp . 211 , 212.But the principal interest arises from a combination of events which cannot better be explainedthan by a part of the prefatory narrative, whichforms, in general, an Euripidean prologue to MissAusten's novels."He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire in the summer of1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half ayear, at Monkford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine240 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy;and Anne, an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty,taste, and feeling. Half the sum of attraction, on either side.might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly any body to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted,and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love. It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest; she, in receiving his declarationsand proposals, or he in having them accepted." A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one. Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to,without actually withholding his consent, or saying it shouldnever be, gave it all the negative of great astonishment, greatcoldness, great silence, and a professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He thought it a very degrading alliance; andLady Russell, though with more tempered and pardonable pride,received it as a most unfortunate one." Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind,to throw herself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement with a young man, who had nothing but himselfto recommend him, and no hopes of attaining affluence, but inthe chances of a most uncertain profession; and no connexions to secure even his further rise in that profession; would be, indeed,a throwing away, which she grieved to think of! Anne Elliot,so young; known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a stateof most wearing, anxious, youth - killing dependence! It must not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representa- tions from one who had almost a mother's love, and mother'srights, it could be prevented.66 Captain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been luckyin his profession, but spending freely what had come freely, had realized nothing. But, he was confident that he should soon be rich; full of life and ardour, he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to every thing he wanted. He had always been lucky; he knew he should beSuch confidence, powerful in its own warmth, andbewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently. Hissanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very diffe- rently on her. She sawin it but an aggravation of the evil.only added a dangerous character to himself. He was brilliant,so still.ItMISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 241he was headstrong. Lady Russell had little taste for wit; and of any thing approaching to imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connexion in every light." Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could combat. Young and gentle as she was, it might yethave been possible to withstand her father's ill-will, though unsoft- ened by one kind word or look on the part of her sister; butLady Russell, whom she had always loved and relied on, couldnot, with such steadiness of opinion, and such tenderness ofmanner, be continually advising her in vain. She was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing-indiscreet, improper,hardly capable of success, and not deserving it. But it was nota merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it. Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, evenmore than her own, she could hardly have given him up. Thebeliefof being prudent and self-denying, principally for his advan- tage, was her chief consolation, under the misery of a partinga final parting; and every consolation was required, for she hadto encounter all the additional pain of opinions, on his side,totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his feeling himselfill-used by so forced a relinquishment.. He had left the country in consequence." Afew months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance; but not with a few months ended Anne's share ofsuffering from it. Her attachment and regrets had, for a longtime, clouded every enjoyment of youth; and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect .No" More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close; and time had softeneddown much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, —but she had been too dependent on time alone; no aid had beengiven in change of place ( except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty or enlargement of society.one had ever come within the Kellynch circle, who could bear acomparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he stood in her me- mory. No second attachment, the only thoroughly natural,happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, in the small limits of the society around them. She had been solicited, when about two-and-twenty, to change her name, by theyoung man, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind VOL. XVIII.242 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.in her younger sister; and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal;for Charles Musgrove was the eldest son of a man, whose landedproperty and general importance were second, in that country,only to Sir Walter's, and of good character and appearance; and however Lady Russell might have asked yet for something more,while Anne was nineteen, she would have rejoiced to see her attwenty-two, so respectably removed from the partialities and injus- tice of her father's house, and settled so permanently near her- self. But in this case, Anne had left nothing for advice to do;and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the anxiety, which borders on hopelessness, for Anne's beingtempted, by some man of talents and independence, to enter astate for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits." They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy orits change, on the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for thesubject was never alluded to, -but Anne, at seven- and- twenty,thought very differently from what she had been made to think atnineteen. She did not blame Lady Russell, she did not blameherselffor having been guided by her; but she felt that were anyyoung person, in similar circ*mstances, to apply to her for counsel,they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good. —She was persuaded that, underevery disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every anxietyattending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice ofit; and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had evenmore than a usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense beentheirs, without reference to the actual results of their case, which,as it happened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than couldbe reasonably calculated on. All his sanguine expectations, allhis confidence had been justified . His genius and ardour hadseemed to foresee and to command his prosperous path. He had,very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ; and all thathe had told her would follow, had taken place. He had distinguished himself, and early gained the other step in rank- andmust now, by successive captures, have made a handsome fortune.She had only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; —and, in favour of his constancy,she had no reason to believe him married.MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 243" How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been, -how eloquent,at least, were her wishes, on the side of early warm attachment,and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over- anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Providence!-She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learnedromance as she grew older-the natural sequel of an unnaturalbeginning. "-Vol. iii. pp. 57–67.After an absence of eight years, he returns toher neighbourhood, and circ*mstances throw themfrequently in contact. Nothing can be more exquisitely painted than her feelings on such occasions.First, dread of the meeting, -then, as that isremoved by custom, renewed regret for the happiness she has thrown away, and the constantlyrecurring contrast, though known only to herself,between the distance of their intercourse and herinvoluntary sympathy with all his feelings, andinstant comprehension of all his thoughts, of themeaning of every glance of his eye, and curl of hislip, and intonation of his voice. In him her mildgood sense and elegance gradually re-awake longforgotten attachment; but with it return the usualaccompaniments of undeclared love, distrust of hersentiments towards him, and suspicions of theirbeing favourable to another. In this state of regretful jealousy he overhears, while writing a letter, aconversation she is holding with his friend CaptainHarville, respecting another naval friend, CaptainBenwick, who had been engaged to the sister ofthe former, and very speedily after her death hadformed a fresh engagement; we cannot refrainfrom inserting an extract from this conversation,which is exquisitely beautiful.244 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.<<< Your feelings may be the strongest, ' replied Anne, but the same spirit of analogy will authorize me to assert that ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is notlonger-lived: which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if itwere otherwise. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always labouring and toiling,exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country,friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be too hard indeed' (with a falteringvoice) ' if woman's feelings were to be added to all this. '" We shall never agree upon this question -Captain Har- ville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain Wentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division ofthe room. It was nothing more than that his pen had fallen down,but Anne was startled at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen,because he had been occupied by them, striving to catch sounds,which yet she did not think he could have caught." Have you finished your letter? ' said Captain Harville.Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes. '" There is no hurry on my side . I am only ready whenever you are. -I am in very good anchorage here' ( smiling at Anne),well supplied, and want for nothing-No hurry for a signal at all. Well, Miss Elliot ' (lowering his voice), as I was saying,we shall never agree I suppose upon this point. No man and woman would, probably. But let me observe that all histories are against you, all stories, prose and verse. If I had such amemory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever openeda book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness .But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men. '" Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us intelling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will notallow books to prove any thing.'But how shall we prove any thing?'" We never shall. We never can expect to prove any thingupon such a point. It is a difference of opinion which does notadmit of proof. We each begin probably with a little bias to-MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 245wards our own sex, and upon that bias build every circ*mstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle; manyof which circ*mstances (perhaps those very cases which strike usthe most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought forwardwithout betraying a confidence, or, in some respect, saying what should not be said.'" Ah! ' cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, ' if I could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, " God knows whether we ever meet again!And then, if I could convey to you the glow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a twelve- month's absence perhaps, and obliged to put into another port,he calculates how soon it will be possible to get them there, pre- tending to deceive himself, and saying, They cannot be here till such a day,' but all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner still! If I could explain toyou all this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories to do for the sake of these treasures of his existence! I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts! ' pressing his own with emotion.6" Oh! ' cried Anne, eagerly, I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbidthat I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of myfellow-creatures. I should deserve utter contempt if I dared tosuppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable of every thing great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as —if I may be allowed the expression, so long as you have an object. I mean, while the woman you love lives, and lives forAll the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a veryenviable one, you need not covet it) is that of loving longest,when existence or when hope is gone. 'you." She could not immediately have uttered another sentence;her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed. ”—Vol.iv. pp. 263-269.While this conversation has been going on, hehas been replying to it on paper, under the appear-246 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ance of finishing his letter: he puts the paper intoher hand, and hurries away.I must speak to you by You pierce my soul. Ithat I am too late, that I offer myself to youthan when you almost" I can listen no longer in silence .such means as are within my reach.am half agony, half hope. Tell me not such precious feelings are gone for ever.again with a heart even more your own,broke it eight years and a half ago.. Dare not say that man for- gets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death.have loved none but you .resentful I have been, but brought me to Bath.IUnjust I may have been, weak and never inconstant. You alone haveFor you alone I think and plan. -Haveyou not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes?-I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read yourfeelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I canhardly write. I am every instant hearing something which over- powers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish thetones of that voice, when they would be lost on others. -Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice indeed. Youdo believe that there is true attachment and constancy amongBelieve it to be most fervent, most undeviating in " F. W."men.We ventured, in a former article, to remonstrateagainst the dethronement of the once powerful Godof Love, in his own most especial domain, thenovel; and to suggest that, in shunning the ordinary fault of recommending by examples a romantic and uncalculating extravagance of passion, MissAusten had rather fallen into the opposite extremeof exclusively patronizing what are called prudentmatches, and too much disparaging sentimentalenthusiasm . We urge, that, mischievous as isthe extreme on this side, it is not the one intowhich the young folks of the present day are themost likely to run: the prevailing fault is not now,whatever it may have been, to sacrifice all for love:MISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 247" Venit enim magnum donandi parca juventusNec tantum Veneris quantum studiosa culinæ. "We may now, without retracting our opinion,bestow unqualified approbation; for the distressesof the present heroine all arise from her prudentrefusal to listen to the suggestions of her heart.The catastrophe, however, is happy, and we areleft in doubt whether it would have been better forher or not to accept the first proposal; and thiswe conceive is precisely the proper medium; for,though we would not have prudential calculationsthe sole principle to be regarded in marriage, weare far from advocating their exclusion. To disregard the advice of sober- minded friends on animportant point of conduct, is an imprudence wewould by no means recommend; indeed, it is aspecies of selfishness , if, in listening only to thedictates of passion, a man sacrifices to its gratification the happiness of those most dear to him aswell as his own; though it is not now-a-days themost prevalent form of selfishness. But it is nocondemnation of a sentiment to say, that it becomesblamable when it interferes with duty, and isuncontrolled by conscience: the desire of riches,power, or distinction-the taste for ease and comfort are to be condemned when they transgressthese bounds; and love, if it keep within them,even though it be somewhat tinged with enthusiasm, and a little at variance with what the worldlycall prudence, i. e. regard for pecuniary advantage,may afford a better moral discipline to the mindthan most other passions. It will not at least be248 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.denied, that it has often proved a powerful stimulus to exertion where others have failed, and hascalled forth talents unknown before even to thepossessor. What, though the pursuit may befruitless, and the hopes visionary? The result maybe a real and substantial benefit, though of anotherkind; the vineyard may have been cultivated bydigging in it for the treasure which is never to befound. What, though the perfections with whichimagination has decorated the beloved object, may,in fact, exist but in a slender degree? still theyare believed in and admired as real; if not, thelove is such as does not merit the name; and it isproverbially true that men become assimilated tothe character (i. e. what they think the character)of the being they fervently adore: thus, as in thenoblest exhibitions of the stage, though that whichis contemplated be but a fiction, it may be realized in the mind of the beholder; and, thoughgrasping at a cloud, he may become worthy of possessing a real goddess. Many a generous sentiment, and many a virtuous resolution, have beencalled forth and matured by admiration of one,who may herself perhaps have been incapable ofeither. It matters not what the object is that aman aspires to be worthy of, and proposes as a modelfor imitation, if he does but believe it to be excellent. Moreover, all doubts of success ( and theyare seldom, if ever, entirely wanting) must eitherproduce or exercise humility; and the endeavourto study another's interest and inclinations, andprefer them to one's own, may promote a habit ofMISS AUSTEN'S NOVELS. 249general benevolence which may outlast the presentoccasion. Every thing, in short, which tends toabstract a man in any degree, or in any way, fromself, from self- admiration and self- interest, has sofar at least, a beneficial influence in forming thecharacter.On the whole, Miss Austen's works may safelybe recommended, not only as among the mostunexceptionable of their class, but as combining, inan eminent degree, instruction with amusem*nt,though without the direct effort at the former, ofwhich we have complained, as sometimes defeatingits object. For those who cannot, or will not, learnany thing from productions of this kind, she hasprovided entertainment which entitles her to thanks;for mere innocent amusem*nt is in itself a good,when it interferes with no greater: especially as itmay occupy the place of some other that may notbe innocent. The Eastern monarch who proclaimedareward to him who should discover a new pleasure, would have deserved well of mankind had hestipulated that it should be blameless. Those, again,who delight in the study of human nature, mayimprove inthe knowledge ofit, and in the profitableapplication of that knowledge, by the perusal ofsuch fictions as those before us.[ 250 ]ARTICLE IX.REMARKS ON FRANKENSTEIN.[Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus. 3 vols. 12mo.From Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, March, 1818. ]" Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit theeFrom Darkness to promote me?"-Paradise Lost.THIS is a novel, or more properly a romanticfiction, of a nature so peculiar, that we ought todescribe the species before attempting any accountof the individual production.The first general division of works of fiction, intosuch as bound the events they narrate by the actuallaws of nature, and such as, passing these limits,are managed by marvellous and supernatural machinery, is sufficiently obvious and decided. But theclass of marvellous romances admits of several subdivisions. In the earlier productions of imagination, the poet or tale- teller does not, in his ownopinion, transgress the laws of credibility, when heintroduces into his narration the witches, goblins,FRANKENSTEIN. 251and magicians, in the existence of which he himself,as well as his hearers, is a firm believer. This goodfaith, however, passes away, and works turningupon the marvellous are written and read merelyon account of the exercise which they afford to theimagination of those who, like the poet Collins, love to riot in the luxuriance of Oriental fiction, to rovethrough the meanders of enchantment, to gaze onthe magnificence of golden palaces, and to reposeby the waterfalls of Elysian gardens. In this species of composition, the marvellous is itself the principal and most important object both to the authorand reader. To describe its effect upon the mind ofthe human personages engaged in its wonders, anddragged along by its machinery, is comparativelyan inferior object. The hero and heroine, partakersof the supernatural character which belongs to theiradventures, walk the maze of enchantment with afirm and undaunted step, and appear as much attheir ease, amid the wonders around them, as theyoung fellow described by the Spectator, who wasdiscovered taking a snuff with great composure inthe midst of a stormy ocean, represented on thestage of the opera.Amore philosophical and refined use ofthe supernatural in works of fiction, is proper to that class inwhich the laws of nature are represented as altered,not for the purpose of pampering the imaginationwith wonders, but in order to show the probableeffect which the supposed miracles would produceon those who witnessed them. In this case, thepleasure ordinarily derived from the marvellous252 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.incidents is secondary to that which we extractfrom observing how mortals like ourselves wouldbe affected,66 By scenes like these which, daring to depart From sober truth, are still to nature true. '"Even in the description of his marvels, however,the author, who manages this style of compositionwith address, gives them an indirect importancewith the reader, when he is able to describe, withnature and with truth, the effects which they arecalculated to produce upon his dramatis persona.It will be remembered, that the sapient Partridgewas too wise to be terrified at the mere appearanceof the ghost of Hamlet, whomhe knew to be a mandressed up in pasteboard armour for the nonce:it was when he saw the " little man," as he calledGarrick, so frightened, that a sympathetic horrortook hold of him. Of this we shall presently produce some examples from the narrative before us.But success in this point is still subordinate to theauthor's principal object, which is less to producean effect by means of the marvels of the narrations,than to open new trains and channels of thought,by placing men in supposed situations of an extraordinary and preternatural character, and thendescribing the mode of feeling and conduct whichthey are most likely to adopt.To make more clear the distinction we haveendeavoured to draw between the marvellous andthe effects of the marvellous, considered as separateobjects, we may briefly invite our readers to compare the common tale of Tom Thumb with Gulli-FRANKENSTEIN. 253ver's Voyage to Brobdingnag; one of the mostchildish fictions, with one which is pregnant withwit and satire, yet both turning upon the same assumed possibility of the existence of a pigmy amonga race of giants. In the former case, when theimagination of the story-teller has exhausted itselfin every species of hyperbole, in order to describethe diminutive size of his hero, the interest of thetale is at an end; but in the romance of the Deanof St Patrick's, the exquisite humour with whichthe natural consequences of so strange and unusuala situation is detailed, has a canvass on which toexpand itself, as broad as the luxuriance even ofthe author's talents could desire. Gulliver stuckinto a marrow bone, and Master Thomas Thumb'sdisastrous fall into the bowl of hasty- pudding, are,in the general outline, kindred incidents; but thejest is exhausted in the latter case, when the accident is told; whereas in the former, it lies not somuch in the comparatively pigmy size which subjected Gulliver to such a ludicrous misfortune, asin the tone of grave and dignified feeling withwhich he resents the disgrace of the incident.In the class of fictitious narrations to which weallude, the author opens a sort of account- currentwith the reader; drawing upon him, in the firstplace, for credit to that degree of the marvellouswhich he proposes to employ; and becoming virtually bound, in consequence of this indulgence, thathis personages shall conduct themselves, in theextraordinary circ*mstances in which they areplaced, according to the rules of probability, and254 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.the nature of the human heart. In this view, theprobable is far from being laid out of sight evenamid the wildest freaks of imagination; on thecontrary, we grant the extraordinary postulateswhich the author demands as the foundation of hisnarrative, only on condition of his deducing theconsequences with logical precision.We have only to add, that this class of fictionhas been sometimes applied to the purposes of political satire, and sometimes to the general illustration of the powers and workings of the humanmind. Swift, Bergerac, and others, have employedit for the former purpose, and a good illustrationof the latter is the well-known Saint Leon of William Godwin. In this latter work, assuming thepossibility of the transmutation of metals and ofthe elixir vitæ, the author has deduced, in thecourse of his narrative, the probable consequencesof the possession of such secrets upon the fortunesand mind of him who might enjoy them . Frankenstein is a novel upon the same plan with SaintLeon; it is said to be written by Mr Percy ByssheShelley, who, if we are rightly informed, is sonin- law to Mr Godwin;¹ and it is inscribed to that ingenious author.In the preface, the author lays claim to rank hiswork among the class which we have endeavouredto describe." The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed by Dr Durwin, and some of the physiological writers of[The author of Frankenstein is Mrs Shelley, daughter of Mr Godwin and Mrs Mary Woolstonecroft. See her Preface to the last edition. ]FRANKENSTEIN. 255I shall not be sup- Germany, as not of impossible occurrence.posed as according the remotest degree of serious faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work of fancy,I have not considered myself as merely weaving a series of super- natural terrors. The event, on which the interest of the storydepends, is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the noveltyof the situations which it developes; and, however impossible asa physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of human passions more comprehensive and command- ing than any which the ordinary relations of existing events canyield." I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to innovate upon their combinations. The Iliad, the tragicpoetry of Greece, -Shakspeare, in the Tempest and Midsummer's Night's Dream, and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost,conform to this rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive amusem*nt from his labours, may, without pre- sumption, apply to prose fiction a license, or rather a rule, from the adoption of which so many exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the highest specimens of poetry. "Weshall, without farther preface, detail the particulars of the singular story which is thus intro- duced.Avessel, engaged in a voyage of discovery tothe North Pole, having become embayed amongthe ice at a very high latitude, the crew, and particularly the captain or owner of the ship, are surprised at perceiving a gigantic form pass at somedistance from them, on a car drawn by dogs, in aplace where they conceived no mortal could exist.While they are speculating on this singular apparition, a thaw commences, and disengages themfrom their precarious situation. On the nextmorning they pick up, upon a floating fragment ofthe broken ice, a sledge like that they had before256 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.seen, with a human being in the act of perishing.He is with difficulty recalled to life, and proves tobe a young man of the most amiable manners andextended acquirements, but extenuated by fatigue,and wrapped in dejection and gloom ofthe darkestkind. The captain of the ship, a gentleman whoseardent love of science had engaged him on an expedition so dangerous, becomes attached to thestranger, and at length extorts from him the wonderful tale of his misery, which he thus attains themeans of preserving from oblivion.Frankenstein describes himself as a native ofGeneva, born and bred up in the bosom of domesticlove and affection. His father-his friend HenryClerval-Elizabeth, an orphan of extreme beautyand talent, bred up in the same house with him, arepossessed of all the qualifications which could render him happy as a son, a friend, and a lover. Inthe course of his studies he becomes acquaintedwith the works of Cornelius Agrippa, and otherauthors treating of occult philosophy, on whosevenerable tomes modern neglect has scattered noslight portion of dust. Frankenstein remains ignorant of the contempt in which his favourites areheld, until he is separated from his family to pursuehis studies at the university of Ingolstadt. Herehe is introduced to the wonders of modern chemistry, as well as of natural philosophy, in all itsbranches. Prosecuting these sciences into theirinnermost and most abstruse recesses, with unusualtalent and unexampled success, he at length makesthat discovery on which the marvellous part of theFRANKENSTEIN. 257work is grounded. His attention had been especially bound to the structure of the human frameand of the principle of life. He engaged in physiological researches of the most recondite andabstruse nature, searching among charnel vaultsand in dissection - rooms, and the objects mostinsupportable to the delicacy of human feelings, inorder to trace the minute chain of causation whichtakes place in the change from life to death, andfrom death to life. In the midst of this darknessa light broke in upon him." Remember, ' says his narrative, ' I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more certainly shine inthe heavens than that which I now affirm is true. Some miraclemight have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were dis- tinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labourand fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter. " "This wonderful discovery impeiled Frankensteinto avail himself of his art, by the creation (if wedare to call it so) or formation of a living and sentient being. As the minuteness ofthe parts formeda great difficulty, he constructed the figure whichhe proposed to animate of a gigantic size, that is,about eight feet high, and strong and large in proportion. The feverish anxiety with which theyoung philosopher toils through the horrors of hissecret task, now dabbling among the unhallowedrelics of the grave, and now torturing the livinganimal to animate the lifeless clay, are describedgenerally, but with great vigour of language. Al- VOL. XVIII. R258 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.though supported by the hope of producing a newspecies that should bless him as its creator andsource, he nearly sinks under the protracted labour,and loathsome details, of the work he had undertaken; and scarcely is his fatal enthusiasm sufficientto support his nerves, or animate his resolution.The result of this extraordinary discovery it wouldbe unjust to give in any words save those of theauthor. We shall give it at length, as an excellentspecimen ofthe style and manner of the work." It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life aroundme, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rainpattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half- extinguished light,I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard,and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs." How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! -Great God! -His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteriesbeneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teethof a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a morehorrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were sethis shrivelled complexion and straight black lips." The different accidents of life are not so changeable as thefeelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly twoyears, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body.For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that Ihad finished , the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspectof the being I had created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time traversing my bed- chamber, unable to com-FRANKENSTEIN. 259pose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to thetumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in myclothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. Butit was in vain; I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health,walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, Iembraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips , they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared tochange, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead motherin my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave- worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from mysleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dimand yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window-shutters, I beheld the wretch-the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. Hisjaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while agrin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did nothear one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited; where I remainedduring the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each soundas if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life." Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that counte- nance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished;he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived." I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every artery; atothers, I nearly sank to the ground, through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment: dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!" Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered,to my sleepless and aching eyes, the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The260 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night beenmy asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared everyturning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the rain, which poured from a black and comfortless sky." I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me.'Like one who on a lonely road Doth walkin fear and dread,And, having once turn'd round, walks on,And turns no more his head:Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. 1 ' "He is relieved by the arrival of the diligencefrom Geneva, out of which jumps his friend HenryClerval, who had come to spend a season at thecollege. Compelled to carry Clerval to his lodgings, which, he supposed, must still contain theprodigious and hideous specimen of his Prometheanart, his feelings are again admirably described,allowing always for the extraordinary cause supposed to give them birth." I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. Iwalked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college.I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the crea- ture whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive ,and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster; but Ifeared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him,1 Coleridge's " Ancient Mariner. "FRANKENSTEIN. 261therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs , Idarted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before recollected myself. I then paused;and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forciblyopen, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a spec- tre to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothingappeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty;and my bed-room was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befallenme; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled,I clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval. "The animated monster is heard of no more fora season. Frankenstein pays the penalty of his rashresearches into the arcana of human nature, in along illness, after which the two friends prosecutetheir studies for two years in uninterrupted quiet.Frankenstein, as may be supposed, abstaining, witha sort of abhorrence, from those in which he had onceso greatly delighted . At the lapse of this period,he is made acquainted with a dreadful misfortunewhich has befallen his family, by the violent deathof his youngest brother, an interesting child, who,while straying from his keeper, had been murderedby some villain in the walks of Plainpalais. Themarks of strangling were distinct on the neck ofthe unfortunate infant, and a gold ornament whichit wore, and which was amissing, was supposed tohave been the murderer's motive for perpetratingthe crime.At this dismal intelligence, Frankenstein flies toGeneva, and impelled by fraternal affection, visitsthe spot where this horrid accident had happened.In the midst of a thunder-storm, with which theevening had closed, and just as he had attained the262 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.fatal spot on which Victor had been murdered, aflash of lightning displays to him the hideous demonto which he had given life, gliding towards a neighbouring precipice. Another flash shows him hanging among the cliffs, up which he scrambles withfar more than mortal agility, and is seen no more.The inference, that this being was the murderer ofhis brother, flashed on Frankenstein's mind as irresistibly as the lightning itself, and he was temptedto consider the creature whom he had cast amongmankind to work, it would seem acts of horror anddepravity, nearly in the light of his own vampirelet loose from the grave, and destined to destroyall that was dear to him.Frankenstein was right in his apprehensions.Justine, the maid to whom the youthful Victor hadbeen intrusted, is found to be in possession of thegolden trinket which had been taken from thechild's person; and, by a combination of circ*mstantial evidence, she is concluded to be the murderess, and as such condemned to death, andexecuted. It does not appear that Frankensteinattempted to avert her fate, by communicating hishorrible secret; but, indeed, who would have givenhim credit, or in what manner could he have supported his tale?In a solitary expedition to the top of MountAveyron, undertaken to dispel the melancholywhich clouded his mind, Frankenstein unexpectedlymeets with the monster he had animated, whocompels him to a conference and a parley. Thematerial demon gives an account, at great length,FRANKENSTEIN. 263of his history since his animation, of the mode inwhich he acquired various points of knowledge, andof the disasters which befell him, when, full ofbenevolence and philanthropy, he endeavoured tointroduce himself into human society. The mostmaterial part of his education was acquired in aruinous pig-sty-a Lyceum which this strangestudent occupied, he assures us, for a good manymonths undiscovered, and in constant observance ofthe motions of an amiable family, from imitatingwhom, he learns the use of language, and otheraccomplishments, much more successfully thanCaliban, though the latter had a conjuror to histutor. This detail is not only highly improbable,but it is injudicious, as its unnecessary minutenesstends rather too much to familiarize us with thebeing whom it regards, and who loses, by thislengthy oration, some part of the mysterious sublimity annexed to his first appearance. The resultis, this monster, who was at first, according to hisown account, but a harmless monster, becomesferocious and malignant, in consequence of findingall his approaches to human society repelled withinjurious violence and offensive marks of disgust.Some papers concealed in his dress, acquainted himwith the circ*mstances and person to whom he owedhis origin; and the hate which he felt towards thewhole human race was now concentrated in resentment against Frankenstein. In this humour hemurdered the child, and disposed the picture so asto induce a belief of Justine's guilt.an inartificial circ*mstance; this indirect mode ofThe last is264 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.mischief was not likely to occur to the being thenarrative presents to us. The conclusion of thisstrange narrative is, a peremptory demand on thepart of the demon, as he is usually termed, thatFrankenstein should renew his fearful experiment,and create for him an helpmate hideous as himself,who should have no pretence for shunning hissociety. On this condition he promises to withdrawto some distant desert, and shun the human racefor ever. If his creator shall refuse him thisconsolation, he vows the prosecution of the mostfrightful vengeance. Frankenstein, after a longpause of reflection , imagines he sees that the justicedue to the miserable being, as well as to mankind,who might be exposed to so much misery, from thepower and evil dispositions of a creature who couldclimb perpendicular cliffs , and exist among glaciers,demanded that he should comply with the request;and granted his promise accordingly.Frankenstein retreats to one ofthe distant islandsof the Orcades, that in secrecy and solitude hemight resume his detestable and ill -omened labours,which now were doubly hideous, since he wasdeprived of the enthusiasm with which he formerlyprosecuted them. As he is sitting one night in hislaboratory, and recollecting the consequences of hisfirst essay in the Promethean art, he begins tohesitate concerning the right he had to form anotherbeing as malignant and blood-thirsty as that he hadunfortunately already animated. It is evident, that,he would thereby give the demon the means ofpropagating a hideous race, superior to mankind inFRANKENSTEIN. 265strength and hardihood, who might render the veryexistence of the present human race a conditionprecarious and full of terror. Just as these reflections lead him to the conclusion that his promisewas criminal, and ought not to be kept, he looks up,and sees, by the light of the moon, the demon atthe casem*nt." A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where Isat fulfilling the task which he allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he nowcame to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of my pro- mise." As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmostextent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation ofmadness on my promise of creating another like to him, and,trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I wasengaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whosefuture existence he depended for happiness, and, with a howl ofdevilish despair and revenge, withdrew. "At a subsequent interview, described with thesame wild energy, all treaty is broken off betwixtFrankenstein and the work of his hands, and theypart on terms of open and declared hatred anddefiance. Our limits do not allow us to trace indetail the progress of the demon's vengeance,Clerval falls its first victim, and under circ*mstanceswhich had very nearly conducted the new Prometheus to the gallows as his supposed murdererElizabeth, his bride, is next strangled on her wedding-night; his father dies of grief; and at lengthFrankenstein, driven to despair and distraction,sees nothing left for him in life but vengeance onthe singular cause of his misery. With this purpose266 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.he pursues the monster from clime to clime, receiving only such intimations of his being on the rightscent, as served to show that the demon delightedin thus protracting his fury and his sufferings. Atlength, after the flight and pursuit had terminatedamong the frost-fogs and icy islands of the northernocean, and just when he had a glimpse of his adversary, the ground sea was heard, the ice gave way,and Frankenstein was placed in the perilous situation in which he is first introduced to the reader.Exhausted by his sufferings, but still breathingvengeance against the being which was at once hiscreature and his persecutor, this unhappy victim tophysiological discovery expires, just as the clearingaway ofthe ice permits Captain Walton's vessel tohoist sail for their return to Britain. At midnight,the demon, who had been his destroyer, is discovered in the cabin, lamenting over the corpse ofthe person who gave him being. To Walton heattempts to justify his resentment towards the human race, while, at the same time, he acknowledgeshimself a wretch who had murdered the lovely andthe helpless, and pursued to irremediable ruin hiscreator, the select specimen of all that was worthyof love and admiration." Fear not,' he continues, addressing the astonished Walton,' that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man's death is neededto consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own. Do not think that Ishall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice- raft which brought me hither, and shall seek the mostnorthern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile,FRANKENSTEIN. 267and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains mayafford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who wouldcreate such another as I have been'." He sprung from the cabin- window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away bythe waves, and lost in darkness and distance. "Whether this singular being executed his purpose or not, must necessarily remain an uncertainty,unless the voyage of discovery to the north poleshould throw any light on the subject.So concludes this extraordinary tale, in whichthe author seems to us to disclose uncommonpowers of poetic imagination. The feeling withwhich we perused the unexpected and fearful, yet,allowing the possibility of the event, very naturalconclusion of Frankenstein's experiment, shook alittle even our firm nerves; although such, and sonumerous have been the expedients for excitingterror employed by the romantic writers of the age,that the reader may adopt Macbeth's words with aslight alteration:"We have supp'd full with horrors;Direness, familiar to our callous ' thoughts,Cannot once startle us."It is no slight merit in our eyes, that the tale,though wild in incident, is written in plain andforcible English, without exhibiting that mixtureof hyperbolical Germanisms with which tales ofwonder are usually told, as if it were necessary thatthe language should be as extravagant as the fiction.The ideas of the author are always clearly as wellas forcibly expressed; and his descriptions of landscape have in them the choice requisites of truth,268 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.freshness, precision, and beauty. The self-education of the monster, considering the slender opportunities of acquiring knowledge that he possessed,we have already noticed as improbable and overstrained. That he should have not only learned tospeak, but to read, and, for aught we know, to write-that he should have become acquainted withWerter, with Plutarch's Lives, and with ParadiseLost, by listening through a hole in a wall, seemsas unlikely as that he should have acquired, in thesame way, the problems of Euclid, or the art ofbook-keeping by single and double entry. Theauthor has however two apologies-the first, thenecessity that his monster should acquire thoseendowments, and the other, that his neighbourswere engaged in teaching the language of thecountry to a young foreigner. His progress inself- knowledge, and the acquisition of information,is, after all, more wonderful than that of Hai EbenYokhdan, or Automathes, or the hero of the littleromance called The Child of Nature, one of whichworks might perhaps suggest the train of ideasfollowed by the author of Frankenstein. We shouldalso be disposed, in support of the principles withwhich we set out, to question whether the monster,how tall, agile, and strong however, could haveperpetrated so much mischief undiscovered; orpassed through so many countries without beingsecured, either on account of his crimes, or for thebenefit of some such speculator as Mr Polito, whowould have been happy to have added to hismuseum so curious a specimen of natural history.FRANKENSTEIN. 269But as we have consented to admit the leadingincident of the work, perhaps some of our readersmay be of opinion, that to stickle upon lesser improbabilities, is to incur the censure bestowed bythe Scottish proverb on those who " start at straws,after swallowing windlings."The following lines which occur in the secondvolume, mark, we think, that the author possessesthe same facility in expressing himself in verse asin prose." We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day.We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh, or weep,Embrace fond wo, or cast our cares away;It is the same; for, be it joy or sorrow,The path of its departure still is free.Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;Nought may endure but mutability! "Upon the whole, the work impresses us with ahigh idea of the author's original genius and happypower of expression. We shall be delighted tohear that he has aspired to the paulo majora; and,in the mean time congratulate our readers upon anovel which excites new reflections and untriedsources of emotion. If Gray's definition of Paradise, to lie on a couch, namely, and read new novels,come any thing near truth, no small praise is dueto him, who, like the author of Frankenstein,has enlarged the sphere of that fascinating enjoy- ment.[ 270 ]ARTICLE X.NOVELS OF ERNEST THEODORE HOFFMANN.[Leben und Nachlass. 2 Vols. Berlin, 1823.-Serapionsbrüder. 6 Vols. 1819-26. -Nachtstücke. 2 Vols. 1816.ByERNEST THEODOREWILLIAM HOFFMANN.-ForeignQuarterly Review, No. 1 , July, 1827. ]2No source of romantic fiction, and no mode ofexciting the feelings of interest which the authorsin that description of literature desire to produce,seems more directly accessible than the love of thesupernatural. It is common to all classes of mankind, and perhaps is to none so familiar as to thosewho assume a certain degree of scepticism on thesubject; since the reader may have often observedin conversation, that the person who professes himself most incredulous on the subject of marvellousstories, often ends his remarks by indulging the company with some well- attested anecdote, which it isdifficult or impossible to account for on the narrator's own principles of absolute scepticism. Thebelief itself, though easily capable of being pushedintosuperstition and absurdity, has its origin not onlyHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 271in the facts upon which our holy religion is founded,but upon the principles of our nature, which teachus that while we are probationers in this sublunarystate, we are neighbours to, and encompassed bythe shadowy world, of which our mental facultiesare too obscure to comprehend the laws, our corporeal organs too coarse and gross to perceive theinhabitants.All professors of the Christian religion believethat there was a time when the Divine Powershowed itself more visibly on earth than in theseour latter days; controlling and suspending, forits own purposes, the ordinary laws of the universe; and the Roman Catholic Church, at least,holds it as an article of faith, that miracles descendto the present time. Without entering into thatcontroversy, it is enough that a firm belief in thegreat truths of our religion has induced wise andgood men, even in Protestant countries, to subscribe to Dr Johnson's doubts respecting supernatural appearances." That the dead are seen no more, said Imlac, I will not undertake to maintain against the concurrent and unvaried testimony of all ages, and of all nations. There is no people, rude orlearned, among whom apparitions of the dead are not related and believed. This opinion, which perhaps prevails as far as humannature is diffused, could become universal only by its truth;those that never heard of one another, could not have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience can make credible . That itis doubted by single cavillers, can very little weaken the general evidence; and some who deny it with their tongues, confess it by their fears."Upon such principles as these there lingers inthe breasts even of philosophers, a reluctance to272 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.decide dogmatically upon a point where they donot and cannot possess any, save negative, evidence.Yet this inclination to believe in the marvellousgradually becomes weaker. Men cannot butremark that (since the scriptural miracles haveceased) the belief in prodigies and supernaturalevents has gradually declined in proportion to theadvancement of human knowledge; and that sincethe age has become enlightened, the occurrence oftolerably well- attested anecdotes of the supernatural character are so few, as to render it moreprobable that the witnesses have laboured undersome strange and temporary delusion, rather thanthat the laws of nature have been altered or suspended. At this period of human knowledge, themarvellous is so much identified with fabulous, asto be considered generally as belonging to the sameclass.It is not so in early history, which is full ofsupernatural incidents; and although we now usethe word romance as synonymous with fictitiouscomposition, yet as it originally only meant a poem,or prose work contained in the Romaunce language, there is little doubt that the doughty chivalry who listened to the songs of the minstrel," held each strange tale devoutly true," and thatthe feats ofknighthood which he recounted, mingledwith tales of magic and supernatural interference,were esteemed as veracious as the legends of themonks, to which they bore a strong resemblance.This period of society, however, must have longpast before the Romancer began to select andHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 273arrange with care, the nature of the materials out ofwhich he constructed his story. It was not when…society, however differing in degree and station,was levelled and confounded by one dark cloud ofignorance, involving the noble as well as the mean,that it need be scrupulously considered to whatclass of persons the author addressed himself, orwith what species of decoration he ornamented hisstory. "hom*o was then a common name for allmen," and all were equally pleased with the samestyle of composition. This, however, was gradually altered. As the knowledge to which wehave before alluded made more general progress,it became impossible to detain the attention of thebetter instructed class by the simple and grossfables to which the present generation would onlylisten in childhood, though they had been held inhonour bytheir fathers during youth, manhood, and old age.It was also discovered that the supernatural infictitious composition requires to be managed withconsiderable delicacy, as criticism begins to bemore on the alert. The interest which it excites.is indeed a powerful spring; but it is one which ispeculiarly subject to be exhausted by coarse handling and repeated pressure. It is also of a character which it is extremely difficult to sustain, and ofwhich a very small proportion may be said to bebetter than the whole. The marvellous, more thanany other attribute of fictitious narrative, loses itseffect by being brought much into view. Theimagination ofthe reader is to be excited if possible,VOL. XVIII. S274 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.66 without being gratified . If once, like Macbeth,we sup full with horrors," our taste for thebanquet is ended, and the thrill of terror withwhich we hear or read of a night- shriek, becomeslost in that sated indifference with which the tyrantcame at length to listen to the most deep catastrophes that could affect his house. The incidents ofa supernatural character are usually those of adark and undefinable nature, such as arise in themind of the Lady in the Masque of Comus, -incidents to which our fears attach more consequence,as we cannot exactly tell what it is we behold, orwhat is to be apprehended from it:-" Athousand fantasiesBegin to throng into my memory,

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Of calling shapes and beck'ning shadows dire,And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. "Burke observes upon obscurity, that it is necessary to make any thing terrible, and notices, " howmuch the notions of ghosts and goblins, of whichnone can form clear ideas, affect minds which givecredit to the popular tales concerning such sorts ofbeings." He represents also, that no person " seemsbetter to have understood the secret of heightening,or of setting terrible things in their strongest light,by the force of a judicious obscurity, than Milton.His description of Death, in the second book, isadmirably studied; it is astonishing with what agloomy pomp, with what a significant and expressive uncertainty of strokes and colouring, he hasfinished the portrait of the King of Terrors.HOFFMANN'S novels. 275The other shape, —If shape it might be called, which shape had noneDistinguishable in member, joint, or limb:Or substance might be called that shadow seemed,-For each seemed either; black he stood as night;Fierce as ten furies; terrible as hell;And shook a deadly dart. What seemed his headThe likeness of a kingly crown had on.'In this description all is dark, uncertain, confused, terrible, and sublime to the last degree."The only quotation worthy to be mentionedalong with the passage we have just taken down,is the well-known apparition introduced with circ*mstances of terrific obscurity in the book of Job:-" Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ears received a little thereof. In thoughts from the visions of thenight, when deep sleep falleth on men, fear came upon me,and trembling which made all my bones to shake.Then aspirit passed before my face: the hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof; an image was before mine eyes; there was silence, and I heard a voice. "From these sublime and decisive authorities, itis evident that the exhibition of supernaturalappearances in fictitious narrative ought to be rare,brief, indistinct, and such as may become a beingto us so incomprehensible, and so different fromourselves, of whom we cannot justly conjecturewhence he comes, or for what purpose, and ofwhose attributes we can have no regular or distinct perception. Hence it usually happens, thatthe first touch of the supernatural is always themost effective, and is rather weakened and defaced,than strengthened, by the subsequent recurrenceof similar incidents. Even in Hamlet, the second276 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.entrance of the ghost is not nearly so impressive asthe first; and in many romances to which we couldrefer, the supernatural being forfeits all claim bothto our terror and veneration, by condescending toappear too often; to mingle too much in the eventsof the story, and above all, to become loquacious,or, as it is familiarly called, chatty. We have,indeed, great doubts whether an author acts wiselyin permitting his goblin to speak at all, if at thesame time he renders him subject to human sight.Shakspeare, indeed, has contrived to put suchlanguage in the mouth of the buried majesty ofDenmark as befits a supernatural being, and is bythe style distinctly different from that of the livingpersons in the drama. In another passage he hashad the boldness to intimate, by two expressions ofsimilar force, in what manner, and with what tonesupernatural beings would find utterance:" And the sheeted deadDid squeak and gibber in the Roman streets . "But the attempt in which the genius of Shakspearehas succeeded would probably have been ridiculousin any meaner hand; and hence it is, that in manyof our modern tales of terror, our feelings of fearhave, long before the conclusion, given way underthe influence of that familiarity which begets contempt.A sense that the effect of the supernatural in itsmore obvious application is easily exhausted, hasoccasioned the efforts of modern authors to cutnew walks and avenues through the enchantedHOFFMANN'S novels. 277wood, and to revive, if possible, by some means orother, the fading impression of its horrors.The most obvious and inartificial mode of attaining this end is, by adding to, and exaggerating thesupernatural incidents of the tale. But far fromincreasing its effect, the principles which we havelaid down, incline us to consider the impression asusually weakened by exaggerated and laboriousdescription. Elegance is in such cases thrownaway, and the accumulation of superlatives, withwhich the narrative is encumbered, renders ittedious, or perhaps ludicrous, instead of becomingimpressive or grand.There is indeed one style of composition, ofwhich the supernatural forms an appropriate part,which applies itself rather to the fancy than to theimagination, and aims more at amusing than ataffecting or interesting the reader. To this species of composition belong the Eastern tales, whichcontribute so much to the amusem*nt of our youth,and which are recollected, if not re- perused, with somuch pleasure in our more advanced life. Thereare but few readers, of any imagination, who havenot at one time or other in their life sympathizedwith the poet Collins, " who," says Dr Johnson,"was eminently delighted with those flights ofimagination, which pass the bounds of nature, andto which the mind is reconciled only by a passiveacquiescence in popular traditions. He loved fairies,genii, giants, and monsters; he delighted to rovethrough the meadows of enchantment, to gaze onthe magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by278 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES .the waterfalls of Elysian gardens." It is chieflythe young and the indolent who love to be soothedby works of this character, which require littleattention in the perusal. In our riper age, weremember them as we do the joys of our infancy,rather because we loved them once, than that theystill continue to afford us amusem*nt. The extravagance of fiction loses its charms for our riperjudgment; and notwithstanding that these wildfictions contain much that is beautiful and full offancy, yet still, unconnected as they are with eachother, and conveying no result to the understanding, we pass them by as the championess Britomartrode along the rich strand." Which as she overwent,She saw bestrewed all with rich arrayOf pearls and precious stones of great assay,And all the gravel mixt with golden ore:Whereat she wondered much, but would not stayFor gold, or pearls, or precious stones, one hour:But them despised all, for all was in her power."With this class of supernatural composition maybe ranked, though inferior in interest, what theFrench call Contes des Fées; meaning, by that title,to distinguish them from the ordinary popular talesof fairy folks which are current in most countries.The Conte des Fées is itself a very different composition, and the fairies engaged are of a separateclass from those whose amusem*nt is to dance roundthe mushroom in the moonlight, and mislead thebelated peasant. The French Fée more nearlyresembles the Peri of Eastern, or the Fata of Italian poetry. She is a superior being, having theHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 279nature of an elementary spirit, and possessingmagical powers enabling her, to a considerableextent, to work either good or evil. But whatevermerit this species of writing may have attained insome dexterous hands, it has, under the management of others, become one of the most absurd,flat, and insipid possible. Out of the whole Cabinet des Fées, when we get beyond our old acquaintances of the nursery, we can hardly select fivevolumes, from nearly fifty, with any probability ofreceiving pleasure from them.It often happens that when any particular stylebecomes somewhat antiquated and obsolete, somecaricature, or satirical imitation of it, gives rise toa new species of composition. Thus the EnglishOperaarose from the parody upon the Italian stage,designed by Gay, in the Beggar's Opera. In likemanner, when the public had been inundated, adnauseam, with Arabian tales, Persian tales, Turkishtales, Mogul tales, and legends of every nation eastof the Bosphorus, and were equally annoyed by theincreasing publication of all sorts of fairy tales, -Count Anthony Hamilton, like a second Cervantes,came forth with his satirical tales, destined to overturn the empire of Dives, of Genii, of Peris, et hocgenus omne.Something too licentious for a more refined age,the Tales of Count Hamilton subsist as a beautifulillustration, showing that literary subjects, as wellas the fields of the husbandman, may, when theyseem most worn out and efféte, be renewed andagain brought into successful cultivation by a new280 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.course of management. The wit of Count Hamilton, like manure applied to an exhausted field,rendered the Eastern tale more piquant, if not moreedifying, than it was before. Much was written inimitation of Count Hamilton's style; and it wasfollowed by Voltaire in particular, who in this wayrendered the supernatural romance one of the mostapt vehicles for circulating his satire. This, therefore, may be termed the comic side of the supernatural, in which the author plainly declares hispurpose to turn into jest the miracles which herelates, and aspires to awaken ludicrous sensationswithout affecting the fancy-far less exciting thepassions of the reader. Bythis species of delineation the reader will perceive that the supernaturalstyle of writing is entirely travestied and held upto laughter, instead of being made the subject ofrespectful attention, or heard with at least that sortof imperfect excitement with which we listened toa marvellous tale of fairy-land. This species ofsatire for it is often converted to satirical purposes has never been more happily executed thanby the French authors, although Wieland, andseveral other German writers, treading in the stepsof Hamilton, have added the grace of poetry to thewit and to the wonders with which they haveadorned this species of composition. Oberon, inparticular, has been identified with our literaturebythe excellent translation of Mr Sotheby, and isnearly as well known in England as in Germany.It would, however, carry us far too wide from ourpresent purpose, were we to consider the comi-+HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 281heroic poetry which belongs to this class, and whichincludes the well-known works of Pulci, Berniperhaps, in a certain degree, of Ariosto himself, who,in some passages at least, lifts his knightly vizor sofar as to give a momentary glimpse of the smilewhich mantles upon his countenance.One general glance at the geography ofthis mostpleasing " Londe of Faery," leads us into anotherprovince, rough as it may seem and uncultivated,but which, perhaps, on that very account, has somescenes abounding in interest. There are a speciesof antiquarians who, while others laboured to reunite and highly ornament the ancient traditions oftheir country, have made it their business, antiquosaccedere fontes, to visit the ancient springs andsources of those popular legends which, cherishedby the grey and superstitious Elde, had been longforgotten in the higher circles, but are again broughtforward, and claim, like the old ballads of a country,a degree of interest even from their rugged simplicity. The Deutsche Sagen of the brothersGrimm, is an admirable work of this kind; assembling, without any affectation either of ornamentaldiction or improved incident, the various traditionsexisting in different parts of Germany respectingpopular superstitions and the events ascribed tosupernatural agency. There are other works ofthe same kind, in the same language, collected withgreat care and apparent fidelity. Sometimes trite,sometimes tiresome, sometimes childish, the legendswhich these authors have collected with such indefatigable zeal form nevertheless a step in the history282 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ofthe human race; and, when compared with similarcollections in other countries, seem to infer tracesof a common descent which has placed one generalstock of superstition within reach of the varioustribes of mankind. What are we to think when wefind the Jutt and the Fin telling their children thesame traditions which are to be found in the nurseries of the Spaniard and Italian; or when werecognise in our own instance the traditions ofIreland or Scotland as corresponding with those ofRussia? Are we to suppose that their similarityarises from the limited nature of human invention,and that the same species of fiction occurs to theimaginations of different authors in remote countries as the same species of plants are found indifferent regions without the possibility of theirhaving been propagated by transportation from theone to others? Or ought we rather, to refer them toa common source, when mankind formed but thesame great family, and suppose that as philologiststrace through various dialects the broken fragmentsof one general language, so antiquaries may recognise in distant countries parts of what was once acommon stock of tradition? We will not pause onthis enquiry, nor observe more than generally that,in collecting these traditions, the industrious editorshave been throwing light, not only on the historyof their own country in particular, but on that ofmankind in general. There is generally some truthmingled with the abundant falsehood , and still moreabundant exaggeration, of the oral legend; and itmay be frequently and unexpectedly found to con-HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 283firm or confute the meagre statement of someancient chronicle. Often, too, the legend of thecommon people, by assigning peculiar features,localities, and specialities to the incidents which itholds in memory, gives life and spirit to the frigidand dry narrative which tells the fact alone, withoutthe particulars which render it memorable or interesting.It is, however, in another point of view, that wewish to consider those popular traditions in theircollected state: namely, as a peculiar mode ofexhibiting the marvellous and supernatural in composition. And here we must acknowledge, thathe who peruses a large collection of stories offiends, ghosts, and prodigies, in hopes of exciting inhis mind that degree of shuddering interest approaching to fear, which is the most valuabletriumph of the supernatural, is likely to be disappointed. A whole collection of ghost stories inclines us as little to fear as a jest book moves us tolaughter. Many narratives, turning upon the sameinterest, are apt to exhaust it; as in a large collection of pictures an ordinary eye is so dazzled withthe variety of brilliant or glowing colours as tobecome less able to distinguish the merit of thosepieces which are possessed of any.But, notwithstanding this great disadvantage,which is inseparable from the species of publication we are considering, a reader of imagination,who has the power to emancipate himself from thechains of reality, and to produce in his own mindthe accompaniments with which the simple or rude284 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.popular legend ought to be attended, will often findthat it possesses points of interest, of nature, andofeffect, which, though irreconcilable to sober truth,carry with them something that the mind is notaverse to believe, something in short of plausibility,which, let poet or romancer do their very best,they find it impossible to attain to. An examplemay, in a case of this sort, be more amusing to thereader than mere disquisition, and we select onefrom a letter received many years since from anamiable and accomplished nobleman some time deceased, not more distinguished for his love ofscience, than his attachment to literature in all its branches:-As" It was inthe night of, I think, the 14th of February, 1799,that there came on a dreadful storm of wind and drifting snowfrom the south- east, which was felt very severely in most parts of Scotland. On the preceding day a Captain M , attended bythree other men, had gone out a deer- shooting in that extensive tract of mountains which lies to the west of Dalnacardoch.they did not return in the evening, nothing was heard of them.The next day, people were sent out in quest of them, as soon as the storm abated. After a long search, the bodies were foundin a lifeless state, lying among the ruins of a bothy (a temporary hut,) in which it would seem Captain M- and his party hadtaken refuge. The bothy had been destroyed by the tempest,and in a very astonishing manner. It had been built partly ofstone, and partly of strong wooden uprights driven into theground; it was not merely blown down, but quite torn topieces. Large stones, which had formed part of the walls, were found lying at the distance of one or two hundred yards from thesite of the building, and the wooden uprights appeared to have been rent asunder by force that had twisted them off as in break- ing a tough stick. From the circ*mstances in which the bodieswere found, it appeared that the men were retiring to rest at the time the calamity came upon them. One of the bodies indeed,was found at a distance of many yards from the bothy; anotherHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 285-of the men was found upon the place where the bothy had stood,with one stocking off, as if he had been undressing; Captain M- was lying without his clothes, upon the wretched bedwhich the bothy had afforded, his face to the ground, and his knees drawn up. To all appearance the destruction had beenquite sudden yet the situation of the building was such as promised security against the utmost violence of the wind. Itstood in a narrow recess, at the foot of a mountain, whose precipitous and lofty declivities sheltered it on every side, except in the front, and here, too, a hill rose before it, though with amore gradual slope. This extraordinary wreck of a building so situated, led the common people to ascribe it to a super- natural power. It was recollected by some who had been outshooting with Captain M about a month before, that while they were resting at this bothy, a shepherd lad had come to the door and enquired for Captain M- and that the captain wentout with the shepherd, and they walked away together, leavingthe rest of the party in the bothy. After a time, Captain M- returned alone; he said nothing of what had passed between him and the lad, but looked very grave and thoughtful, and from thattime there was observed to be a mysterious anxiety hanging about him. It was remembered, that one evening after dusk, whenCaptain M- was in the bothy, some of his party that werestanding before the door saw a fire blazing on the top of the hill which rises in front of it. They were much surprised to see afire in such a solitary place, and at such a time, and set out to enquire into the cause of it, but when they reached the top of the hill, there was no fire to be seen! It was remembered, too,that on the day before the fatal night, Captain M- had showna singular obstinacy in going forth upon his expedition. No re- presentations of the inclemency of the weather, and of the dangers he would be exposed to, could restrain him. He said he mustgo, and was resolved to go. Captain M.'s character was likewiseremembered; that he was popularly reported to be a man of no principles, rapacious, and cruel; that he had got money by procuring recruits from the Highlands—an unpopular mode of acqui- ring wealth; and that, amongst other base measures for this purpose, he had gone so far as to leave a purse upon the road,and to threaten the man who had picked it up with an indictment for robbery if he did not enlist. ' Our informer added nothing1 It is needless to say that this was a mere popular report, which might greatly misrepresent the character of the unfortunate sufferer.286 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.more; he neither told us his own opinion nor that of the country; but left it to our own notions of the manner in which good and evil is rewarded in this life, to suggest the Author of the miserable event. He seemed impressed with superstitious aweon the subject, and said, ' There was na' the like seen in a' Scot- land.' The man is far advanced in years, and is a schoolmasterin the neighbourhood of Rannoch. He was employed by us asa guide upon Schehallion; and he told us the story one day as we walked before our horses, while we slowly wound up the road on the northern declivity of Rannoch. From this elevated groundwe commanded an extensive prospect over the dreary mountains to the north, and amongst them our guide pointed out that at the foot of which was the scene of his dreadful tale. The accountis, to the best of my recollection, just what I received from myguide. In some trifling particulars, from defect of memory, Imay have misrepresented or added a little, in order to connect the leading circ*mstances; and I fear, also, that something may have been forgotten. Will you ask Mr P. whether CaptainM- , on leaving the bothy after his conversation with the shepherd lad, did not say that he must return there in a month after? I have a faint idea that it was so; and, if true, it wouldbe a pity to lose it. Mr P may, perhaps, be able to correct or enlarge my account for you in other instances .'The reader will, we believe, be of our opinion,that the feeling of superstitious awe annexed tothe catastrophe contained in this interesting narrative, could not have been improved by any circ*mstances of additional horror which a poet could ·have invented; that the incidents and the gloomysimplicity of the narrative are much more strikingthan they could have been rendered by the mostglowing description; and that the old Highlandschoolmaster, the outline of whose tale is so judiciously preserved by the narrator, was a bettermedium for communicating such a tale than wouldhave been the form of Ossian, could he have arisenfrom the dead on purpose.HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 287It may, however, be truly said of the muse of romantic fiction;" Mille habet ornatus. 99The Professor Musaeus, and others of what we maycall his school, conceiving, perhaps, that the simplicity of the unadorned popular legend was like toobstruct its popularity, and feeling, as we formerlyobserved, that though individual stories are sometimes exquisitely impressive, yet collections of thiskind were apt to be rather bald and heavy, employed their talents in ornamenting them withincident, in ascribing to the principal agents apeculiar character, and rendering the marvellousmore interesting by the individuality of those inwhose history it occurs. Two volumes were transcribed from the Volksmarchen of Musaeus by thelate Dr Beddoes, and published under the title ofPopular Tales ofthe Germans, which may affordthe English reader a good idea of the style of thatinteresting work. It may, indeed, be likened tothe Tales of Count Anthony Hamilton alreadymentioned, but there is great room for distinction.“Le Belier," and " Fleur d'Epine," are mere parodies arising out of the fancy, but indebted for theirinterest to his wit. Musaeus, on the other hand,takes the narration of the common legend, dressesit up after his own fashion, and describes, accordingto his own pleasure, the personages of his drama.Hamilton is a cook who compounds his wholebanquet out of materials used for the first time;Musaeus brings forward ancient traditions, likeyesterday's cold meat from the larder, and, by dint288 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.of skill and seasoning, gives it a new relish for themeal of to- day. Of course the merit of the rifacimento will fall to be divided in this case betwixtthe effect attained by the ground-work of the story,and that which is added by the art of the narrator.In the tale, for example, of the Child of Wonder,what may be termed the raw material is short,simple, and scarce rising beyond the wonders of anursery tale, but it is so much enlivened by thevivid sketch of the selfish old father who bartershis four daughters against golden eggs and sacksof pearls, as to give an interest and zest to the whole story. The Spectre Barber is anotherof these popular tales, which, in itself singular andfantastic, becomes lively and interesting from thecharacter ofa good- humoured, well-meaning, thicksculled burgher of Bremen, whose wit becomessharpened by adversity, till he learns gradually toimprove circ*mstances as they occur, and at lengthrecovers his lost prosperity by dint of courage,joined with some degree of acquired sagacity.A still different management of the wonderfuland supernatural has, in our days, revived theromance of the earlier age with its history and itsantiquities. The Baron de la Motte Fouqué hasdistinguished himself in Germany by a species ofwriting which requires at once the industry of thescholar, and the talents of the man of genius. Theefforts of this accomplished author aim at a highermood of composition than the more popular romancer. He endeavours to recall the history, the mythology, the manners of former ages, and to offerHOFFMANN'S novels. 289to the present time a graphic description of thosewhich have passed away. The travels of Thioldolf,for example, initiate the reader into that immensestorehouse of Gothic superstition which is to befound in the Edda and the Sagas of northernnations; and to render the bold, honest, courageouscharacter ofhis gallant young Scandinavian the morestriking, the author has contrasted it forcibly withthe chivalry of the south, over which he asserts itssuperiority. In some of his works the baron has,perhaps, been somewhat profuse of his historicaland antiquarian lore; he wanders where the readerhas not skill to follow him; and we lose interest inthe piece because we do not comprehend the scenesthrough which we are conducted. This is the casewith some of the volumes where the interest turnson the ancient German history, to understand which,a much deeper acquaintance with the antiquities ofthat dark period is required than is like to be foundin most readers. It would, we think, be a goodrule in this style of composition, were the author toconfine his historical materials to such as are eithergenerally understood as soon as mentioned, or atleast can be explained with brief trouble in such adegree as to make a reader comprehend the story.Of such happy and well- chosen subjects, the Baronde la Motte Fouqué has also shown great commandon other occasions. His story of Sintram and hisFollowers is in this respect admirable; and the taleof his Naiad, Nixie, or Water-Nymph, is exquisitely beautiful. The distress ofthe tale-and, thoughrelating to a fantastic being, it is real distress—VOL. XVIII. T290 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.arises thus. An elementary spirit renounces herright of freedom from human passion to becomethe spouse of a gallant young knight, who requitesher with infidelity and ingratitude. The story isthe contrast at once, and the pendant to the DiableAmoureux of Cazotte, but is entirely free from atone ofpolissonnerie which shocks good taste in itsvery lively prototype.The range of the romance, as it has been writtenby this profusely inventive author, extends throughthe half-illumined ages of ancient history into theCimmerian frontiers of vague tradition; and, whentraced with a pencil of so much truth and spirit asthat of Fouqué, affords scenes of high interest, andforms, it cannot be doubted, the most legitimatespecies of romantic fiction, approaching in somemeasure to the epic in poetry, and capable in a highdegree of exhibiting similar beauties.We have thus slightly traced the various modesin which the wonderful and supernatural may beintroduced into fictitious narrative; yet the attachment ofthe Germans to the mysterious has invented another species of composition, which, perhaps,could hardly have made its way in any other country or language. This may be called the FANTASTIC mode of writing,-in which the most wild andunbounded license is given to an irregular fancy,and all species of combination, however ludicrous,or however shocking, are attempted and executedwithout scruple. In the other modes of treatingthe supernatural, even that mystic region is subjected to some laws, however slight; and fancy, inHOFFMANN'S NOVELS.1291wandering through it, is regulated by some probabilities in the wildest flight. Not so in the fantastic style of composition, which has no restraint savethat which it may ultimately find in the exhaustedimagination of the author. This style bears thesame proportion to the more regular romance, whether ludicrous or serious, which Farce, or ratherPantomime, maintains to Tragedy and Comedy.Sudden transformations are introduced of the mostextraordinary kind, and wrought by the most inadequate means; no attempt is made to soften theirabsurdity, or to reconcile their inconsistencies; thereader must be contented to look upon the gambolsof the author as he would behold the flying leapsand incongruous transmutations of Harlequin, without seeking to discover either meaning or end further than the surprise of the moment.Our English severity of taste will not easilyadopt this wild and fantastic tone into our own literature; nay, perhaps will scarce tolerate it in translations. The only composition which approachesto it is the powerful romance of Frankenstein, andthere, although the formation of a thinking andsentient being by scientific skill is an incident ofthe fantastic character, still the interest of the workdoes not turn upon the marvellous creation of Fran- kenstein's monster, but upon the feelings and sentiments which that creature is supposed to expressas most natural-if we may use the phrase-to hisunnatural condition and origin. In other words,the miracle is not wrought for the mere wonder,but is designed to give rise to a train of acting and292 CRITICISM ON NOvels and rOMANCES.reasoning in itself just and probable, although thepostulatum on which it is grounded is in the highest degree extravagant. So far Frankenstein, therefore, resembles the Travels ofGulliver, which suppose the existence of the most extravagant fictions,in order to extract from them philosophical reasoning and moral truth. In such cases the admissionof the marvellous expressly resembles a sort ofentry-money paid at the door of a lecture-room,—it is a concession which must be made to the author,and for which the reader is to receive value inmoral instruction . But the fantastic of which weare now treating encumbers itself with no such conditions, and claims no farther object than to surprisethe public by the wonder itself. The reader is ledastray by a freakish goblin, who has neither end norpurpose in the gambols which he exhibits, and theoddity of which must constitute their own reward.The only instance we know of this species of wri- ting inthe English language, is the ludicrous sketchin Mr Geoffrey Crayon's tale of The Bold Dragoon, in which the furniture dances to the music ofa ghostly fiddler. The other ghost-stories of thiswell-known and admired author come within thelegitimate bounds which Glanville, and other graveand established authors, ascribe to the shadowyrealms of spirits; but we suppose Mr Crayon tohave exchanged his pencil in the following scene,in order to prove that the Pandours, as well as theregular forces of the ghostly world, were alike under his command:-"By the light of the fire he saw a pale, weason-faced fellow,HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 293in a long flannel gown, and a tall white night- cap with a tassel to it, who sat by the fire with a bellows under his arm by the wayof bagpipe, from which he forced the asthmatical music that hadbothered my grandfather. As he played, too, he kept twitching about with a thousand queer contortions, nodding his head, and bobbing about his tasselled night- cap." From the opposite side of the room, a long-backed, bandylegged chair, covered with leather, and studded all over in a cox- combical fashion with little brass nails, got suddenly into motion,thrust out first a claw- foot, then a crooked arm, and at lengthmaking a leg, slided gracefully up to an easy chair of tarnishedbrocade, with a hole in its bottom, and led it gallantly out in aghostly minuet about the floor." The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and bobbed hishead and his night- cap about like mad. By degrees, the dancing mania seemed to seize upon all the other pieces of furniture.The antique long-bodied chairs paired off in couples and led down a country- dance; a three - legged stool danced a hornpipe, thoughhorribly puzzled by its supernumerary leg; while the amorous tongs seized the shovel round the waist, and whirled it about the room in a German waltz. In short, all the movables got inmotion, pirouetting, hands across, right and left, like so manydevils all except a great clothes- press, which kept curtseying and curtseying in a corner like a dowager, in exquisite time tothe music; being rather too corpulent to dance, or, perhaps, at a loss for a partner.'" 1This slight sketch, from the hand of a master,is all that we possess in England corresponding tothe Fantastic style of composition which we arenow treating of. Peter Schlemil, The Devil'sElixir, and other German works of the same character, have made it known to us through themedium of translation. The author who led theway in this department of literature was ErnestTheodore William Hoffmann; the peculiarity ofwhose genius, temper, and habits, fitted him to distinguish himself where imagination was to beWashington Irving's Tales ofa Traveller, vol. i.1294 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.strained to the pitch of oddity and bizarrerie. He appears to have been a man of rare talent, -a poet,an artist, and a musician, but unhappily of a hypochondriac and whimsical disposition, which carriedhim to extremes in all his undertakings; so hismusic became capricious, -his drawings carica- tures, and his tales, as he himself termed them,fantastic extravagances. Bred originally to thelaw, he at different times enjoyed, under the Prussian and other governments, the small appointments of a subordinate magistrate; at other timeshe was left entirely to his own exertions, and supported himself as a musical composer for the stage,as an author, or as a draughtsman. The shifts, theuncertainty, the precarious nature of this kind ofexistence, had its effect, doubtless, upon a mindwhich nature had rendered peculiarly susceptibleof elation and depression; and a temper, in itselfvariable, was rendered more so by frequent changeof place and of occupation, as well as by the uncer- tainty of his affairs. He cherished his fantasticgenius also with wine in considerable quantity, andindulged liberally in the use of tobacco. Even hisoutward appearance bespoke the state of his nervous system: a very little man with a quantity ofdark-brown hair, and eyes looking through his elflocks, that" E'en like grey goss-hawk's stared wild, "indicated that touch of mental derangement, ofwhich he seems to have been himself conscious,when entering the following fearful memorandumin his diary:-HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 29566 Why, in sleeping and in waking, do I, in my thoughts,dwell upon the subject of insanity? The out- pouring of the wild ideas that arise in my mind may perhaps operate like the breathing of a vein. ”8Circ*mstances arose also in the course of Hoffmann's unsettled and wandering life, which seemedto his own apprehension to mark him as one who66 was not in the roll of common men." These circ*mstances had not so much of the extraordinaryas his fancy attributed to them. For example; hewas present at deep play in a watering-place, incompany with a friend, who was desirous to venturefor some of the gold which lay upon the table.Betwixt hope of gain and fear of loss, distrustingat the same time his own luck, he at length thrustinto Hoffmann's hand six gold pieces, and requestedhim to stake for him. Fortune was propitious tothe young visionary, though he was totally inexperienced in the game, and he gained for his friendabout thirty Fredericks d'or. The next eveningHoffmann resolved to try fortune on his ownaccount. This purpose, he remarks, was not a previous determination, but one which was suddenlysuggested by a request of his friend to undertakethe charge of staking a second time on his behalf.He advanced to the table on his own account, anddeposited on one of the cards the only two Fre- dericks d'or of which he was possessed. If Hoffmann's luck had been remarkable on the formeroccasion, it now seemed as if some supernaturalpower stood in alliance with him. Every attemptwhich he made succeeded-every card turned uppropitiously.296 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.66 My senses," he says, " became unmanageable, and as moreand more gold streamed in upon me, it seemed as I were in adream, out of which I only awaked to pocket the money. Theplay was given up, as is usual, at two in the morning. In the moment when I was about to leave the room, an old officerlaid his hand upon my shoulder, and, regarding me with a fixedand severe look, said, Young man, if you understand this busi- ness so well, the bank, which maintains free table, is ruined;but if you do so understand the game, reckon upon it securely that the devil will be as sure of you as of all the rest of them. 'Without waiting an answer, he turned away. The morning was dawning when I came home, and emptied from every pocket heaps of gold on the table. Imagine the feelings of a lad in astate of absolute dependence, and restricted to a small sum ofpocket-money, who finds himself, as if by a thunder- clap , placed in possession of a sum enough to be esteemed absolute wealth,at least for the moment! But while I gazed on the treasure, mystate of mind was entirely changed by a sudden and singular agony so severe, as to force the cold sweat-drops from my brow.The words of the old officer now, for the first time, rushed uponmymind in their fullest and most terrible acceptation . It seemedto me as if the gold, which glittered upon the table, was the earnest of a bargain by which the Prince of Darkness hadobtained possession of my soul, which never more could escape eternal destruction . It seemed as if some poisonous reptile wassucking my heart's blood, and I felt myself fall into an abyss of despair. "Then the ruddy dawn began to gleam throughthe window, wood and plain were illuminated byits beams, and the visionary begun to experiencethe blessed feeling of returning strength, to combatwith temptations, and to protect himself against theinfernal propensity, which must have been attendedwith total destruction. Under the influence of suchfeelings, Hoffmann formed a vow never again totouch a card, which he kept till the end of his life." The lesson of the officer," says Hoffmann, " wasgood, and its effect excellent." But the peculiarHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 297disposition of Hoffmann made it work upon hismind more like an empiric's remedy than that of aregular physician. He renounced play less fromthe conviction of the wretched moral consequencesof such a habit, than because he was actually afraidof the Evil Spirit in person.In another part of his life Hoffmann had occasion to show, that his singularly wild and inflatedfancy was not accessible to that degree of timidityconnected with insanity, and to which poets, asbeing of " imagination all compact," are sometimessupposed to be peculiarly accessible. The authorwas in Dresden during the eventful period whenthe city was nearly taken by the allies, but preserved by the sudden return of Buonaparte and hisguards from the frontiers of Silesia. He then sawthe work of war closely carried on, venturing withinfifty paces of the French sharp- shooters while skirmishing with those of the allies in front of Dresden.He had experience of a bombardment: one of theshells exploding before the house in which Hoffmann and Keller, the comedian, with bumpers intheir hands to keep up their spirits, watched theprogress of the attack from an upper window. Theexplosion killed three persons; Keller let his glassfall, -Hoffmann had more philosophy; he tossedoff his bumper and moralized: " What is life!"said he, " and how frail the human frame that cannot withstand a splinter of heated iron! " He sawthe field of battle when they were cramming withnaked corpses the immense fosses which form thesoldier's grave; the field covered with the dead298 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.and the wounded, -with horses and men; powderwaggons which had exploded, broken weapons,schakos, sabres, cartridge- boxes, and all the relicsof a desperate fight. He saw, too, Napoleon inthe midst of his triumph, and heard him ejacul*teto an adjutant, with the look and the deep voice ofthe lion, the single word " Voyons." It is muchto be regretted that Hoffmann preserved but fewmemoranda of the eventful weeks which he spentat Dresden during this period, and of which histurn for remark and powerful description wouldhave enabled him to give so accurate a picture.In general, it may be remarked of descriptionsconcerning warlike affairs, that they resemble plansrather than paintings; and that, however calculatedto instruct the tactician, they are little qualified tointerest the general reader. A soldier, particularly,if interrogated upon the actions which he has seen,is much more disposed to tell them in the dry andabstracted style of a gazette, than to adorn themwith the remarkable and picturesque circ*mstances which attract the general ear. This arises fromthe natural feeling, that, in speaking of what theyhave witnessed in any other than a dry and affectedprofessional tone, they may be suspected of a desire to exaggerate their own dangers, -a suspicionwhich, of all others, a brave man is most afraid ofincurring, and which, besides, the present spirit ofthe military profession holds as amounting to badtaste. It is, therefore, peculiarly unfortunate, thatwhen a person unconnected with the trade of war,yet well qualified to describe its terrible peculiari1HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 299ties, chances to witness events so remarkable asthose to which Dresden was exposed in the memorable 1813, he should not have made a register ofwhat could not have failed to be deeply interesting.The battle of Leipsic, which ensued shortly after,as given to the public by an eyewitness-M. Shoberl, if we recollect the name aright-is an exampleof what we might have expected from a person ofHoffmann's talents, giving an account of his personal experience respecting the dreadful eventswhich he witnessed. We could willingly havespared some of his grotesque works of diablerie,if we had been furnished, in their place, with thegenuine description of the attack upon, and theretreat from Dresden, by the allied army, in themonth of August, 1813. It was the last decisiveadvantage which was obtained by Napoleon, andbeing rapidly succeeded by the defeat of Vandamme, and the loss of his whole corps d'armée,was the point from which his visible declensionmight be correctly dated. Hoffmann was also ahigh- spirited patriot,—a true, honest, thoroughbred German, who had set his heart upon theliberation of his country, and would have narratedwith genuine feeling the advantages which sheobtained over her oppressor. It was not, however,his fortune to attempt any work, however slight, ofan historical character, and the retreat ofthe Frencharmy soon left him to his usual habits of literaryindustry and convivial enjoyment.It may, however, be supposed, that an imagination which was always upon the stretch received a300 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.new impulse from the scenes of difficulty and danger through which our author had so lately passed .Another calamity of a domestic nature must alsohave tended to the increase of Hoffmann's morbidsensibility. During a journey in a public carriage,it chanced to be overturned, and the author's wifesustained a formidable injury on the head, by whichshe was a sufferer for a length of time.All these circ*mstances, joined to the naturalnervousness of his own temper, tended to throwHoffmann into a state of mind very favourable, perhaps, to the attainment of success in his own peculiar mode of composition, but far from being suchas could consist with that right and well-balancedstate of human existence, in which philosophershave been disposed to rest the attainment of thehighest possible degree of human happiness. Nerveswhich are accessible to that morbid degree ofacuteness, by which the mind is incited, not onlywithout the consent of our reason, but even contrary to its dictates, fall under the condition deprecated in the beautiful Ode to Indifference:" Nor peace, nor joy, the heart can know,Which, like the needle, true,Turns at the touch ofjoy or wo,But, turning, trembles too. "The pain which in one case is inflicted by an unduedegree of bodily sensitiveness, is in the other theconsequence of our own excited imagination; noris it easy to determine in which the penalty of toomuch acuteness or vividness of perception is mostseverely exacted. The nerves of Hoffmann inHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 301particular, were strung to the most painful pitchwhich can be supposed. A severe nervous fever,about the year 1807, had greatly increased thefatal sensibility under which he laboured, whichacting primarily on the body, speedily affected themind. He had himself noted a sort of graduatedscale concerning the state of his imagination, which,like that of a thermometer, indicated the exaltationof his feelings up to a state not far distant, probably,from that of actual mental derangement. It is not,perhaps, easy to find expressions corresponding inEnglish to the peculiar words under which Hoffmann classified his perceptions: but we may observethat he records, as the humour of one day, a deepdisposition towards the romantic and religious; ofa second, the perception of the exalted or excitedhumorous; of a third, that of the satirical humorous;of a fourth, that of the excited or extravagant musical sense; ofa fifth, a romantic mood turned towardsthe unpleasing and the horrible; on a sixth, bittersatirical propensities excited to the most romantic,capricious, and exotic degree; of a seventh, a stateof quietism of mind open to receive the most beautiful, chaste, pleasing, and imaginative impressionsofa poetical character; of an eighth, a mood equallyexcited, but accessible only to ideas the mostunpleasing, the most horrible, the most unrestrained at once and most tormenting. At othertimes, the feelings which are registered by thisunfortunate man of genius, are of a tendencyexactly the opposite to those which he marks ascharacteristic of his state of nervous excitement.302 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.They indicate a depression of spirits, a mentalcallousness to those sensations to which the mind isat other times most alive, accompanied with thatmelancholy and helpless feeling which alwaysattends the condition of one who recollects formerenjoyments in which he is no longer capable oftaking pleasure. This species of moral palsy is,we believe, a disease which more or less affectsevery one, from the poor mechanic who finds thathis hand, as he expresses it, is out, that he cannotdischarge his usual task with his usual alacrity, tothe poet whose muse deserts him when perhaps hemost desires her assistance. In such cases wisem*n have recourse to exercise or change of study;the ignorant and infatuated seek grosser means ofdiverting the paroxysm. But that which is to theperson whose mind is in a healthy state, but atransitory though disagreeable feeling, becomes anactual disease in such minds as that of Hoffmann,which are doomed to experience, in too vivid perceptions in alternate excess, but far most often andlongest in that which is painful-the influence ofan over excited fancy. It is minds so conformed towhich Burton applies his abstract of Melancholy,giving alternately the joys and the pains whicharise from the influence of the imagination. Theverses are so much to the present purpose, that wecannot better describe this changeful and hypochondriac system of mind than by inserting them:" When to myself I act and smile,With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,By a brook-side or wood so green,Unheard, unsought for, and unseen,HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 303A thousand pleasures do me bless,And crown my soul with happiness;All my joys besides are folly,None so sweet as Melancholy." When I lye, sit, or walk alone,I sigh, I grieve, making great moan,In a dark grove, or irksome den,With discontents and furies; then A thousand miseries at onceMine heavy heart and soul ensconce;All my griefs to this arejolly,None so sour as Melancholy." Methinks I hear, methinks I see,Sweet music, wonderous melody,Towns, palaces, and cities fine;Here now, then, then, the world is mine,Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,Whate'er is lovely or divine;All other joys to this are folly,None so sweet as Melancholy." Methinks I hear, methinks I seeGhosts, goblins, fiends; my phantasie Presents a thousand ugly shapes,Headless bears, black men and apes,Doleful outcries and fearful sightsMy sad and dismal soul affrights;All my griefs to this are jolly,None so damn'd as Melancholy. "In the transcendental state of excitation describedin these verses, the painful and gloomy mood ofthe mind is, generally speaking, of much more common occurrence than that which is genial, pleasing,or delightful. Every one who chooses attentivelyto consider the workings of his own bosom, mayeasily ascertain the truth of this assertion , whichindeed appears a necessary accompaniment of theimperfect state of humanity, which usually presentsto us, in regard to anticipation of the future, so304 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.much more that is unpleasing than is desirable; inother words, where fear has a far less limited reignthan the opposite feeling of hope. It was Hoffmann's misfortune to be peculiarly sensible of theformer passion, and almost instantly to combinewith any pleasing sensation, as it arose, the idea ofmischievous or dangerous consequences. His biographer has given a singular example of this unhappy disposition, not only to apprehend the worstwhen there was real ground for expecting evil, butalso to mingle such apprehension capriciously andunseasonably, with incidents which were in them- selves harmless and agreeable. " The devil," hewas wont to say, "will put his hoof into everything, how good soever in the outset." A triflingbut whimsical instance will best ascertain the natureof this unhappy propensity to expect the worst.Hoffmann, a close observer of nature, chanced oneday to see a little girl apply to a market-woman'sstall to purchase some fruit which had caught her eye and excited her desire. The wary traderwished first to know what she was able to expendon the purchase; and when the poor girl, a beautiful creature, produced with exultation and pridea very small piece of money, the market- womangave her to understand that there was nothing upon her stall which fell within the compass of her cus- tomer's purse. The poor little maiden, mortifiedand affronted, as well as disappointed, was retiringwith tears in her eyes, when Hoffmann called herback, and arranging matters with the dealer, filledthe child's lap with the most beautiful fruit. YetHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 305he had hardly time to enjoy the idea that he hadaltered the whole expression of the juvenile countenance from mortification to extreme delight andhappiness, than he became tortured with the ideathat he might be the cause of the child's death,since the fruit he had bestowed upon it might occasion a surfeit or some other fatal disease. Thispresentiment haunted him until he reached thehouse of a friend, and it was akin to many whichpersecuted him during life, never leaving him toenjoy the satisfaction of a kind or benevolent action,and poisoning with the vague prospect of imaginaryevil whatever was in its immediate tendency productive of present pleasure or promising futurehappiness.We cannot here avoid contrasting the characterof Hoffmann with that of the highly imaginativepoet Wordsworth, many of whose smaller poemsturn upon a sensibility affected by such small incidents as that above mentioned, with this remarkabledifference—that the virtuous, and manly, and wellregulated disposition of the author leads him toderive pleasing, tender, and consoling reflectionsfrom those circ*mstances which induced Hoffmannto anticipate consequences of a different character.Such petty incidents are passed noteless over bymen of ordinary minds. Observers of poeticalimagination, like Wordsworth and Hoffmann, arethe chemists who can distil them into cordials orpoisons.We do not mean to say that the imagination ofHoffmann was either wicked or corrupt, but onlyVOL. XVIII. U306 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Rthat it was ill -regulated, and had an undue tendencyto the horrible and the distressing. Thus he wasfollowed, especially in his hours of solitude andstudy, by the apprehension of mysterious dangerto which he conceived himself exposed; and thewhole tribe of demi-gorgons, apparitions, and fanciful spectres and goblins of all kinds with whichhe has filled his pages, although in fact the childrenof his own imagination, were no less discomposingto him than if they had had a real existence and actual influence upon him. The visions which hisfancy excited are stated often to be so lively, thathe was unable to endure them; and in the night,which was often his time of study, he was accustomed frequently to call his wife up from bed, thatshe might sit by him while he was writing, andprotect him by her presence from the phantomsconjured up by his own excited imagination.Thus was the inventor, or at least first distinguished artist who exhibited the fantastic or supernatural grotesque in his compositions, so nearly on the verge of actual insanity, as to be afraid of thebeings his own fancy created.It is no wonder thatto a mind so vividly accessible to the influence ofthe imagination, so little under the dominion ofsober reason, such a numerous train of ideas shouldoccur in which fancy had a large share and reasonnone at all. In fact, the grotesque in his compositions partly resembles the arabesque in painting,in which is introduced the most strange and complicated monsters, resembling centaurs, griffins,sphinxes, chimeras, rocs, and all other creatures ofHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 307romantic imagination, dazzling the beholder as itwere by the unbounded fertility of the author'simagination, and sating it by the rich contrast ofall the varieties of shape and colouring, while thereis in reality nothing to satisfy the understandingor inform the judgment. Hoffmann spent his life,which could not be a happy one, in weaving websof this wild and imaginative character, for whichafter all he obtained much less credit with the public, than his talents must have gained if exercisedunder the restraint of a better taste or a more solidjudgment. There is much reason to think that hislife was shortened not only by his mental malady,of which it is the appropriate quality to impededigestion and destroy the healthful exercise of thepowers ofthe stomach, but also by the indulgencesto which he had recourse in order to secure himselfa*gainst the melancholy, which operated so deeplyupon the constitution of his mind. This was themore to be regretted, as, notwithstanding the dreamsof an overheated imagination, by which his tasteappears to have been so strangely misled, Hoffmannseems to have been a man of excellent disposition,a close observer of nature, and one who, if thissickly and disturbed train of thought had not ledhim to confound the supernatural with the absurd,would have distinguished himself as a painter ofhuman nature, of which in its realities he was anobserver and an admirer.Hoffmann was particularly skilful in depictingcharacters arising in his own country of Germany.Nor is there any of her numerous authors who have308 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES."better and more faithfully designed the uprighthonesty and firm integrity which is to be met within all classes which come from the ancient Teutonic stock. There is one character in particular inthe tale called " Der Majorat ”—the Entail-whichis perhaps peculiar to Germany, and which makesa magnificent contrast to the same class of personsas described in romances, and as existing perhapsin real life in other countries. The justiciaryB- bears about the same office in the family ofthe Baron Roderick von R a nobleman possessed of vast estates in Courland, which the generally-known Bailie Macwheeble occupied on theland of the Baron of Bradwardine. The justiciary,for example, was the representative of the seigneurin his feudal courts of justice; he superintendedhis revenues, regulated and controlled his household, and from his long acquaintance with the affairsof the family, was entitled to interfere both withadvice and assistance in any case of peculiar necessity. In such a character, the Scottish authorhas permitted himself to introduce a strain of theroguery supposed to be incidental to the inferiorclasses of the law,-maybe no unnatural ingredient. The bailie is mean, sordid, a trickster,and a coward, redeemed only from our dislike andcontempt by the ludicrous qualities of his character, by a considerable degree of shrewdness, andby the species of almost instinctive attachment tohis master and his family, which seem to overbalance in quality the natural selfishness of his disposition. The justiciary of R is the very reverseHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 309of this character. He is indeed an original: havingthe peculiarities of age and some of its satiricalpeevishness; but in his moral qualities he is welldescribed by La Motte Fouqué, as a hero of ancientdays in the night-gown and slippers of an old lawyer of the present age. The innate worth, independence, and resolute courage of the justiciaryseem to be rather enhanced than diminished by hiseducation and profession, which naturally infers anaccurate knowledge of mankind, and which, ifpractised without honour and honesty, is the basestand most dangerous fraud which an individual canput upon the public. Perhaps a few lines ofCrabbe may describe the general tendency of thejusticiary's mind, although marked, as we shallshow, by loftier traits of character than those whichthe English poet has assigned to the worthy attorney of his borough:-" He, roughly honest, has been long a guideIn borough business on the conquering side;And seen so much of both sides and so long,He thinks the bias of man's mind goes wrong:Thus, though he's friendly, he is still severe,Surly, though kind, suspiciously sincere:So much he's seen of baseness in the mind,That while a friend to man, he scorns mankind;He knows the human heart, and sees with dreadBy slight temptation how the strong are led;He knows how interest can asunder rendThe bond of parent, master, guardian, friend,To form a new and a degrading tie'Twixt needy vice and tempting villany. "The justiciary of Hoffmann, however, is of ahigher character than the person distinguished byCrabbe. Having known two generations of the310 CRITICISM ON NOvels and rOMANCES.baronial house to which he is attached, he hasbecome possessed of their family secrets, some ofwhich are of a mysterious and terrible nature.This confidential situation, but much more thenobleness and energy of his own character, givesthe old man a species of authority even over hispatron himself, although the baron is a person ofstately manners, and occasionally manifests a fierceand haughty temper. It would detain us too longto communicate a sketch of the story, though it is ,in our opinion, the most interesting contained inthe reveries of the author. Something, however,we must say to render intelligible the brief extractswhich it is our purpose to make, chiefly to illustratethe character of the justiciary.The principal part of the estate of the baronconsisted in the Castle of Rsitten, a majorat,or entailed property, which gives nameto the story,and which, as being such, the baron was under thenecessity of making his place of residence for acertain number of weeks in every year, althoughit had nothing inviting in its aspect or inhabitants.It was a huge old pile, overhanging the Baltic sea,silent, dismal, almost uninhabited, and surrounded,instead of gardens and pleasure-grounds, by forestsof black pines and firs, which came up to its verywalls. The principal amusem*nt of the baronand his guests was to hunt the wolves and bearswhich tenanted these woods during the day, and toconclude the evening with a boisterous sort of festivity, in which the efforts made at passionate mirthand hilarity showed that, on the baron's side atHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 311least, they did not actually exist. Part of the castlewas in ruins; a tower built for the purpose ofastrology by one of its old possessors, the founderof the majorat in question, had fallen down, andby its fall made a deep chasm, which extended fromthe highest turret down to the dungeon of thecastle. The fall of the tower had proved fatal tothe unfortunate astrologer; the abyss which itoccasioned was no less so to his eldest son. Therewas a mystery about the fate of the last, and allthe facts known or conjectured respecting the causeof his fatal end were the following.The baron had been persuaded by some expressions of an old steward, that treasures belonging tothe deceased astrologer lay buried in the gulf whichthe tower had created by its fall. The entrance tothis horrible abyss lay from the knightly hall of thecastle, and the door, which still remained there,had once given access to the stair of the tower,but since its fall only opened on a yawning gulf fullof stones. At the bottom of this gulf the secondbaron, of whom we speak, was found crushed todeath, holding a wax-light fast in his hand. It wasimagined he had risen to seek a book from a librarywhich also opened from the hall, and, mistakingthe one door for the other, had met his fate by falling into the yawning gulf. Of this, however, therecould be no certainty.This double accident, and the natural melancholy attached to the place, occasioned the presentBaron Roderick residing so little there; but thetitle under which he held the estate laid him under312 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.the necessity of making it his residence for a fewweeks every year. About the same time when hetook up his abode there, the justiciary was accustomed to go thither for the purpose of holdingbaronial courts, and transacting his other officialbusiness. When the tale opens he sets out uponhis journey to R― sitten, accompanied by anephew, the narrator of the tale, a young man,entirely new to the world, trained somewhat in theschool of Werter, -romantic, enthusiastic, withsome disposition to vanity,-a musician, a poet,and a coxcomb; upon the whole, however, a verywell-disposed lad, with great respect for his granduncle, the justiciary, by whom he is regarded withkindness, but also as a subject of raillery. Theold man carries him along with him, partly to assistin his professional task, partly that he might getsomewhat case- hardened by feeling the cold windof the north whistle about his ears, and undergoing the fatigue and dangers of a wolf-hunt.They reach the old castle in the midst of a snowstorm, which added to the dismal character of theplace, and which lay piled thick up against the verygate by which they should enter. All knocking ofthe postilion was in vain; and here we shall let Hoffmann tell his own story." The old man then raised his powerful voice: Francis!Francis! where are you then? be moving; we freeze here at thedoor: the snow is peeling our faces raw; be stirring; —the devil! ' A watch- dog at length began to bark, and a wanderinglight was seen in the lower story of the building, -keys rattled,and at length the heavy folding-doors opened with difficulty.A fair welcome t'ye in this foul weather! ' said old Francis,HOFFMANN'S novels. 313holding the lantern so high as to throw the whole light upon his shrivelled countenance, the features of which were twisted into asmile of welcome; the carriage drove into the court, we left it,and I was then for the first time aware that the ancient domesticwas dressed in an old -fashioned, läger-livery, adorned with various loops and braids of lace. Only one pair of grey locks now remained upon his broad white forehead; the lower part of hisface retained the colouring proper to the hardy huntsman; and, inspite of the crumpled muscles which writhed the countenance into something resembling a fantastic mask, there was an air of stupid yet honest kindness and good- humour, which glanced from his eyes, played around his mouth, and reconciled you to hisphysiognomy.6666' Well, old Frank! ' said my great uncle, as, entering the antechamber, he shook the snow from his pelisse, well, old man, is all ready in my apartments? Have the carpets beenbrushed, the beds properly arranged, -and good fires kept in my room yesterday and to-day? ' ' No! ' answered Frank withgreat composure, no, worthy sir! not a bit of all that has beendone.'-' Good God! ' said my uncle, ' did not I write in good time, and do I not come at the exact day? Was ever such apiece of stupidity? And now I must sleep in rooms as cold as ice! ' ' Indeed, worthy Mr Justiciary,' said Francis with great solemnity, while he removed carefully with the snuffers a glowing waster from the candle, flung it on the floor, and trod cautiously upon it, you must know that the airing would have been to nopurpose, for the wind and snow have driven in, in such quantitiesthrough the broken window-frames: so What! ' said myuncle, interrupting him, throwing open his pelisse, and placing both arms on his sides , ' what! the windows are broken, and you,who have charge of the castle, have not had them repaired? '-' That would have been done, worthy sir, ' answered Francis withthe same indifference, ' but people could not get rightly at themon account of the heaps of rubbish and stone that are lying in the apartment.'-' And how, in a thousand devils' names, ' saidmy great uncle, ' came rubbish and stones into my chamber? '-' God bless you, my young master, ' said the old man, episodi- cally to me, who happened at the moment to sneeze, then proceeded gravely to answer the justiciary, that the stones and rubbish were those of a partition-wall which had fallen in the last great tempest. ' What, the devil! have you had an earthquake?' said my uncle, angrily. 6 No, worthy sir, ' replied the314 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.old man, but three days ago the heavy paved roof of the justice- hall fell in with a tremendous crash. ' 'May the devilsaid my uncle, breaking out in a passion, and about to let fly aheavy oath; but suddenly checking himself, he lifted submissively his right hand towards heaven, while he moved with his left his fur cap from his forehead, was silent for an instant, then turned to me and spoke cheerfully: In good truth, kinsman, we had better hold our tongues and ask no further questions, else we shall only learn greater mishaps, or perhaps the whole castle may come down upon our heads. But, Frank, ' said he, howcould you be so stupid as not to get another apartment arranged and aired for me and this youth? Why did you not put some large room in the upper- story of the castle in order for the courtday? ' ' That is already done, ' said the old man, pointing kindly to the stairs, and beginning to ascend with the light. Now,only think of the old houlet, that could not say this at once,'said my uncle, while we followed the domestic. We passedthrough many long, high, vaulted corridors , —the flickering light carried by Francis throwing irregular gleams on the thick dark- ness; pillars, capitals, and arches of various shapes appeared to totter as we passed them; our own shadows followed us withgiant steps, and the singular pictures on the wall, across which these shadows passed, seemed to waver and to tremble, and their voices to whisper amongst the heavy echoes of our footsteps,saying- Wake us not, wake us not, the enchanted inhabitants of this ancient fabric! ' At length, after we had passed alongthe range of cold and dark apartments, Francis opened a saloon in which a large blazing fire received us with a merry crackling,resembling a hospitable welcome. I felt myself cheered on the instant I entered the apartment; but my great uncle remained standing in the middle of the hall, looked round him, and spoke with a very serious and almost solemn tone: This, then, mustbe our hall of justice! ' Francis raising the light so that it fell upon an oblong whitish patch of the large dark wall , which patch had exactly the size and form of a walled- up or condemned door,said in a low and sorrowful tone, Justice has been executed here before now.'-' How came you to say that, old man? ' said my uncle, hastily throwing the pelisse from his shoulders . The word escaped me, ' said Francis, as he lighted the candles on the table, and opened the door of a neighbouring apartment wheretwo beds were comfortably prepared for the reception of the guests. In a short time a good supper smoked before us in the6HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 315hall, to which succeeded a bowl of punch, mixed according tothe right northern fashion, and it may therefore be presumed none ofthe weakest. Tired with his journey, my uncle betookhimself to bed; but the novelty and strangeness of the situation,and even the excitement of the liquor I had drank, preventedme from thinking of sleep. The old domestic removed the suppertable, made up the fire in the chimney, and took leave of me after his manner with many a courteous bow." And now I was left alone in the wide high hall of chivalry; thehail- storm had ceased to patter, and the wind to howl; the sky was become clear without- doors, and the full moon streamedthrough the broad transome windows, illumining, as if by magic,all those dark corners of the singular apartment into which theimperfect light of the wax candles and the chimney- fire could not penetrate. As frequently happens in old castles, the walls androof of the apartment were ornamented—the former with heavy pannelling, the latter with fantastic carving, gilded and painted of different colours. The subjects chiefly presented the desperatehunting matches with bears and wolves, and the heads of theanimals, being in many cases carved, projected strangely from thepainted bodies, and even, betwixt the fluttering and uncertainlight of the moon and of the fire, gave a grisly degree of reality.Amidst these pieces were hung portraits, as large as life, ofknights striding forth in hunting- dresses, probably the chase- loving ancestors of the present baron. Every thing, whether ofpainting or of carving, showed the dark and decayed colours of times long passed, and rendered more conspicuous the blank and light-coloured part of the wall before noticed . It was in the middle space betwixt two doors which led off through the hallinto side- apartments, and I could now see that it must itself have been a door, built up at a later period, but not made to correspond with the rest of the apartment, either by being painted over or covered with carved work. Who knows not that anunwonted and somewhat extraordinary situation possesses a mysterious power over the human spirit? Even the dullest fancy will awake in a secluded valley surrounded with rocks, or within the walls of a gloomy church, and will be taught to expect, in such a situation, things different from those encountered in the ordinary course of human life. Conceive too that I was only alad of twenty years of age, and that I had drunk several glassesof strong liquor, and it may easily be believed that the knight's hall in which I sat made a singular impression on my spirit. The316 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.stillness of the night is also to be remembered-broken, as it was, only by the heavy waving of the billows of the sea, and thesolemn piping of the wind, resembling the tones of a mighty organ touched by some passing spirit; the clouds wandering across the moon, drifted along the arched windows, and seemedgiant shapes gazing through the rattling casem*nts; in short, in the slight shuddering which crept over me, I felt as if an unknown world was about to expand itself visibly before me. This feeling,however silly, only resembled the slight and not unpleasing shudder with which we read or hear a well-told ghost story. Itoccurred to me in consequence that I could find no more favourable opportunity for reading the work to which, like most young men of a romantic bias, I was peculiarly partial, and which I hap- pened to have in my pocket. It was the Ghost Seer' ofSchiller: I read-and read, and in doing so excited my fancy more and more, until I came to that part of the tale which seizeson the imagination with so much fervour, viz. the wedding feast in the house of the Count von B. Just at the verymomentwhen I arrived at the passage where the bloody spectre ofGironimo entered the wedding apartment, the door of the knight'shall, which led into an antechamber, burst open with a violent shock;-I started up with astonishment, and the book droppedfrom my hand; but, as in the same moment all was again still,I became ashamed of my childish terror; -it might be by theimpulse of the rushing night-wind , or by some other natural cause that the door was flung open. ' It is nothing,' I said aloud, myoverheated fancy turns the most natural accidents into the supernatural. ' Having thus re- assured myself, I picked up the book and again sat down in the elbow-chair; but then I heard something move in the apartment with measured steps, sighing at the same time, and sobbing in a manner which seemed to express atonce the extremity of inconsolable sorrow, and the most agoniz- ing pain which the human bosom could feel. I tried to believethat this could only be the moans of some animal enclosed somewhere near our part of the house, I reflected upon the mysterious power ofthe night, which makes distant sounds appear as if theywere close beside us, and I expostulated with myself for suffer- ing the sounds to affect me with terror. But as I thus debatedthe point, a sound like that of scratching mixed with louder anddeeper sighs, such as could only be extracted by the most acute mental agony, or during the parting pang of life, was indisputablyheard upon the very spot where the door appeared to have beenHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 317built up: ' Yet it can only be some poor animal in confinement -I shall call out aloud, or I shall stamp with my foot upon theground, and then either every thing will be silent, or the animal will make itself be known; ' so I purposed, but the blood stopped in my veins a cold sweat stood upon my forehead-I remainedfixed in my chair, not daring to rise , far less to call out. The hateful sounds at last ceased-the steps were again distinguished-it seemed as if life and the power of motion returned to meI started up and walked two paces forward, but in that moment an ice-cold night breeze whistled through the hall, and at the same time the moon threw a bright light upon the picture of a very grave,wellnigh terrible looking man, and it seemed to me as if I plainly heard a warning voice amid the deep roar of the sea and the shriller whistle of the night-wind speaking the warning, - No farther! No farther! Lest thou encounter the terrors of the spiritual world! ' The door now shut with the same violentclash with which it had burst open: I heard the sound of stepsretiring along the anteroom and descending the staircase the principal door of the castle was opened and shut with vio- lence; then it seemed as if a horse was led out of the stable, and,after a short time, as if it was again conducted back to its stall.After this, all was still, at the same time I became aware that my uncle in the neighbouring apartment was struggling in his sleep and groaned like a man afflicted with a heavy dream. I hastened to awake him, and when I had succeeded, I received his thanks for the service. Thou hast done well, kinsman, to awake me, 'he said; ' I have had a detestable dream, the cause of which is this apartment and the hall, which set me a thinking upon pasttimes and upon many extraordinary events which have here hap- pened. But now we shall sleep sound till morning."With morning the business of the justiciary'soffice began. But, abridging the young lawyer'sprolonged account of what took place, the mysticterror of the preceding evening retained so mucheffect on his imagination, that he was disposed tofind out traces of the supernatural in every thingwhich met his eyes; even two respectable oldladies, aunts of Baron Roderick von Rthe sole old fashioned inhabitants of the old fashion239.and318 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.ed castle, had in their French caps and furbelows aghostly and phantom-like appearance in his preju- diced eyes. The justiciary becomes disturbed bythe strange behaviour of his assistant; he entersinto expostulation upon the subject so soon as theywere in private:" What is the matter with you? ' he said; thou speakest not; thou eatest not; thou drinkest not; -art thou sick; or dost thou lack any thing? in short, what a fiend ails thee? ' Įembraced the opportunity to communicate all the horrible scenes of the preceding night; not even concealing from my grand uncle that I had drunk a good deal of punch, and had been reading 'the Ghost Seer' of Schiller. ' This, I must allow, ' I added,'because it is possible, that my toiling and overheated fancy might have created circ*mstances which had no other existence. 'I now expected that my kinsman would read me a sharp lecture on my folly, or treat me with some bitter jibes; but he did neither; he became very grave, looked long on the ground, then suddenly fixed a bold and glowing look upon me. Kinsman, ' said he, I am unacquainted with your book; but you have neither it nor the liquor to thank for the ghostly exhibition you have described. Know, that I had a dream to the self- same purpose.I thought I sat in the hall as thou didst; but whereas thou only heardest sounds, I beheld, with the eyes of my spirit, the appear- ances which these voices announced. Yes! I beheld the inhu- man monster as he entered, -saw him glide to the condemneddoor, -saw him scratch on the wall in comfortless despair until the blood burst from under his wounded nails; then I beheld him lead a horse from the stable, and again conduct it back; —didst thou not hear the co*ck crow in the distant village? it wasthen that thou didst awake me, and I soon got the better of the terrors by which this departed sinner is permitted to disturb the peace of human life .' The old man stopped, and I dared not ask further questions, well knowing he would explain the whole to me when it was proper to do so. After a space, during whichhe appeared wrapt in thought, my uncle proceeded: Kinsman,now that thou knowest the nature of this disturbance, hast thou the courage once more to encounter it, having me in thy com- pany?' It was natural that I should answer in the affirmative,HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 319the rather as I found myself mentally strengthened to the task:Then will we, ' proceeded the old man, ' watch together this ensuing night. There is an inward voice which tells me thiswicked spirit must give way, not so much to the force of my understanding, as to my courage, which is built upon a firm con- fidence in God. I feel, too, that it is no rash or criminal undertaking, but a bold and pious duty that I am about to discharge.When I risk body and life to banish the evil spirit who would drive the sons from the ancient inheritance of their fathers, it is in no spirit of presumption or vain curiosity: since, in the firm integrity of mind, and the pious confidence which lives within me,the most ordinary man is and remains a victorious hero. But should it be God's will that the wicked spirit shall have power over me, then shalt thou, kinsman, make it known that I died in honourable Christian combat with the hellish spectre which haunts this place. For thee, thou must keep thyself at a distance, and no ill will befall thee.'" The evening was spent in various kinds of employment; the supper was set as before in the knights' hall; the full moon shoneclear through the glimmering clouds; the billows of the sea roared; and the night- wind shook the rattling casem*nts. However inwardly excited, we compelled ourselves to maintain an indifferent conversation. The old man had laid his repeatingwatch on the table; it struck twelve, then the door flew open with a heavy crash, and, as on the former night, slow and lightfootsteps traversed the hall, and the sighs and groans were heard as before. My uncle was pale as death; but his eyes streamed with unwonted fire, and as he stood upright, his left arm droppedby his side and his right uplifted toward heaven, he had the air of a hero in the act of devotion. The sighs and groans becamelouder and more distinguishable, and the hateful sounds ofscratching upon the wall were again heard more odiously than on the former night. The old man then strode right forward towardsthe condemned door, with a step so bold and firm that the hall echoed back his tread. He stopped close before the spot wherethe ghostly sounds were heard yet more and more wildly, and spoke with a strong and solemn tone such as I never heard him before use: Daniel! Daniel! ' he said , what makest thou here at this hour? ' A dismal screech was the reply, and a sullenheavy sound was heard, as when a weighty burden is cast down upon the floor. ' Seek grace and mercy before the throne ofthe Highest! ' continued my uncle, with a voice even more320 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.authoritative than before, there is thy only place of appeal!Hence with thee out of the living world in which thou hast nolonger a portion! ' It seemed as if a low wailing was heard toglide through the sky and to die away in the roaring of the storm which began now to awaken. Then the old man stepped to thedoor of the hall and closed it with such vehemence that the wholeplace echoed. In his speech, in his gestures, there seemed something almost superhuman which filled me with a species of holy fear. As he placed himself in the arm- chair, the fixed sternnessof his rigid brow began to relax; his look appeared more clear;he folded his hands, and prayed internally. Some minutespassed away ere he said, with that mild tone which penetrates so deeply into the heart, the simple words, now kinsman? Overcome by horror, anxiety, holy reverence and love, I threw myself on my knees, and moistened with warm tears the hand which hestretched out to me; the old man folded me in his arms, and,after he had pressed me to his bosom with heartfelt affection, said,with a feeble and exhausted voice, now, kinsman, shall we sleep soft and undisturbed! ' 'The spirit returned no more. It was the ghost-as may have been anticipated-of a false domestic, by whose hand the former baron had been precipitated into the gulf which yawned behind the new wall so often mentioned in the narrative.The other adventures in the castle of R- -sittenare of a different cast, but strongly mark the powerofdelineating human character which Hoffmann possessed. Baron Roderick and his lady arrive at thecastle with a train of guests. The lady is young,beautiful, nervous, and full of sensibility, -fond ofsoft music, pathetic poetry, and walks by moonlight; the rude company of huntsmen by whichthe baron is surrounded, their boisterous sports inthe morning, and their no less boisterous mirth inthe evening, is wholly foreign to the disposition ofthe Baroness Seraphina, who is led to seek reliefHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 321in the society of the nephew of the justiciary, whocan make sonnets, repair harpsichords, sustain a partin an Italian duet, or in a sentimental conversation.In short, the two young persons, without positivelydesigning any thing wrong, are in a fair way ofrendering themselves guilty and miserable, werethey not saved from the snare which their passionwas preparing, bythe calm observation, strong sense,and satirical hints of our friend the justiciary.Itmay thereforebe saidof thispersonage, thathe possessesthattrueandhonourablecharacterwhichwe mayconceiveentitlinga mortalas wellto overcomethe malevolentattacksof evilbeingsfromtheotherworldas to stopandcontrolthecourseof moralevilin thatwe inhabit, andthe sentimentis of the highestorderby whichHoffmannascribesto unsulliedmasculinehonourandintegrity thatsameindemnityfromthepowerof evilwhichthe poetclaimsforfemalepurity

" Some say no evil thing that walks by night In fog, or fire, by lake or moorish fen,Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghostThat breaks his magic chain at curfew time,No goblin, nor swart faery of the mine,Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. "What we admire, therefore, in the extracts whichwe have given, is not the mere wonderful or terrible part of the story, though the circ*mstances arewell narrated; it is the advantageous light in whichit places the human character as capable of beingarmed with a strong sense of duty, and of opposingitself, without presumption but with confidence, toVOL. XVIII. X322 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.a power of which it cannot estimate the force, ofwhich it hath every reason to doubt the purpose,and at the idea of confronting which our naturerecoils.Before we leave the story of " The Entail," wemust notice the conclusion, which is beautifully told,and will recall to most readers who are past theprime of life, feelings which they themselves mustoccasionally have experienced. Many, many yearsafter the baronial race of R had become extinguished, accident brought the young nephew,now a man in advanced age, to the shores of theBaltic. It was night, and his eye was attracted bya strong light which spread itself along the horizon." What fire is that before us, postilion? ' said I. It is no fire,' answered he, it is the beacon light of R- sitten.' ' Of R- -sitten! ' He had scarce uttered the words, when the picture of the remarkable days which I had passed in that place arosein clear light in my memory. I saw the baron, —I saw Seraphi- na, -I saw the strange- looking old aunts, -I saw myself, with afair boyish countenance, out of which the mother's milk seemednot yet to have been pressed, my frock of delicate azure blue,my hair curled and powdered with the utmost accuracy, the very image of the lover sighing like a furnace, who tunes his sonnets to his mistress's eyebrows. Amidst a feeling of deep melancholy, fluttered like sparkles of light the recollection of the justiciary's rough jests, which appeared to me now much more plea- sant than when I was the subject of them. Next morning I visited the village, and made some enquiries after the baronial steward . With your favour, sir, ' said the postilion , taking the pipe out of his mouth, and touching his night-cap, there is here nobaronial steward; the place belongs to his Majesty, and the royal superintendent is still in bed. ' On farther questions, I learnedthat the Baron Roderick von Rhaving died without descend- ants, the entailed estate, according to the terms of the grant, had been vested in the crown. I walked up to the castle which laynow in a heap of ruins. An old peasant, who came out of theHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 323pine wood, informed me that a great part of the stones had been used to build the beacon-tower; he told me, too, of the spectre which in former times had haunted the spot, and asserted that when the moon was at the full, the voice of lamentation was stillheard among the ruins. "If the reader has, in a declining period of hislife, revisited the scenes of youthful interest, andreceived from the mouth of strangers an account ofthe changes which have taken place, he will not beindifferent to the simplicity of this conclusion.The passage which we have quoted, while itshows the wildness of Hoffmann's fancy, evincesalso that he possessed power which ought to havemitigated and allayed it. Unfortunately, his tasteand temperament directed him too strongly to thegrotesque and fantastic,-carried him too far " extramonia flammantia mundi," too much beyond thecircle not only of probability but even of possibility,to admit of his composing much in the better stylewhich he might easily have attained. The popularromance, no doubt, has many walks, nor are we atall inclined to halloo the dogs of criticism againstthose whose object is merely to amuse a passinghour. It may be repeated with truth, that in thispath of light literature, " tout genre est permis horsles genres ennuyeux," and of course, an error intaste ought not to be followed up and hunted downas if it were a false maxim in morality, a delusivehypothesis in science, or a heresy in religion itself.Genius too, is, we are aware, capricious, and mustbe allowed to take its own flights, however eccentric, were it but for the sake of experiment. Sometimes, also, it may be eminently pleasing to look at324 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.the wildness of an Arabesque painting executed bya man of rich fancy. But we do not desire to seegenius expand or rather exhaust itself upon themeswhich cannot be reconciled to taste; and the utmostlength in which we can indulge a turn to the fantastic is, where it tends to excite agreeable andpleasing ideas.We are not called upon to be equally tolerant ofsuch capriccios as are not only startling by theirextravagance, but disgusting by their horrible import. Moments there are, and must have been, inthe author's life, of pleasing as well as painful excitation; and the Champagne which sparkled in hisglass must have lost its benevolent influence if it didnot sometimes wake his fancy to emotions whichwere pleasant as well as whimsical. But as repeatedly the tendency of all overstrained feelingsis directed towards the painful, and the fits oflunacy, and the crisises of very undue excitementwhich approaches to it, are much more frequentlyof a disagreeable than of a pleasant character, it istoo certain, that we possess in a much greater degree the power of exciting in our minds what isfearful, melancholy, or horrible, than of commanding thoughts of a lively and pleasing character.The grotesque, also, has a natural alliance with thehorrible; for that which is out of nature can bewith difficulty reconciled to the beautiful. Nothing,for instance, could be more displeasing to the eyethan the palace of that crack-brained Italian prince,which was decorated with every species of monstrous sculptures which a depraved imaginationHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 325could suggest to the artist. The works of Callot,though evincing a wonderful fertility of mind, arein like manner regarded with surprise rather thanpleasure. If we compare his fertility with that ofHogarth, they resemble each other in extent; butin that of the satisfaction afforded by a close examination the English artist has wonderfully theadvantage. Every new touch which the observerdetects amid the rich superfluities of Hogarth is anarticle in the history of human manners, if not ofthe human heart; while, on the contrary, in examining microscopically the diablerie of Callot'spieces, we only discover fresh instances of ingenuity thrown away, and of fancy pushed into theregions of absurdity. The works of the one painterresemble a garden carefully cultivated, each nookof which contains something agreeable or useful;while those of the other are like the garden of thesluggard, where a soil equally fertile producesnothing but wild and fantastic weeds.Hoffmann has in some measure identified himselfwith the ingenious artist upon whom we have justpassed a censure by his title of “ Night Piecesafter the manner of Callot," and in order to writesuch a tale, for example, as that called " The Sandman," he must have been deep in the mysteries ofthat fanciful artist, with whom he might certainlyboast a kindred spirit. We have given an instanceof a tale in which the wonderful is, in our opinion,happily introduced, because it is connected with andapplied to human interest and human feeling, andillustrates with no ordinary force the elevation to326 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.which circ*mstances may raise the power and dignity of the human mind. The following narrativeis of a different class:" half horror and half whim,Like fiends in glee, ridiculously grim. "Nathaniel, the hero of the story, acquaints uswith the circ*mstances of his life in a letter addressed to Lothiar, the brother of Clara; the onebeing his friend, the other his betrothed bride.The writer is a young man of a fanciful and hypochondriac temperament, poetical and metaphysicalin an excessive degree, with precisely that state ofnerves which is most accessible to the influenceof imagination. He communicates to his friendand his mistress an adventure of his childhood.It was, it seems, the custom of his father, an honestwatchmaker, to send his family to bed upon certain days earlier in the evening than usual, andthe mother in enforcing this observance used tosay, " To-bed, children, the Sandman is coming! "In fact, on such occasions, Nathaniel observedthat after their hour of retiring, a knock washeard at the door, a heavy step echoed on thestaircase, some person entered his father's apartments, and occasionally a disagreeable and suffocating vapour was perceptible through the house.This then was the Sandman; but what was hisoccupation and what was his purpose? The nursery-maid being applied to, gave a nursery- maid'sexplanation, that the Sandman was a bad man, whoflung sand in the eyes of little children who did notgo to bed. This increased the terror of the boy,HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 327but at the same time raised his curiosity. Hedetermined to conceal himself in his father's apartment and wait the arrival of the nocturnal visitor;he did so, and the Sandman proved to be no otherthan the lawyer Copelius, whom he had often seenin his father's company. He was a huge left- handed,splay-footed sort of personage, with a large nose,great ears, exaggerated features, and a sort of ogrelike aspect, which had often struck terror into thechildren before this ungainly limb of the law wasidentified with the terrible Sandman. Hoffmannhas given a pencil sketch of this uncouth figure, inwhich he has certainly contrived to represent something as revolting to adults as it might be terribleto children. He was received by the father witha sort of humble observance; a secret stove wasopened and lighted, and they instantly commencedchemical operations of a strange and mysteriousdescription, but which immediately accounted forthat species of vapour which had been perceptibleon other occasions. The gestures of the chemistsgrew fantastic, their faces, even that of the father,seemed to become wild and terrific as they prosecuted their labours; the boy became terrified,screamed, and left his hiding-place; -was detectedby the alchymist, for such Copelius was, whothreatened to pull out his eyes, and was with somedifficulty prevented by the father's interferencefrom putting hot ashes in the child's face. Nathaniel's imagination was deeply impressed by theterror he had undergone, and a nervous fever wasthe consequence, during which the horrible figure328 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.of the disciple of Paracelsus was the spectre whichtormented his imagination.After a long interval, and when Nathaniel wasrecovered, the nightly visits of Copelius to his pupilwere renewed, but the latter promised his wife thatit should be for the last time. It proved so, butnot in the manner which the old watchmaker meant.An explosion took place in the chemical laboratorywhich cost Nathaniel's father his life; his instructorin the fatal art, to which he had fallen a victim , wasno where to be seen. It followed from these incidents, calculated to make so strong an impressionupon a lively imagination, that Nathaniel washaunted through life by the recollections of thishorrible personage, and Copelius became in hismind identified with the evil principle.When introduced to the reader, the young manis studying at the university, where he is suddenlysurprised by the appearance of his old enemy, whonow personates an Italian or Tyrolese pedlar,dealing in optical glasses and such trinkets, and,although dressed according to his new profession,continuing under the Italianized name of GiuseppeCoppola to be identified with the ancient adversary.Nathaniel is greatly distressed at finding himselfunable to persuade either his friend or his mistressof the justice of the horrible apprehensions whichhe conceives ought to be entertained from the supposed identity of this terrible jurisconsult with hisdouble-ganger the dealer in barometers. He isalso displeased with Clara, because her clear andsound good sense rejects not only his metaphysicalHOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 329terrors, but also his inflated and affected strain ofpoetry. His mind gradually becomes alienated fromthe frank, sensible, and affectionate companion ofhis childhood, and he grows in the same proportionattached to the daughter of a professor calledSpalanzani, whose house is opposite to the windowsof his lodging. He has thus an opportunity offrequently remarking Olympia as she sits in herapartment; and although she remains there forhours without reading, working, or even stirring,he yet becomes enamoured of her extreme beautyin despite of the insipidity of so inactive a person.But much more rapidly does this fatal passion proceed when he is induced to purchase a perspectiveglass from the pedlar, whose resemblance was soperfect to his old object of detestation . Deceivedby the secret influence ofthe medium of vision, he becomes indifferent to what was visible to all otherswho approach Olympia, -to a certain stiffness ofmanner which made her walk as if bythe impulseof machinery, to a paucity of ideas which inducedher to express herself only in a few short butreiterated phrases, -in short, to all that indicatedOlympia to be what she ultimately proved, a mereliteral puppet, or automaton, created by the mechanical skill of Spalanzani, and inspired with anappearance of life by the devilish arts we maysuppose of the alchymist, advocate, and weatherglass seller Copelius, alias Coppola. At this extraordinary and melancholy truth the enamouredNathaniel arrives by witnessing a dreadful quarrelbetween the two imitators of Prometheus, while330 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.disputing their respective interests in the subject oftheir creative power. They uttered the wildestimprecations, and tearing the beautiful automatonlimb from limb, belaboured each other with thefragments of their clockwork figure. Nathaniel,not much distant from lunacy before, became franticon witnessing this horrible spectacle.But we should be mad ourselves were we totrace these ravings any further. The tale concludeswith the moon- struck scholar attempting to murderClara by precipitating her from a tower. The poorgirl being rescued by her brother, the lunaticremains alone on the battlements, gesticulatingviolently and reciting the gibberish which he hadacquired from Copelius and Spalanzani. At thismoment, and while the crowd below are devisingmeans to secure the maniac, Copelius suddenly appears among them, assures them that Nathanielwill presently come down of his own accord, andrealizes his prophecy by fixing on the latter a lookof fascination, the effect of which is instantly tocompel the unfortunate young man to cast himselfheadlong from the battlements.This wild and absurd story is in some measureredeemed by some traits in the character of Clara,whose firmness, plain good sense and frank affectionare placed in agreeable contrast with the wild imagination, fanciful apprehensions, and extravagantaffection of her crazy-pated admirer.It is impossible to subject tales of this nature tocriticism. They are not the visions of a poeticalmind, they have scarcely even the seeming authen-HOFFMANN'S NOVELS. 331ticity whichthe hallucinations oflunacy conveyto thepatient; they are the feverish dreams of a lightheaded patient, to which, though theymaysometimesexcite by their peculiarity, or surprise by theiroddity, we never feel disposed to yield more thanmomentary attention. In fact, the inspirations ofHoffmann so often resemble the ideas produced bythe immoderate use of opium, that we cannot helpconsidering his case as one requiring the assistanceof medicine rather than of criticism; and while weacknowledge that with a steadier command of hisimagination he might have been an author of thefirst distinction, yet situated as he was, and indulg- ing the diseased state of his own system, he appearsto have been subject to that undue vividness ofthought and perception of which the celebrated Nicolai became at once the victim and the conqueror.Phlebotomy and cathartics, joined to sound philosophy and deliberate observation, might, as in thecase of that celebrated philosopher, have brought toahealthy state a mind which we cannot help regarding as diseased, and his imagination soaring withan equal and steady flight might have reached thehighest pitch of the poetical profession.The death of this extraordinary person tookplace in 1822. He became affected with the disabling complaint called tabes dorsalis, which gradually deprived him of the power of his limbs.Even in this melancholy condition he dictatedseveral compositions, which indicate the force ofhis fancy, particularly one fragment entitled TheRecovery, in which are many affecting allusions to332 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.moments.the state of his own mental feelings at this period;and a novel called The Adversary, on which he hademployed himself even shortly before his lastNeither was the strength of his couragein any respect abated; he could enduré bodilyagony with firmness, though he could not bear thevisionary terrors of his own mind. The medicalpersons made the severe experiment whether byapplying the actual cautery to his back by means ofglowing iron, the activity of the nervous systemmight not be restored. He was so far from beingcast down by the torture of this medical martyrdom,that he asked a friend who entered the apartmentafter he had undergone it, whether he did not smellthe roasted meat. The same heroic spirit markedhis expressions, that " he would be perfectly contented to lose the use of his limbs, if he could butretain the power of working constantly by thehelp of an amanuensis." Hoffmann died at Berlin,upon the 25th June, 1822, leaving the reputationof a remarkable man, whose temperament andhealth alone prevented his arriving at a great heightof reputation, and whose works as they now existought to be considered less as models for imitationthan as affording a warning how the most fertilefancy may be exhausted by the lavish prodigalityof its possessor.[ 333 ]ARTICLE XI.THE OMEN.[The Omen. By JOHN GALT, Esq. Blackwood'sMagazine, July, 1824.]THE Muse of Fiction has of late considerablyextended her walk; and it will probably be admitted, that she has lent her counsel to authors ofgreater powers, and more extended information,than those who detailed the uninteresting MemoirsofJenny and JemmyJessamy, and the like tiresomepersons. The grave humour of Fielding-the broadcomedy of Smollett-the laboured pathos of Richardson-the sentiment of Mackenzie and Sterneare of course excluded from this comparison. Buteven these distinguished authors seem to have limited the subjects offictitious composition to imaginaryincidents in private life, and to displaying the influence of the ordinary passions of mankind-theworld in which they and their readers lived , couldshowparallel instances of the adventures narrated,and characters to match in some degree with thepersonages introduced. But the modern novelists,334 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.compelled, perhaps, by the success of their predecessors, to abandon a field where the harvest wasexhausted, have, many of them, chosen elsewheresubjects of a different description. We have nownovels which may take the old dramatic term ofChronicles; bringing real and often exalted persons on the stage; adorning historical events withsuch ornaments as their imagination can suggest;introducing fictitious characters among such as arereal, and assigning to those which are historical,qualities, speeches, and actions, which exist onlyin the writer's fancy. These historical novels mayoperate advantageously on the mind of two classesof readers; first, upon those whose attention tohistory is awakened by the fictitious narrative, andwhom curiosity stimulates to study, for the purpose of winnowing the wheat from the chaff, thetrue from the fabulous. Secondly, those who aretoo idle to read, save for the purpose of amusem*nt, may in these works acquire some acquaintance with history, which, however inaccurate, is better than none. If there is a third class, whosedelight in history is liable to be lessened by becoming habituated to the fairy-land of fiction, it mustbe confessed, that to them the historical romance ornovel runs risk of doing much harm. But thereaders liable to suffer by this perversion, are supposed to be but few in number, or, indeed, to mergealmost entirely in the second class, since the difference is but nominal betwixt those who readnovels, because they dislike history-and those whodislike history, because they read novels.THE OMEN. 335It is not, however, of historical novels that weare now about to speak, but of another species ofthese productions which has become popular in thepresent day, and of which the interest turns lessupon the incidents themselves, than upon the peculiar turn of mind of the principal personage who isactive or passive under them, and which characteris not like Mackenzie's Man of Feeling, a picture improved from nature, but has something in itso exaggerated, as to approach the verge of thegrotesque or unnatural. In such works, it is thecharacter of the individual, not the events of thetale, which constitute the charm of the writing.There is a strong resemblance betwixt the novelof character, and what was called, in the seventeenth century, plays of humour, when the interestconsisted in observing how particular incidentsworked upon those of the dramatis personæ, towhom was assigned a natural or acquired peculiarity of sentiment and taste, which made themconsider matters under a different light from thatin which they appeared to mankind in general.The Morose of Ben Jonson, whose passion itis to have every thing silent around him, the Volpone, and almost all the principal characters of thatable and learned dramatist, are influenced by someover-mastering humour, which, like the supposedinfluence of the planet under which he was born,sways and biasses the individual, and makes himunlike to the rest of his species even in the eventsmost common to humanity.Mr Godwin has been one of the masters in the336 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.novel of character,-a title which we rather choosethan that of humour, which has now acquired analmost exclusive comic meaning. The morbidsensibility of Fleetwood, and the restless speculating curiosity of Caleb Williams, are instancesofhis talent in that department. There is, perhaps,little general sympathy with the overstrained delicacies of Fleetwood, who, like Falkland in theSchoolfor Scandal, is too extravagant in his peculiarities to deserve the reader's pity. On theother hand, few there are who do not enter into andunderstand the workings of the mind of CalebWilliams, where the demon of curiosity, finding ayouth of an active and speculative disposition,without guide to advise, or business to occupy him,engages his thoughts and his time upon the task ofprying into a mystery which no way concernedhim, and which from the beginning he had a wellfounded conviction might prove fatal to him, shouldhe ever penetrate it. The chivalrous frenzy ofFalkland, in the same piece, though perhapsawkwardly united with the character of an assassin,that love of fame to which he sacrifices honour andvirtue, is another instance of a humour, or turn ofmind, which, like stained glass, colours with itsown peculiar tinge every object beheld by theparty.In the elegant little volume which forms thesubject of this article, we find another example ofthe novel of character, and indisputably a goodThetheme which he has chosen, as predominating in his hero's mind, a youth of a gentle,one.THE OMEN. 337melancholy, abstracted disposition, is a superstitionas connected with an anxious and feverish apprehension of futurity-a feeling which, though ridiculed at one time, reasoned down at another, andstubbornly denied upon all, has, in one shape orother, greater weight with most men than any iswilling to admit of himself, or ready to believe inanother.Men of the most different habits and charactersin other respects, resemble each other in the practice of nursing in secret some pet superstition, thebelief of which, though often painful to them, theycherish the more fondly in secret, that they darenot for shame avow it in public; so that manymore people than the world in general is aware of,hold similar opinions with that of a distinguishedsea- officer of our acquaintance, who, having expressed his general disbelief of all the legends ofDavy Jones, Flying Dutchmen, and other mysticterrors of the deep, summed up his general infidelity on the subject with these qualifying words, -"" one would not, to be sure, whistle in a gale ofwind."The reader will easily imagine that we do notallude to the superstition of the olden time, whichbelieved in spectres, fairies, and other supernaturalapparitions. These airy squadrons have been longrouted, and are banished to the cottage and thenursery. But there exists more than one speciesof superstition entirely distinct from that whichsees phantoms, a disease or weakness of the mindnot to be cured by Dr Alderson, or analyzed byVOL. XVIII. Y338 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Dr Hibbert-amongst which is pre-eminent thatwhich supposes our mind receives secret intimations of futurity by accidents which appear mysteriously indicative of coming events, by impulses towhich the mind seems involuntarily subjected, andwhich seem less to arise from its own reflections,than to be stamped and impressed on the thoughtsbythe agency of some separate being; -this constitutes the peculiar superstition of the hero of theOmen. The events which he meets are all of anatural and ordinary character in themselves; itis the sensations of the augur by whom they areinterpreted, which give them an ominous character.This tendency to gaze beyond the curtain whichdivides us from futurity, has been the weakness ofmany distinguished names. Buonaparte secretly believed in the influence of his star-Byron hadmore than one point of superstitious faith-Sheridan had that horror of doing any thing on a Friday,which is yet common among the vulgar; and hetook his late son Tom away from Dr Parr's school,because he had dreamed he had fallen from a treeand broken his neck. Other instances might beproduced; some are no doubt affected, because toentertain a strange and peculiar belief on particularsubjects, looks like originality of thinking, or, atleast, attracts attention, like the wearing a newand whimsical dress in order to engage public notice. But those whom we have named were tooproud, and stood too high to have recourse to sucharts; they are the genuine disciples, to a certainTHE OMEN. 339extent, of the mystic philosophy which the authorofthe Omen thus describes.66 Why are we so averse to confess to one another, how muchwe in secret acknowledge to ourselves, that we believe the mindto be endowed with other faculties of perception than those of the corporeal senses? We deride with worldly laughter the fineenthusiasm of the conscious spirit that gives heed and credenceto the metaphorical intimations of prophetic reverie, and we condemn as superstition the faith which consults the omens and oracles of dreams; and yet, who is it that has not in the inscru- table abysses of his own bosom an awful worshipper, bowing the head, and covering the countenance, as the dark harbingers ofdestiny, like the mute and slow precursors of the hearse, marshat the advent of a coming woe?" It may be that the soul never sleeps, and what we call dreams, are but the endeavours which it makes during the trance of the senses, to reason by the ideas of things associated withthe forms and qualities of those whereof it then thinks. Are not,indeed, the visions of our impressive dreams often but the meta- phors with which the eloquence of the poet would invest the cares and anxieties of our waking circ*mstances and rational fears?But still the spirit sometimes receives marvellous warnings; andhave we not experienced an unaccountable persuasion, that some- thing of good or of evil follows the visits of certain persons, who,when the thing comes to pass, are found to have had neither affi- nity with the circ*mstances, nor influence on the event? Thehand of the horologe indexes the movements of the planetaryuniverse; but where is the reciprocal enginery between them?" These reflections into which I am perhaps too prone to fall,partake somewhat of distemperature and disease, but they are nottherefore the less deserving of solemn consideration. - The hectical flush, the palsied hand, and the frenzy of delirium, are asvalid, and as efficacious in nature, to the fulfilment of providentialintents, as the glow of health, in the masculine arm, and the sober inductions of philosophy. -Nor is it wise, in consideringthe state and frame of man, to overlook how much the universal element of disease affects the evolutions of fortune. Madnessoften babbles truths which make wisdom wonder. "The facts by which this theory is illustrated arefew and simple. The author is one of those whosesense of being is derived from the past; " who $6340 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.是do not look forward to form splendid pictures ofthe future, but dote, with the constancy of infatuation, on those which exist in the gallery ofmemory.He does not form his conjectures of the future bycomparing it with that which is present, but byauguries derived from events long passed, anddeeply engraved upon the tablets of recollection.These are of a solemn mystic air and tragiccharacter. His infant years recall a vision of asplendid mansion, disturbed by signs of wo andviolence, and the joyous remembrances of hischildish play are interrupted by recollection of awounded gentleman, and a lady distracted by sorrow. There are traces of a journey—the travellers,says the author,"arrive at the curious portal of a turreted manorial edifice:I feel myself lifted from beside my companion, and fondly pressed to the bosom of a venerable matron, who is weeping in the duskytwilight of an ancient chamber, adorned with the portraits of war- riors. A breach in my remembrance ensues; and then the samesad lady is seen reclining on a bed, feeble, pale, and wasted,while sorrowful damsels are whispering and walking softly around. "The author then finds himself residing by thesea-side, under charge of an old lady. Here hemeets a solitary stranger who resides in the neighbourhood, and notices the child with much andmixed emotion; but being apparently recognised byMrs Oswald, he disappears from the neighbourhood,and Mrs Oswald, finding the boy retained deeperimpressions concerning his infantine years than shethought desirable, sets out with the purpose of placing him at school. In their journey they met amagnificent but deserted mansion; and the mannerin which the author describes the reflections thusTHE OMEN. 341awakened, forms a good specimen of the style andtone of the whole work." In seeking my way alone back to the vestibule, I happened to enter a large saloon, adorned with pictures and mirrors of aprincely magnitude. Finding myself in error, I was on the point of retiring, when my eye caught a marble table, on which stood a French clock between two gilded Cupids. The supporters ofthe table were curiously carved into such chimerical forms asbelong only to heraldry and romance. As I looked around at thesplendid furniture with wonder and curiosity, something in the ornaments of that gorgeous table arrested my attention, and made a chilly fear vibrate through my whole frame. I trembled as ifa spectre of the past had been before me, claiming the renovationof an intimacy and communion which we had held together insome pre- Adamite state of being. Every object in that chamber I had assuredly seen in another time; but the reminiscencewhich the sight of them recalled fluttered my innocent imagina- tion with fear." A door, opposite to that by which I had entered, led to the foot of a painted marble staircase. I moved tremblingly towards it, filled with an unknown apprehension and awe. I could nolonger doubt I was in the same house where, in infancy, I had witnessed such dismay and sorrow; but all was dim and vague;much of the record was faded, and its import could not be read.The talisman of memory was shattered, and but distorted lineaments could be seen of the solemn geni who, in that moment,rose at the summons of the charm, and showed me the distracted lady and the wounded gentleman, whose blood still stainedthe alabaster purityof the pavement on which I was again stand- ing."He makes no stay at this mansion, but is placedat a private school, where he forms an acquaintancewith Sydenham, the natural son of a person ofhigh rank, and goes down to his father's house withhim to spend the holidays. Here occurs one ofthose touches of scenery and description, welldrawn and not overcharged, which we consider asevincing the author's taste as well as his powers.342 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES." The old magnificence of the castle, a rude and vast pile,interested me for the two first days." It stands on the verge of a precipice, which overshadows asmooth-flowing river. Masses of venerable trees surround it onthe other three sides , from the midst of which huge towers, withtheir coronals of battlements, and cloaks of ivy, look down upon the green and bowery villagery of the valley, with the dark aspect of necromancy, and the veteran scowl of obdurate renown.is indeed a place full of poesy and romance. The mysteriousstairs, and the long hazy galleries, are haunted by the ever- whispering spirits of echo and silence; and the portraits and tapestries of the chambers make chivalry come again. "ItNow, considering how much has been of latesaid about old castles, we think there is a greatmerit indeed, in conveying, in a few and appropriate phrases, the poetical ideas connected withthe subject.At B- Castle he meets a Mr Oakdale, in whomhe recognises the stranger of the sea- coast, andconsidering it as certain that he must be connectedwith the mysteries of his own fate, he forms, together with his young companion, a scheme topenetrate into the secret. This is disconcerted bythe duke, Sydenham's father, who imparts to hisson information to be carefully concealed from theparty principally concerned. The effect on theirboyish intimacy is natural and well described.Upon Sydenham's return from the interview withthe duke," A spell was invoked upon his frankness; and while he ap- peared in no measure less attached, yea, even while he showed a deeper feeling of affection for me (for I often caught him look- ing at me with pity, till his eyes overflowed) , it was but too evi- dent that he stood in awe of my unhappy destiny, and beheld thespectre which ever followed me, -the undivulged horror, of whichTHE OMEN. 343my conscious spirit had only the dim knowledge, that dread and bodements sometimes so wonderfully and so inexplicably give."The author is removed successively to Eton, andto Oxford; but (which seems rather improbable), although indulged in a large scale of expense, he receives no communication respecting his real fortuneor rank in society. An eclaircissem*nt on this pointis prematurely forced forward, by one of thosechances which govern human life. While he witnesses the play of Hamlet, the incidents of whichsympathize with the gloomy forebodings of his ownspirit, and with the recollections of his infancy, hiseye suddenly falls on Mr Oakdale; and the emotions which that mysterious person evinces, pressupon him the conviction that his own history resembled that of Hamlet.-" Shakspeare," he exclaimed to Sydenham, who, notwithstanding hisreserve, was still his companion, " has told me thatmy father was murdered."66ment.666Sydenham grew pale, and lay back in his chair in astonishNay more, ' cried I, he has told me that the crime wascaused by my mother. '" Sydenham trembled and rose from his seat, exclaiming, ' Is this possible? '666 Yes, and you have known it for years; and that Mr Oak- dale is the adulterous assassin? ' "This discovery brings forth an explanation,which is undertaken by his maternal uncle, as heproves to be, General Oglethorpe. The authorproves to be the heir of two considerable estates,and of those mansions which had impressed theirappearance so strongly on his infantine imagina-344 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.tion. His father had been killed or desperatelyhurt by Mr Oakdale, who had fled; his guiltymother had gone into farther irregularities.Theveteran exacted a promise that he would neverenquire after his mother; and, after a visit to hismaternal seat, and to the ancient residence of hisfather, the young man agrees to his uncle's proposal that he should go abroad for some years."Those who look to freits," says the old Scottishproverb, with the sagacity which we boast as national, "freits (that is omens) will follow them."The morbid sensibility of young Oglethorpe-forsuch we suppose is his name, though never distinctly mentioned-detects allusions to his own misfortunes in incidents which he meets with onthe road, and even in the fantastic rack of cloudswhich drive along the sky. The reasoning of aperson who is disposed to read references to hisown fate in what passes in heaven, or in eartharound him, is poetically given in the followingpassage:-" Surely it is the very error of our nature, a fantasy of humanpride, to suppose that man can be wisely ruled by his reason.Are not all our sympathies and antipathies but the instructions of instinct-the guide which we receive direct, original, and un- corrupted from Heaven?" It may be, that we cannot, like choughs and ravens, and theother irrational and babbling oracles of change-being so removed by habit from the pristine condition of natural feelingpredict from our own immediate sensations, the coming of floodsand of thunder-storms, nor scent, like the watch-dog, the smellofdeath, before the purple spot or the glittering eye have given sign of the fatal infection; but have we not an inward sense thatis often gladdened and saddened by influences from futurity, asthe strings of the harp are prophetical of the mood and aspect ofTHE OMEN. 345to-morrow? Shakspeare has exquisitely described his belief in this philosophy:-The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes,And by his hollow whistling in the leaves,Foretells a tempest and a blust'ring day.'And I believe myself to be possessed of the faculty whose power consists of this hereafter sort of discernment; -Sydenham used to call it my genius.'"The subject ofour tale is detained at Hamburgh,by an acquaintance formed with an English officerofrank, General Purcel, and his lady, but chieflyby the charms of their daughter Maria. The beauty and accomplishments of this young lady, andstill more the delicacy of her health, and the apparent frail tenure on which she holds these gifts,are calculated to make a deep impression on theheart of the youthful visionary, whose temperament was as melancholy as his feelings were tender. Of course he becomes the lover of Maria,but experiences the strongest and most startlingopposition on the part of Mrs Purcel, who, seeming on the one hand much, and even passionatelyattached to her daughter's admirer, declares herself, on the other, vehemently opposed to his suit.She is prevented from giving the grounds of herobjections by some of those interruptions whichare usually employed in romances to prolong theembarrassments of the dramatis persona, andwhich perhaps are not in the present case veryartificially interposed. Considering, as it provesto be the case, that Mrs Purcel was the guiltymother of the hero of the tale, and thus witnessed346 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.the dreadful scene of her son making love to herdaughter, it is impossible that she could have leftto chance an explanation of such tremendous importance. So, however, it is; and General Purcelconceiving the objections of his wife to be foundedon some frivolous aversion, or yet more capricious,and perhaps guilty, attachment to the lover ofMaria, gives his consent to their private marriage.General Oglethorpe is written to for his approbation. Instead of answering the letter, the veterancomes to town, to explain, doubtless, the fearfulmystery, but expires ere he can discharge the task.The private marriage is then resolved on, and isin the act of proceeding in the very church wherethe body of the deceased General Oglethorpe hadbeen just interred." That such an unnatural mixture of irreconcilable rites shouldever have been consented to by a creature so full of tendernessand of such unparalleled delicacy as Maria, is not the least wonder in our dismal story; but she was fastened to the same chain by which I was drawn on. It was thought by us that the horriblestratagem ofjoining the funeral and the wedding together would never be suspected by Mrs Purcel. "But Mrs Purcel had heard the intelligence. Shebursts on the ceremony, and astounds them by theoutcry, " Brother and sister-brother and sister! "" I heard no more," continues the ill-fated narrator; "the edifice reeled around me-and there is ahiatus in my remembrance-a chasm in my life."The melancholy tale concludes thus:" Ten years have passed since that dreadful morning, and Ihave never opened my lips to enquire the issues of the event;but one day, about two years ago, in visiting the English ceme-THE OMEN. 347tery at Lisbon, I saw on a marble slab, which the weather oraccident had already partly defaced, the epitaph of Maria. The remainder of my own story is but a tissue of aimless and objectless wanderings and moody meditations, under the anguish of the inherited curse-But all will soon be over:-a tedious hecticthat has long been consuming me, reluctantly and slowly, hath at last, within these few days, so augmented its fires, that I amconscious, from a sentiment within, I cannot survive anothermonth; I have, indeed, had my warning. Twice hath a sound like the voice of my sister, startled my unrefreshing sleep; whenit rouses me for the third time, then I shall awake to die."The objection readily occurs to this tale, that theevents are improbable, and slightly tacked together:but in these respects authors demand, and mustreceive, some indulgence. It is not perhaps possible,at the same time, to preserve consistency and probability, and attain the interest of novelty. Thereader must make the same allowances for suchdeficiency, as are granted to the scenist, or deco- rator of the drama. We see the towers which aredescribed as being so solid in their structure,tremble as they are advanced or withdrawn, andwe know the massy and earth-fast rocks of thetheatre are of no stronger material than paintedpasteboard. But we grant to the dramatist thatwhich must be granted, if we mean to allow ourselves the enjoyment of his art; and a similarconvention must be made with the authors of fictitious narratives, and forgiving the want of solidityin the story, the reader must be good- naturedenough to look only at the beauty of the painting.It is perhaps a greater objection, that the natureof the interest and of the catastrophe is changedin the course of the narration. We are first led to348 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.expect that the author had subjected the interest ofhis hero to that gloomy and inexorable deity, orprinciple, in whom the ancients believed, under thename of Destiny, or Fate, and that, like Orestesor Hamlet, he was to be the destined avenger ofhis father's injuries, or of his mother's guilt. Suchwas the persuasion of the victim himself, as expressed in several passages, some of which we havequoted. But the course of the action, the pointupon which our imagination had been fixed, at theexpense of some art, is altogether departed from.No more mention is made of Mr Oakdale, andthough a fatal influence continues to impel the destined sufferer into most horrible danger, yet it isof a kind different from that which the omens presaged, and which the hero himself, and the reader,on his account, was induced to expect. For example, he meets on his road to Harwich with thefuneral of a man who had been murdered, much inthe same circ*mstances as those which attended thedeath of his own father, and which, while they indicate a bloody catastrophe to the story, bear noreference to that which really attends it.But although these objections may be started,they affect, in a slight degree, the real merits ofthe work, which consist in the beauty of its language, and the truth of the descriptions introduced.Yet, even these are kept in subordination to themain interest of the piece, which arises from themelancholy picture of an amiable young man, whohas received a superstitious bias, imposed by ori-THE OMEN. 349ginal temperament, as well as by the sorrowfulevents of his childhood.In this point of view, it is of little consequencewhether the presages on which his mind dwells,concur with the event; for the author is not refuting the correctness of such auguries, but illustrating the character of one who believed in them.The tendency to such belief is, we believe, common to most men. There are circ*mstances, andanimals, and places, and sounds, which we arenaturally led to connect with melancholy ideas, andthus far to consider as being of evil augury.Funerals, churchyards, the howling of dogs, thesounds ofthe passing bell, which are all of a gloomycharacter, and, calamitous, or at least unpleasing inthemselves, must lead, we are apt to suppose, toconsequences equally unpleasing. He would be astout sceptic who would choose, like the hero ofour tale, to tack his wedding to the conclusion ofa funeral, or even to place the representation of adeath's- head on a marriage- ring; and yet the marriage might be a happy one in either case, werethere not the risk that the evil omen might workits own accomplishment by its effect on the mindsof the parties.But besides the omens which arise out of naturalassociations, there are superstitions of this kindwhich we have from tradition, and which affectthose who believe in them merely because othersbelieved before. We have all the nurse has taughtus of presages by sparkles from the fire, and signsfrom accidental circ*mstances, which, however they350 CRITICISM ON NOVELS and ROMANCES.have obtained the character originally, have beenat least generally received as matters of ominouspresage; and it is wonderful in how many, andhow distant countries, the common sense, or ratherthe common nonsense, of mankind, has attachedthe same ideas of mishap to circ*mstances whichappear to have little relation to it; and notless extraordinary to discover some ancient Romansuperstition existing in some obscure village, andsurprising the antiquary as much as when he hasthe good luck to detect an antique piece of sculptureor inscription on the crumbling walls of a decayedScottish church.Day-fatalism, which has been so much illustratedby the learned and credulous Aubrey, or that recurring coincidence which makes men connect theirgood and evil fortunes with particular days, months,and years, is another of the baits by which Superstition angles for her vassals. These fatalities,which seem to baffle calculation, resemble, in fact,what is commonly called a run of luck, or an extraordinary succession of good or evil, beyond hope orexpectation. Such irregularities in the current ofevents are necessary to prevent human beings fromlifting the veil of futurity. Ifthe ordinary chancesoffortune were not occasionally deranged, or setaside by those unexpected caprices of her power,Demoivre and his pupils might approach nearly tothe rank of prophets.In a third species of presage, our own mind, aswe have hinted, becomes our oracle, and either fromthe dreams of the night, or the recollections of theTHE OMEN. 351day, we feel impressed with the belief that good orevil is about to befall us. We are far from absolutely scorning this species of divination, since weare convinced that in sleep, or even in profoundabstraction, the mind may arrive at conclusionswhich are just in themselves, without our beingable to perceive the process of thought which produced them. The singular stories told about dreamscorresponding to the future event, are usuallyinstances and illustrations of our meaning. Agentleman, for instance, is sued for a ruinous debt,with the accumulation of interest since his father'stime. He is persuaded the claim had been longsettled, but he cannot, after the utmost search,recover the document which should establish thepayment. He was about to set out for the capital,in order to place himself at the mercy of his creditor,when, on the eve of his journey, he dreams a dream.His father, he thought, came to him and asked thecause of his melancholy, and of the preparationswhich he was making for his journey; and as theappearance of the dead excites no surprise in adream, the visionary told the phantom the cause ofhis distress, and mentioned his conviction that thisruinous debt had been already settled . " You areright, my son," was the answer of the vision, " themoney was paid by me in my lifetime. Go to sucha person, formerly a practitioner of the law, nowretired from business, and remind him that thepapers are in his hands. If he has forgotten thecirc*mstance of his having been employed by meon that occasion, for he was not my ordinary agent,352 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.say to him, that he may remember it by the tokenthat there was some trouble about procuring changefor a double Portugal piece when I settled myaccount with him." The vision was correct in allpoints. The slumbering memory of the ex-attorneywas roused by the recollection of the doubloon,—the writings were recovered, and the dreamerfreed from the prosecution brought against him.This remarkable story we have every reason tobelieve accurate matter of fact, at least in its generalbearings. Now, are we to suppose that the courseof nature was interrupted, and that, to save a southland laird from a patrimonial injury, a supernaturalwarning was deigned, which the fate of empireshas not drawn forth? This we find hard to credit.Or are we, on the other hand, to believe, that suchcoincidences between dreams and the events whichthey presage, arise from mere accident, and that avision so distinct, and a result which afforded it somuch corroboration, were merely the effect of circ*mstances, and happened by mere chance, just astwo dice happen accidentally to cast up doublets?This is indeed possible, but we do not think it entirely philosophical. But our idea is different fromboth the alternative solutions which we have mentioned. Every one is sensible, that among the stuffwhich dreams are made of, we can recognise brokenand disjointed remnants of forgotten realities whichdwell imperfectly on the memory. We are of opinion, therefore, that in this and similar cases, thesleeping imagination is actually weaving its webout of the broken realities of actual facts. TheTHE OMEN. 353mind, at some early period, had been, according tothe story, impressed with a strong belief that thedebt had actually been paid, which belief must havearisen from some early convictions on the subject,of which the ground- work was decayed. But inthe course of the watches of the night, Fancy, inher own time and manner, dresses up the fadedmaterials of early recollection . The idea of the father once introduced, naturally recalls to memorywhat the dreamer, at some forgotten period, hadactually heard from his parent; and by this clue hearrives at the truth of a fact, as he might have doneat the result of a calculation, though without comprehending the mode by which he arrived at thetruth.The subject, if prosecuted, would lead very far,and farther perhaps than is warranted by the subject of these remarks. It is possible, however, wemay one day return to it.VOL. XVIII. ᏃZ[ 354 ]ARTICLE XII.HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND.[ The Adventures of Hajji Baba of Ispahan in England.2 vols. By J. MORIER, Esq. The Kuzzilbash; a Tale ofKhorasan. 3 vols. ByJAMES BAILLIE FRASER, Esq.From the Quarterly Review, Jan. 1829. ]AN old acquaintance of ours, as remarkable forthe grotesque queerness of his physiognomy, as forthe kindness and gentleness of his disposition, wasasked by a friend, where he had been? He repliedhe had been seeing the lion, which was at that timean object of curiosity-(we are not sure whether itwas Nero or Cato-): " And what," rejoined thequerist, " did the lion think of you?" The jestpassed as a good one; and yet under it lies something that is serious and true.When a civilized people have gazed, at theirleisure, upon one of those uninstructed productionsof rude nature whom they term barbarians, thenext object of natural curiosity is, to learn whatopinion the barbarian has formed of the new stateof society into which he is introduced—what thelion thinks of his visiters. Will the simple, unsophisticated being, we ask ourselves, be more in-HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 355clined to reverence us, who direct the thunder andlightning by our command of electricity- controlthe course of the winds by our steam- enginesturn night into day by our gas-erect the moststupendous edifices by our machinery-soar intomid-air like eagles-at pleasure dive into the earthlike moles?—or, to take us as individuals, anddespise the effeminate child of social policy, whomthe community have deprived of half his rightswho dares not avenge a blow without having recourse to a constable-who, like a pampered jade,cannot go but thirty miles a-day without a haltor endure hunger, were it only for twenty-fourhours, without suffering and complaint-whose lifeis undignified by trophies acquired in the chase orthe battle-and whose death is not graced by a fewpreliminary tortures, applied to the most sensitiveparts, in order to ascertain his decided superiorityto ordinary mortals? We are equally desirous toknow what the swarthy stranger may think of oursocial institutions, of our complicated system ofjustice in comparison with the dictum of the chief,sitting in the gate of the village, or the award ofthe elders of the tribe, assembled around the councilfire; and even, in a lower and lighter point of view,what he thinks of our habits and forms of ordinarylife, that artificial and conventional ceremonial,which so broadly distinguishes different ranks fromeach other, and binds together so closely those whobelong to the same grade.In general, when we have an opportunity ofenquiring, we find the rude stranger has arrived at356 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.some conclusion totally unexpected by his Europeanhost. For instance, when Lee Boo, that mostinteresting and amiable specimen of the child ofnature, was carried to see a man rise in a balloon,his only remark was, he wondered any one shouldtake so much trouble in a country where it was soeasy to call a hackney- coach. Lee Boo had suppedfull with wonders; a coach was to him as great amarvel as a balloon; he had lost all usual marks forcomparing difficult and easy, and if Prince Hussein's flying tapestry, or Astolpho's hippogrypl ,had been shown, he would have judged of them bythe ordinary rules of convenience, and preferred asnug corner in a well- hung chariot.From the amusing results arising out of suchcontrasts it has occurred to many authors, at different periods, that an agreeable and striking mode ofenquiry into the intrinsic value and rationality ofsocial institutions might be conducted by writingcritical remarks upon them, in the assumed characterof the native of a primitive country. Lucian hasplaced some such observations in the mouth of hisScythian philosopher, Toxaris. In modern times,the Turkish Spy, though the subject of his lettersdidnot embrace manners or morals, had considerablecelebrity. The interest of the famous politicalromance of Gulliver turns on the same sort of contrivance. But, perhaps, the earliest example of theprecise species ofcomposition which we mean, existsin the Memoranda imputed to the Indian Kings,and published in the Spectator. At a latter period,Montesquieu's Persian Letters, with Lord Little-HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 357ton's imitation of that remarkable work, and Goldsmith's Citizen ofthe World, were designed torepresent the view which might be taken of Parisian or London manners and policy, by a Persiansage in the one case, and a Chinese philosopher inthe other. Still, however, the notable imperfectionoccurred in these representations, that neitherMontesquieu, nor Littleton, nor Goldsmith was atall qualified to sustain the character he assumed.Usbeck and Lien Chi Altangi are scarcely different,after all, from Europeans in their language, views,and ideas. The Persian caftan and Chinese gownare indeed put on, but the Persian and Chinesehabitual modes of thinking are not exhibited, anymore than the language of either of these countries;the Frenchman's Persian might be a Chinese, or theEnglishman's Chinese a Persian, without the readerbeing able to appeal to any satisfactory test forre- adjusting the machinery.It is in this most essential particular that theTravels ofHajji Baba may claim a complete superiority over the works of those distinguished authors. The author of Hajji Baba's Travelswrites, thinks, and speaks much more like an Oriental than an Englishman; and makes goodwhat he himself affirms, that the single " idea ofillustrating Eastern manners by contrast with thoseof England, has been his Kebleh, the direction ofhis Mecca." Hajji Baba, moreover, is not an Orientalist merely, but one of a peculiar class andcharacter-a Persian, and differing as much froma Turk as a Frenchman from a German.358 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.The English reader, however, as he is politelycalled, who is ignorant of all save what his ownlanguage can convey to him, might have been atsome loss to trace the merits of such a work, without some previous acquaintance with the Persianmanners, particularly as differing from those ofother Oriental nations; since, however well acquainted he might be with the habits and mannersof his own country, it is necessary, for the enjoyment of this work, that he should know somethingof the peculiar scale on which they are to be measured. This necessary information has been amplysupplied by the Adventures of Hajji Baba of Ispahan-in which we have a lively and entertaininghistory of the hero of the present work, his earlyadventures, mishaps, rogueries, with their consequences; all tending to prepare us for his experiences in England. There are few of our readers,probably, who have not perused this lively novel,which may be termed the Oriental Gil Blas, andenjoyed the easy and humorous introduction whichit affords to the Oriental manners and customs, butespecially to those which are peculiar to the Per- sians.By what peculiar circ*mstances, in climate, constitution, education, or government, the nationalcharacter is chiefly formed, has been long disputed;its existence we are all aware of; and proposingto travel, consider it as certain, nearly, that wehave peculiar advantages to hope, and dangers toguard against, from the manners of a particularregion, as that we shall enjoy peculiar pleasures,HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 359or have to face peculiar inconveniences in its climate. The genius of the Persians is lively andvolatile, to a degree much exceeding other nations.of the East. They are powerfully affected by thatwhich is presented before them at the momentforgetful of the past, careless of the future-quickin observation, and correct as well as quick, whenthey give themselves leisure to examine the principles of their decision-but often contented todraw their conclusions too rashly and hastily. Itis evident that the acuteness of a spectator of foreign manners is of the first consequence in rendering his lucubrations spirited and interesting; andthat the erroneous results at which his precipitateingenuity may often arrive, cannot fail to afford aproportional share of amusem*nt. The errors ofthe dull are seldom productive of mirth; and theinformation which he may sometimes convey is somuch alloyed by the natural stupidity with whichit is amalgamated, that, to say truth, few personscare to be at the trouble of separating it, just as(since the Dutchmen gave up that task) it has notbeen thought worth while to extract the small quantity of silver which is contained in every ton oflead. It is he that is witty himself, says Falstaff,who is the cause of wit in others; and the mercurial Persian may be equally expected to afford entertainment in both capacities. But we maysafely say, that, not amusem*nt only, but instruction ofa very serious kind is to be derived fromconsidering the nature of some of the materialswhich are here under the management of a master.360 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Hajji Baba, as the reader probably well knows,is a roguish boy, the son of a barber of Ispahan,who becomes the attendant upon a merchant, ismade prisoner by a band of Turcomans, with whomhe is forced to become an associate, although, asin the case of Gil Blas, a private feeling of cowardice greatly aids the moral sense in renderingthe profession disgusting to him. After havingthe signal glory of conducting the tribe to a successful enterprise on his native city, he escapes fromthe Turcomans to be plundered by his own countrymen-is reduced to be a water- carrier -a sellerof tobacco, and at length a swindler. He emergesfrom this condition to become the pupil of the Persian physician-royal. From this situation he risesto the kindred dignity of an immediate attendanton the chief executioner, and, of course, a man ofgreat consequence in a state where various gradations of violence, from a simple drubbing to theexercise of the sabre or bowstring, form the pervading principle of motion. In this last charactera scene is introduced (the death of the unhappyZeenab), tending to show that, though the authorhas chiefly used the lighter tints of human life, itsdarker shadows are also at his command. Theconsequences of this tragedy deprive Hajji of hispost, and he is reduced to take sanctuary. Hechanges his manners, lays aside the military profession, and assumes airs of devotion-becomes arespectable character, somewhat allied to Sir Pandarus of Troy-but is once more involved in ruinby the superstitious and intolerant zeal of a MollahHAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 361to whom he had attached himself. After such aseries of adventures, he escapes to Constantinople,where he sets up as a seller of tubes for tobaccopipes. Here, in the assumed character of a wealthymerchant of high Arabian extraction, he marries awealthy Turkish widow; but, being detected asan impostor, is obliged to resign his prize. Finally, Hajji Baba obtains the protection of the grandvizier, and of the Shah himself in particular, by thegreat assiduity he displays in acquiring some knowledge of the European character, which the contestbetween the French and English, for obtainingsuperior influence at the court of Ispahan, hadrendered an interesting subject of consideration inthe councils of Persia. At length the celebratedmission of Mirzah Firouz-the same, we presume,with the well-known Abou Taleb, Persian envoyat the court of the late King in the years 1809 and1810-determines the fate of Hajji Baba, who receives directions to attend it in the character ofsecretary. Here the original account of his adventures, published in 1824, closed, with a promisethat, if they appeared to wish it, the public shouldbe informed, in due season, of Hajji's adventureswhile in the train of the Persian ambassador to StJames's.The author has no reason to complain of thatwant of attention which will sometimes silence themost pertinacious of story-tellers,-yea, even theregular bore of the club-house, whose numbers hehas thinned. Hajji Baba met with a universalgood reception. The novelty of the style, which362 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.was at once perceived to be genuine Oriental, bysuch internal evidence as establishes the value ofreal old China-the gay and glowing descriptionsof Eastern state and pageantry, the character of thepoetry occasionally introduced-secured a meritedwelcome for the Persian picaroon. As a picture ofOriental manners, the work had, indeed, a severetrial to sustain by a comparison with the then recent romance of Anastasius. But the public foundappetite for both; and indeed they differ as comedyand tragedy, the deep passion and gloomy interestof Mr Hope's work being of a kind entirely different from the light and lively turn of our friendHajji's adventures. The latter, with his moralssitting easy about him, a rogue indeed, but not amalicious one, with as much wit and cunning asenable him to dupe others, and as much vanity asto afford them perpetual means of retaliation; asparrow-hawk, who, while he floats through the airin quest of the smaller game, is himself perpetuallyexposed to be pounced on by some stronger bird ofprey, interests and amuses us, while neither deserving nor expecting serious regard or esteem; -andlike Will Vizard of the hill, " the knaveis our verygood friend ."The rapid and various changes of individual fortune, which, in any other scene and country, mightbe thought improbable, are proper to, or rather inseparable from, the vicissitudes of a government atonce barbaric and despotic, where an individual,especially if possessing talents, may rise and sink asoften as a tennis-ball, and be subjected to the ex-HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 363traordinary variety of hazards in one life, which theother undergoes in the course of one game. But,were further apology necessary for the eccentricityof some of the events, than the caprice of an arbitrary monarch, and the convulsions of a waningempire, we have only to compare the reverses represented as experienced by this barber of Ispahan, with the mighty changes which we ourselveshave been witness to, affecting thrones, dominations, princedoms, virtues, powers. The mightyand overwhelming sway which seemed neither tohave limits in elevation nor extent-that power, theexistence and terror of which led to the collision ofEuropean politics in the court of Ispahan-whereis it now, or what vestiges remain of its influence?We might as well ask where are the columns ofsand which at night whirl over the broad desert, innumber and size sufficient to be the death and graveof armies, and in the morning, sunk with the breathwhich raised them, are only encumbering the stepsof the pilgrim, as hillocks of unregarded dust.The terrible hurricane of moral passions whichhad vent in the French Revolution, and the protracted tempest of war which ensued, have, like thestorms of nature, led to good effects; and of thesenot the least remarkable has been the connecting,in intercourse of feeling and sentiments, of nationsnot only remote from each other in point of space,but so divided by opinions as to render it heretofore impossible that the less enlightened, weddedas they were to their own prejudices, should havederived the slightest improvement, either in arts,364 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.government, or religion, from the precept or example of their more cultivated allies. The idea ofa certain literary influence being exercised by theEnglish press at the court of Ispahan, would, twentyyears ago, have sounded as absurd as to have affirmed that Prester John had studied Sir JohnMandeville's Travels, or that the report of theguns fired in St James's Park, was heard on theterrace of Persepolis. And yet such an influenceto a certain extent now exists, since it appears, fromthe following admirable epistle, that the Persiancourt were interested in, and touched by the satirical account of their manners in Mr Morier's novel,and felt that pettish sort of displeasure which, likethe irritation of a blister, precedes sanative effectsWe refer to a letter addressed bonâfide to the author of Hajji Baba, by a Persian minister of state." Tehran, 21st May, 1826." MY DEAR FRIEND-I am offended with you, and not without reason. What for you write Hajji Baba, sir? King very angry,sir. I swear him you never write lies; but he say, yes-write.All people very angry with you, sir. That very bad book, sir.All lies, sir. Who tell you all these lies, sir? What for younot speak to me? Very bad business, sir. Persian people verybad people, perhaps, but very good to you, sir.What for youabuse them so bad? I very angry. Sheikh Abdul Russoolwrite, oh! very long letter to the king ' bout that book, sir. Hesay you tell king's wife one bad woman, and king kill her. I very angry, sir. But you are my friend, and I tell king, Sheikh writeall lie. You call me Mirza Firouz, I know very well, and say Italk great deal nonsense. When I talk nonsense? Oh, youthink yourself very clever man; but this Hajji Baba very foolish business. I think you sorry for it some time. I do not know,but I think very foolish.66 English gentlemen say, Hajji Baba very clever book, but Ithink not clever at all -very foolish book. You must not beHAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 365angry with me, sir. I your old friend, sir. God know, I yourvery good friend to you, sir, But now you must write other book,and praise Persian peoples very much.king you never write Hajji Baba.I swear very much to the" I not understand flatter I hope you will forgive me, sir.peoples, you know very well. I plain man, sir-speak always plain, sir; but I always very good friend to you. But why youwrite 'bout me? God know, I your old friend." P.S.-I got very good house now, and very good garden,sir-much better as you saw here, sir. English gentlemans tell me Mexico all silver and gold. You very rich man now, I hope.I like English flowers in my garden-great many; and King takeall my china and glass. As you write so many things ' bout Mirza Firouz, I think you send me some seeds and roots not bad; andbecause I defend you to the king, and swear so much, little chinaand glass for me very good . "-Vol. i. p. xvii.That so hopeful a correspondence might not fallto the ground, the author of Hajji Baba returnedan answer of a kind most likely to have weightwith a Persian, and which we can all observe is,like Don Pedro's answer to Dogberry, " rightlyreasoned; and in his own division ." Like theletter to which it is an answer, it is a chef-d'œuvrein its way; but we have not room to quote it.The author contends that irritation will lead toreflection, reflection to amendment. The Persians,he observes, are, in talent and natural capacity,equal to any nation in the world, and would be noless on a level with them in feeling, honesty, andthe higher moral qualities, were their educationfavourable. To fix, therefore, the attention of theleading men of the nation on the leading faults ofthe national character, may have on them so powerful an effect, that the name of Morier may beremembered as the first who led the way to the366 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.illumination of Persia by the introduction of English literature into the pavilions of Tehraun. Weproceed to give some account of the presentwork.Hajji, a man of consequence as being supposedto understand the manners of the Franks, andsecretary to Mirza Firouz, the Persian Elchee orAmbassador to England, commences by collecting,in the most arbitrary manner, and by the mostsummary means, whatever he judges would be mostacceptable at the court of Saint James's, as articlesto be presented to the King of England. Beinginvested with plenary powers, he fails not to makea sweep of all he can find which is rich and rare,not failing to obtain a ransom from those whom hespares, and to detain, for his own private purse, ahandsome per centage of the pillage which heaccumulates. His collection of rarely-gifted slavesis edifying. Among them there is a guardian of theharam designed for the service of King GeorgeIII. , who is termed Mûrwari, or the pearl, as beingthe most vindictive, spiteful, and inexorable wretchofhis species,-watchful as alynx, wary as a jackal.To this treasure is added a negro prize-fighter,who can carry a jackass, devour a sheep whole, eatfire, and make a fountain of his inside. But theBritish ambassador at the court of Persia, beingtaken into their counsel, explains why neither thepearl nor the spoutman, nor even the property ofan Ethiopian woman, whose constitution coulddispense with sleep, and who was therefore destinedto watch the royal couch of Britain, would beHAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 367acceptable to the venerable sovereign for whomthey were intended, the discussions on whichtopics are stated with much liveliness. Upon thesame occasion was prepared and placed in the handsof the ambassador, that celebrated letter to herMajesty Queen Charlotte from the King of Persia'schief wife,-assuredly one of the most extravagantmorsels of Oriental bombast that ever astonishedEuropean ears. Here is a modest sample." It is necessary that the sweet-singing nightingales of the pen of correspondence should warble some notes in the garden of affection, and open the buds of our design in performing the pleasing duty of acknowledging, with thanks, the receipt of the ac- ceptable present of our beloved sister, which we have hung uponthe neck of accomplishment. May your house, the dwelling of kindness and friendship, ever flourish. The duties of friendshippoint out the necessity of occasionally sprinkling drops from the cloud of the pen, to increase the verdure of the meadow of af- fection. "-Vol. i . p. 43.Before the Persians can profit a great deal fromBritish literature, the extirpating hoes of criticism ,to use their own figurative language, must root outa great variety of many- coloured flowers from thegarden of eloquence, and they must learn to callthe spade of the aforesaid, or any other, garden,by its proper name of spade. Their presenteloquence is a debauched style of exaggeration,which communicates its character to thought andaction, and is no more consistent with an improvement in taste, than cotton in the ears, or muskcrammed into the nose, is compatible with the accurate exercise of these organs. On the otherhand, there is some fancy and even wit in some368 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.verses ofthe Persian poet-laureate, for the inscrip- .tion of a small casket, which, on being opened, wasfound to contain on one side a miniature picture ofthe Shah, and on the other a mirror, in which theKing of England, for whom it was designed, might.see the reflection of his own face." Go, envied glass, to where thy destiny calls thee;Go, thou leavest the presence of one Cæsar, to receive that of another.Still thou bearest within thee thy sovereign's form;And when thou'rt opened again by Britain's king,Thoul't reflect not one Cæsar, but two Cæsars;Not one brother, but two brothers;Not one Jemsheed, but two Jemsheeds;Not one Darab, but two Darabs. "-Vol. i. p. 55 .We have no doubt that the mouth of AsterKhan, "the prince of poets," was crammed, uponthis occasion, with sugarcandy, which is his usualand appropriate reward . We have few sweetmeats,as our readers are well aware, to spare for the useof any author, and the prince of poets must bepretty well satiated with them. We shall therefore only say that ingenuity and wit often find aready alliance with affectation and absurdity elsewhere than in Eastern poetry.The train of the ambassador to the Court ofSaint James's has its divided interests and its intrigues. Mirza Firouz, though compelled to receivehis high charge as a distinguished favour, is at thebottom convinced that it is designed as an honourable exile, conferred upon him at the instance ofthe grand vizier, who had become jealous of hisinfluence with the sovereign; and with the samẹHAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 369strain of feeling he regards Hajji Baba, even whilehe finds himself obliged to treat him with somerespect, as a spy over his conduct placed there bythe prime minister. Hajji endeavours, by flattering attention and assentation of every description,to blunt the suspicion, and disarm the ill- will of hischief; but, though he occasionally seems to succeed,he is, aufonde, only tolerated.At Erzeroum, one of the ambassador's retinuecommits a theft, and deserts. He is seized andbrought back, and his master orders his ears to becropped. This comes to the ear of a personagewho considers the proceeding as derogatory to hisown authority, the embassy being now in the Ottoman territories . The pasha, in short, sends hisprincipal chaoush, an old grave Turk with a whitebeard, to remonstrate with the ambassador in allcivility; and the scene which followed is admirablydescriptive of the composure of the formal, solemn,taciturn Osmanli, contrasted with the petulant furyof the vivacious Persian." The ambassador was surrounded by all his servants when the chaoush entered, and was still in the height of his fury atthe delinquency of his running footman. He was pouring out a torrent of words, cursing first the day he had set out on this expedition, then the vizier who sent him, then the Turks and their country, when the solemn son of Osman interposed his selam aleikum, peace be with you! and took his seat with all due reverence. What has happened? ' exclaimed the ambassador to his visiter. ' Nothing,' answered the chaoush.-' Have you seen what abomination that rascally countryman of ours has been committing? ' said the ambassador. Please heaven, his father shall burn ere long. We are not such asses to let him escape gratis. Until I have got his ears into my pocket, not aVOL. XVIII. 2 A370 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.drop of water passes my lips; of that make your mind easy,effendi! ' The pasha, my master, ' said the Turk, makesprayers for your happiness, and has desired me to inform you that such things cannot be.'-' What things cannot be? ' ex- claimed the ambassador with the greatest vivacity. • What cannot be? Shall I not, then, cut of his ears? Ah! you knowbut little of Mirza Firouz, if you think so! By the sacred beardof the Prophet, by the salt of the shah, by the pasha's soul , andby your death, I would as soon cut off his ears (ears did I say? by Ali, and head into the bargain! ) as I would drink a cup of water. We are rare madmen, we Persians; we do not standupon trifles. ' ' But, ' said the Turk, totally unmoved by the volubility and matter of this speech, my master orders me to say that he is one of three tails, and that, therefore, no ears can be cut off in Arz Roum except by himself. ' ' Three tails! ’ exclaimed the Mirza, three, do you say? If the pasha hasthree, I have fifteen; and if that won't do, I have a hundred; and if that be not enough, tell him that I have one thousand and one tails. Go, for the love of Allah, go; and tell him moreover, since he brings his three tails into the account, that the ears are off, off, off. ' Then calling aloud to his ferash, and totwo or three other servants, he said, in a most peremptory tone,' Go, rascals, quick, fly, bring Sadek's ears to me this instant, I'll three tail him! If he had fifty ears I would cut them off."Then turning to the chaoush, who had already got on his feet in readiness to depart, he said, May your shadow never be less. May God protect you. Make my prayers acceptable to the pasha, and tell him again, if he has three tails, I, by the blessing of the Prophet, have fifteen. ' 66"Upon this the Turk, exclaiming from the bottom of his gullet, ' La illahu illallah! there is but one God, ' walkedslowly away, and had not proceeded many steps before he met the Persians coming up, bearing the ears of their countryman,or something very like them, on the cap of a saucepan, and who did not fail to exhibit them to the phlegmatic Osmanliwith appropriate expressions of superciliousness. " -Vol. i . pp .74-77.After all, the ambassador was himself cheated;for his retinue suffered the rogue to escape uncropped, and exposed, to satisfy their master's in-HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 371dignation, two slices of a young kid, in lieu of thepairings of his ears.After this adventure, these travellers proceed toConstantinople, where the kindness of a Turk addsto their retinue a Circassian slave, whose company,and the manner in which she was to be treated ,added somewhat to the niceties of the envoy's situation. They next reached Smyrna, where theywere to be received on board of a British frigate.But when summoned to embark, and avail themselves of a favourable wind, a most violent opposition arose on the part of the envoy and his astrologer Mohammed Beg, who declared that the starshad not announced a propitious moment; and that,to weigh anchor at the command of an infidel,merely because the wind blew fair, would be downright madness. Fortunately, both the envoy andhis astrologer sneezed twice in the course of thedebate, which, being admitted as a happy omen,sufficient to counterbalance a dark horoscope, theyembarked with the mehmandar, a young Englishofficer, appointed to serve as their interpreter.Their surprise at what they saw on board, and atthe wonders of Malta, together with their indignation at the unexpected restraints of the quarantine, we shall pass over, but cannot omit the following passage concerning the ceremonial of the table,-a matter conventional in itself, but yet so knittedup in the opinion of every country with the wholesystem of civility and good-breeding, that nothingaffords more ground for ridicule or offence thanthe slightest breach of its etiquette.372 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES." When it is remembered how simple are the manners of ourboard, where nothing is seen upon the cloth, save the food placed in various sized bowls and dishes, and spoons of different deno- minations for taking up the liquids, no one will be astonished when I say that we were quite puzzled at what we saw upon an English table. It absolutely bristled with instruments of offence.We saw knives, with long glittering blades of all sizes and de- scriptions, sufficient in number to have ornamented the girdles of the shah's household, as well as a variety of iron claws, looking like instruments of torture for putting out eyes, or running into criminals' bodies . To these were added pincers, trowels, scoops,spoons of all shapes, and contrivances so numerous that it would take up a whole life to learn their use; and for what purpose?merely to transfer the food from the dish to one's mouth. It isto be imagined that we were very awkward when we first adopted this new mode of eating, we who had been accustomed from our childhood simply to take every thing up in our fingers, and carry it with comfort and security to our mouths, without the dan- gerous intervention of sharp instruments. The ambassador,however, determined from the beginning to persevere; and so did I, in order not to have the daily mortification of being laughed at by the infidels, which they always seemed very ready to do whenever they discerned any thing in our habits of life that differed from theirs. Our first essays were rather disastrous,for my chief, in wielding his knife, had nearly cut off one of his fingers; and I, forgetting the claw which I held in my hand,eating for a moment as usual with my fingers, almost put out my eye by running the horrid instrument into my face . Then therewere ceremonies without end, of which we could not comprehendthe necessity. It is proper etiquette that the food in the large dishes should first make a deviation from the straight line to one'smouth, by resting on certain smaller plates before each guest.Then it is not lawful to drink from the jug or bottle at once, butthe liquor must first be poured into subsidiary glasses, whilst each sort of mess has its appropriate spoon. It is improper to eatbutter with the spoon for soup, or to swallow the soup with abutter ladle. To take up a fowl whole in one's hand would be amortal sin; much more to offer a bit to one's neighbour, which with us is reckoned so high an honour. In short, to describe the novelties which came under our consideration at every moment, would require more patience than so unworthy a servant of the prophet as I possess . " - Vol. i., pp. 133-136.HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 373The arrival of the envoy at Plymouth, and thetransference of the suite to London by the rapidand novel vehicle called a mail coach, are describedwith corresponding spirit. Their doubts and difficulties increased as they reached London; the envoyconceived himself disgraced because no deputationmet him before he entered the capital; the suitewere puzzled how to arrange themselves in thesplendid lodgings with which they were provided.They were incommoded with the excess and varietyof the accommodation." For instance, we found chairs of all fashions; some to keepone's legs up; some to let them down; some to loll with the rightarm; some with the left; others to support the head. Now,this to us, who have only one mode of sitting, namely, upon ourheels, appeared an excess of madness. Then there was one set oftables to dine upon, another set for writing, others again for washing and shaving. But where should I end were I to attempt description? The same difficulties existed about the rooms.The room in which the servants had established themselves, wasone appropriated for eating. To eat any where else is improper -to sleep there would be sacrilege-to make a bath of it would create a rebellion. Then above this were several large apartments, with couches placed in various corners, where the whole of us might have slept most conveniently; but these we were informed were the Franks' dewan khaneh, where the mastersreceived their visiters. "-Vol. i. pp. 204,But if the simplicity of the Persians' mode ofliving rendered them subject to embarrassment,from the complexity of European accommodation,the elchee was still more thrown off his balance bythe unexpected ease of British diplomacy. MirzaFirouz was disposed to make fight, as the expression goes, and to contest with vigour every preliminary form in the negotiation. The mode, when,374 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.how, and with what degree of ceremony, he shouldmeet the minister, and what honours should berendered on either side, oppressed him as considerations of the deepest import. But he was sparedthe trouble of fatiguing his brains on these valuablepunctilios, for the King of England's vizier forforeign affairs, as well as his first vizier or primeminister, came at once to pay him the usual compliments, without making the least scruple on thesubject. The Persian embassy were petrified atgaining a point, so important in their eyes, withouta moment's debate. They were still more astonished at learning that one of the personages, thusneglectful of ceremony, was no other than the farrenowned conqueror of Tippoo Sultaun.Avisit even more interesting than that of LordCornwallis, was that of the visible representativesof that metaphysical and abstract idea of a sovereign-personified in India, sometimes as MotherCompany, whose sons conquer kingdoms with theone hand, and gather rupees with the other, andsometimes as John Company, whose salt is eaten byabout a hundred thousand of sepoys. The avatar,or earthly descent of this (to an Oriental) incomprehensible personage, appeared before the asto- nished elchee in the form of two common infidels,whom the ambassador and his suite (having hurriedto the window upon their being announced) beheldstanding by an old hackney coach, and wranglingwith the driver for his fare. These, Hajji Babalearned, were the king and deputy king of Indthe breathing successors to the throne of Aureng-HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 375zeb, Jehangir, and Shah Allum-in a word, thechair and deputy chair (as their interpreter explained himself, pointing first to a chair, and thento a stool, in illustration of his meaning). On further explanation, the strangers learn that, thoughthe personages who visited them,66 possessed kingdoms, they were not in fact kings; that the re- venues of these kingdoms did not belong to them, but to otherswho enjoyed the fruits of them; that they were partly concerned in occasionally sending out a king, or firman firmai, to Calcutta;but that they, their Indian king, their fleets, their armies, weresubject to another greater personage still, who was one of the King of England's viziers, who lived in a distant corner of thecity, and that he again was the immediate servant of the real Shah of England and of Hindostan." Bewildered with this complication of real kings, and little kings, viziers, sitters upon chairs, and sitters upon stools, we held (says Hajji Baba) the finger of suspense upon the lip of astonish- ment, and pondered upon all we had heard, like men puzzling over a paradox. At length our visiters took their leave, and the am- bassador promised that he would shortly fix a day for getting bet- ter acquainted with Coompani, ' of whom he and his countrymen had heard so much, and about whose existence it became quite necessary that Persia should, for the future, have clear and posi- tive information. Instead of reascending their crazy coach, thekings (for so we ever after called them) walked away upon their own legs, and mixed unknown and unheeded in the common crowd ofthe street.6" When they were well off we all sat mute, only occasionallysaying, Allah, Allah! there is but one Allah! ' so wonderfully astonished were we. What? India! that great, that magnificentempire! that scene of Persian conquest and Persian glory!—the land of elephants and precious stones, the seat of shawls and kincobs -that paradise sung by poets, celebrated by historians moreancient than Irân itself! -at whose boundaries the sun is permittedto rise, and around whose majestic mountains, some clad in eternal snows, others in eternal verdure, the stars and the moon are allowed to gambol and carouse! What! is it so fallen, so degraded, as to be swayed by two obscure mortals, living in regionsthat know not the warmth of the sun? two swine- eating infidels,376 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.shaven, impure, walkers on foot, and who, by way of state, travel in dirty coaches filled with straw! This seemed to us a greatermiracle in government than even that of Beg Jan, the plaiter of whips, who governed the Turcomans and the countries of Samarcand and Bokhara, leading a life more like a beggar than a potentate. "—Vol. i. pp. 265–268.The Persian envoy was not doomed to be gratitified by every thing which occurred in his intercourse with the British court. He is described byHajji Baba as being astonished and displeased atfinding that his first audience of the sovereign islikely, from some circ*mstance of the Englishmonarch's convenience, to be deferred beyond theperiod he had contemplated. This was a greatsubject of grief and anger, the more so, as all thePersian vehemence could not move the phlegm ofthe English ministry, and hardly that of the mehmandar, or interpreter.The hour of audience being at length fixed, theenvoy is informed that he is to proceed to thepalace, there to be presented to the Shah of England, by his vizier for foreign affairs, and to deliverhis credentials. The elchee exclaims bitterlyagainst the commonplace character of such a reception, as altogether unworthy of his own characterand the dignity of the sovereign who occupies themost ancient throne in the world." When your ambassador, ' said Mirza Firouz, ' reached theimperial gate of Tehran, was he received in the manner that Ihave been here? No. The King's amou was sent to welcomehis arrival before he even entered the city. And when he proceeded to his audience, the streets were lined with troops, salutes were fired, sugar was thrown under his horses' feet; drums,trumpets, and cymbals resounded throughout the city; the bazarswere dressed; the populace were ordered to pay him every respect. He was clothed with robes of honour, and he was allowedHAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 377to stand in the same room in which the king of kings himself reposed. And, by the beard of the prophet, I swear that if I am not treated in the same manner, I will proceed as a private individualto the palace, I will ask to see the king, I will place my shah's letter into his hands, and having said mykhoda hafiz shumah, MayGod take you into his holy protection, I will straightway leave the country, and return whence I came." That may be very well to say, as far as you are concerned, ' said the mehmandar, but my sovereign is somebody also, and is likely to be consulted on this question. Suppose he were not to agree to your visit? ' We saw the storm was impending, and that the mehmandar's words might as well have remained at the bottom of his throat. The ambassador's facewas thrown upside down; the hairs of his beard became dis- tended; and he oozed at every pore. " In short, then, ' said the ambassador, his eyes flashing fire, am I an ambassador, or am I not?' Is my king a king, or is he not? ' said the mehman- dar, to which, angry as he was, in his own language, he mumbledsomething to himself about ' dam, or dammy, ' which word caught the Mirza's ear, and he, recollecting it to have been frequently used on board ship, mistook it as an epithet applied to himself,and his wrath then broke out something in the following words: Dam, do yousay? Am I dam? If I amdam, then you are the father of dam. Why should I remain here to be called dam? After all I am somebody in my own country. I will defile the grave of dam's father. I will do whatever an asscan do to his mother, sister, wife, and all his ancestry. I am not come all this way to eat dam, and to eat it from such hands.'Upon which he flung out of the room, leaving the mehmandar to open the eyes of astonishment, and to eat the stripes of mortifi- cation. " Vol. i. p. 238.The mehmandar, with perfect composure, buttoned his coat, took his hat, and wished them alla good-morning. The envoy, however, now becomes alarmed that, in his zeal for maintaining hisdignity, he might have overacted his part, andthrown some serious impediment in the way of theproposed audience. At length, real impatience andanxiety getting the better of all airs of dignity, he378 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.sends Hajji to the mehmandar, with an orange inhis hand, and a courteous invitation to dinner. Atthe appointed hour, accordingly, the interpreterappears, calm and undisturbed as usual, and is mostkindly received by the Persian, and caressed, as aman who had acquired wisdom in the East, andknew the folly of being really angry on such occasions.›" To this the mehmandar answered, May your friendship never diminish. I have made known your wishes to the vizierfor foreign affairs .'—' Well , ' said the ambassador, all of a sudden excited, and what did he say? -' He said, ' returned the infidel, that there would be no difficulty in giving you a public audience. We have plenty of troops, and plenty of coaches,abundance of fine clothes, and fine things, and you shall go before the king, accompanied in any manner you choose.'— ' Won- derful! ' exclaimed the ambassador, wonderful! I do notunderstand you English at all! You make no difficulties. Youleave no room for negotiation . Not upon trifles, ' returned the mehmandar. ' Trifles? do you call an ambassador's receptiona trifle?' said Mirza Firouz. There is not a step made onsuch an occasion as this in Persia which is not duly measured.And do you call the dignity of sovereigns nothing? '-' The nations of Europe were fools enough in times past, ' said the meh- mandar, ' to make matters of etiquette affairs of state, and they used to lose intrinsic advantages in pursuing these ideal ones; but they are become wiser; we look upon etiquette now as child'splay. However, in consideration of your being Persians, and knowing no better, we do not hesitate in giving you as much of it as you please. '6" Upon this the ambassador stroked his beard, pulled up his whiskers, and sat for some time in deep thought. He felt himself lowered in the estimation of the Franks, whilst, at the sametime, he was aware that he could not act otherwise than he had done. At length he exclaimed, And so the English think thatwe are men from the woods, asses, beasts of burden, and know nothing of what the world is about? Be it so, be it so. Butthis know, that a nation who can trace its ancestry to Jemsheed;who counts a Jenghiz Khan, a Tamerlane, a Nadir Shah, an AgaHAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 379Mohamed Khan, ay, and a Fatteh Ali, amongst its kings, is notaccustomed to child's play, and, moreover, is not at all inclinedto take example from the kings of Frangistaun for any part of itsconduct in matters relating to its own dignity. ' "-P. 245.The audience finally proceeds as originally proposed, the acute tact of the Persian having discovered, that, to insist upon vanities willingly andindifferently conceded, would be placing himself inthe rank of a froward child, or a barbarian, ignorant of the points on which Europeans rest realconsequence.This entertaining passage touches a point in thechapter of human society which leads to some reflections. The time is not so very distant whenthe English court would have reasoned on such asubject, in a manner not unworthy of that of Ispa- han. When Sir John Finnett, the author ofFinetti Philoxenes, acted as master of ceremoniesto Charles I., Mirza would have encountered inhim, beard to beard, or whiskers to beard at least,a zealous defender of those points of ceremonywhich modern ministers conceded with such easycontempt, and an antagonist, therefore, after hisown soul. But one question remains, and it is an important one. We have turned over to oblivion and scorn the ancient superstitions of mastersof ceremonies, and gentlemen ushers, about firstand last in the order of reception, right and leftin point of place, chairs and joint stools in respectof accommodation; nor would the Spaniards andFrench, in the suites of their respective ambassadors, be (without the interference of Townshend)380 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.permitted, as of yore, to fight a bloody and fatalbattle in the streets of London, on the importantpoint whose carriage was entitled to precedence.The sense that ambassadors are sent for otherpurposes has got rid of all this foppery. But, wewould ask, might not the reformation be carriedfurther? is it not worthy to be extended fromthe antechamber, where it has been achieved, intothe cabinets themselves, where much, and of a mostimportant character, remains to be done to simplifydiplomacy? James I.'s witty character of an ambassador, that he was a man of quality sent to lieabroad for the good of his country, has, perhaps,been too deeply imprinted on the European systemof conducting foreign relations. It is particularlyunfavourable for the English nation, and advantageous for the political agents of other countries,who, by a dexterous employment of what is fami- liar to their habits, and alien to ours, have, for ages,been as remarkable for gaining as we for losing indiplomacy. An Englishman argues much as hehandles his national weapon in a private quarrel.He can make a shift to apply one sound argumentas substantial and as solid as a lead bullet, to thecomprehension of his adversary, by whom it must often be admitted as sufficing. But, in the smallsword logic, the tierce and quarte of diplomaticfinesse, he is almost sure to be foiled. The progressof time has thrown general light on all manufactures, trades, and even professions, and has dispelled the mist in which interested persons had involved them; the more that the mysteries, asHAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 381they were termed, attached to peculiar employments, have been removed, the more powerful hasbeen the assistance they have received from truescience. The same rule would doubtless apply todiplomatic arrangement, if conducted on a morefrank, explicit, and open principle, than that of thetortuous détours, finesses, &c.- (we are glad thevocabulary is not English)-hitherto held almostinseparable from the science. The diplomacy ofNapoleon was conducted with all states inferior inpower, on the principle of sic volo sic jubeo, andhis decisive argument was the circle which theRoman consul drew round the Eastern monarch.This put finesse and subterfuge much out of thequestion, and these were only resumed in hisnegotiations with Great Britain. On these occasions, the protracted contest, though maintainedby the most able combatants, somewhat resembledthat of men fighting in the armour of their greatgrandfathers. The old tricks of the diplomaticscience, ever since this palpable exposure, havebeen falling into as much disrepute as BarbaraCelarent. Its disguises are now too threadbare toserve the purpose of concealment. Above all , theselfish, narrow-minded, and most impolitic principlethat each state ought to act, and had a right to act,for its own separate advantage, in seizing whateveradvantage, craft, or superior force could secure forit, has been severely expiated by universal suffering, and though it cannot perhaps be altogetherexpelled from the bosoms of sovereigns and statesmen, will be no longer unblushingly avowed. The382 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.time was when Joseph II., thinking he had a fairopportunity to subdue Turkey in Europe, gavethe King of Prussia to understand very frankly,that the only rule of peace or war which sovereignscould be bound by, was the probability of theirbeing defeated, or successful -in other words, thesame principle on which gamesters draw near thehazard table, and highwaymen take the road. Thiswretched system of senseless egoism, after havingengaged Europe in such a succession of mutualinjuries, aggressions, and wrongs, until, like skirmishes of the frogs and mice, the feuds were endedin the general subjugation of the continent, hasbeen fortunately counteracted, and for the presentexploded; and, we believe, most civilized stateshave arrived at the wholesome conclusion, thattrue policy does not consist in the struggles of anation for its own aggrandizement, but in theunion of the whole European republic towardspromoting the peace and happiness of the civilizedworld. If this be now in a great measure recognised as the object of public treaties, it seems tofollow that an object so fair, and manly, and meritorious, will be best furthered by being stated andfollowed up by plans and arguments of the samecandid character. Persons proposing each some1 See this unblushing avowal in a very interesting work, en- titled, Mémoires d'un Homme d'Etat, which contains muchauthentic information concerning the state of Europe at the commencement, and during the progress of the French Revo- lution. We believe it is justly attributed to the pen of PrinceHardenberg, one of the few truly great statesmen of our own times.HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 383guagesinister advantage to himself, naturally concealtheir real objects under the jargon of contending attorneys, to whom peace is war. But men unitedin the honest purpose of seeking that which is bestfor the whole, get rid as soon as possible of thegrimgribber of negotiation, and resort to the lanofcommon reason and common sense, becausethat which is unquestionably just always gains bybeing made completely intelligible. A fair experiment of this nature was made long since, whenthe plain and downright integrity of Sir AndrewMitchell was found too many for the refined policyof the wily Frederick, the most subtle of negotiators, and when the English ambassador, merelyby dint of speaking truth, raised at once his owncharacter and that of his country into weight andauthority. The present time, too, is highly favourable for simplifying the subtleties of public diplo- macy, since no minister ever could know betterthan our present premier the superiority of Corporal Trim's single thrust of the bayonet, thedetermined aim and irresistible vigour of whichbears down all fine fencing in action, and all metaphysical subtleties in logic. Let us speak a frankword, for it is a true one. Subtlety is not ournational characteristic, and when we engage in therecondite mazes of diplomacy, we attempt a gamewhich we do not understand, and from which,therefore, we are not likely to rise winners. Sincethe time of Philip de Commines, who first madethe remark, "the English have commonly lost innegotiation what they have gained in war." This384 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.could not, surely, be the case, were our diplomacyconducted on the principles of plain reason andcommon sense.We ask pardon of our readers for a digressionto which, in truth, the work before us affords noapology, since, differing in that particular fromMontesquieu and Lord Littleton, the author ofHajji never suffers the lucubrations of his Persian to touch upon politics, whether of a general ornational character, confining his subjects almostentirely to criticisms on manners and customs.The ambassador-whose liberal mode ofthinking,and shrewdness of perception of character, thoughmingled of course with national prejudice and agood deal of national roguery, are not to be disguised-is, we conclude, the same Mirza whose witand talents excited a strong sensation in the fashionable world about eighteen or twenty years ago, andwhose person, character, and manners made thesubject of a small and agreeable pamphlet by LordRadstock, which, though not published, was, webelieve, pretty generally circulated. There was inthe manner of Mirza all the address and dexterityof a courtier, with some points which seemed toindicate a deeper degree of reflection than we areaccustomed to connect with the idea of a Mussulman. His repartees were often repeated at thetime, and lost none of their effect in coming forthbythe medium of bearded lips, from a head swathedround with a turban. His jests were regulated withmuch delicacy. He could, on occasions, be severeenough, but it was always when time and placeHAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 385served. A profound blue-stocking once teasedhim with enquiries whether they did not worshipthe sun in Persia. " O yes, madam," said Mirza,with perfect coolness, " and so would you in England too-if you ever saw him." Mirza, whileresiding in Britain, made a progress, on whichoccasion he showed that he completely understoodthe duty of tourists who would act in character, toask a certain number of questions, with a becomingdegree of indifference as to the manner in whichthey may be answered. For example, when hevisited a large public library at one of the universities, he looked round the room, " Fine room—great many pillar-are they stone pillar?-woodpillar? " His cicerone, who had a slight impedimentin his speech, not answering immediately, Mirza.went on, " You do not know?-very well -verymany book here are they printed book or writtenbook?" There was a similar hesitation; " Youdonot know? very well." In Edinburgh he visitedthe old palace of Holyrood, whose gallery is garnished with a most fearful and wonderful collectionof pictures, said to be portraits of the hundred andsix ancestors of gentle King Jamie, which webelieve were originally painted to grace the entranceof his unhappy son Charles into his Scottish metropolis in 1633. Mirza no sooner beheld this collection of scarecrows than, being a critic as well as awag, he turned to the old lady who showed theapartments:-" You paint all these yourself! "" Me, sir-no, no-I canna paint any thing, pleaseyour honour." To which Mirza answered, " YouVOL. XVIII. 2 B386 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.not know, ma'am-you try, ma'am-youdo agreaterdeal better, ma'am." Such was, in his actual reality,Mirza Abou Taleb, the prototype of Hajji's patron.whose character, therefore, is not overcoloured by our tell-tale secretary.Additional interest is given to the narrative bythe contrasted lights in which the same incidentsare seen by the envoy and Hajji (both of whomare somewhat indifferent, or, at least, very liberalin matters of religious belief), and the master ofceremonies, Mahomed Khan, -a rigid Mussulman,and others of the suite who are zealous followers ofthe Arabian prophet. The Circassian, too, thougha late convert to Islamism, became, as is the natureof her sex, —to say nothing of the nature of renegades-a violent assertor of the creed which shehad so recently adopted. There was a dinneraccepted by the envoy at the house ofsome wealthyJewmerchant, or banker, which liberality on Mirza'spart drew on him reproaches from his mistress, hismaster ofthe ceremonies, and even from Hajji Babahimself. The Mirza is provoked beyond patience.<" Oh, you dog without a saint! ' said he to Mohamed Beg;are you a Mussulman to lie after this manner? why am I to bear all this want of respect? I am the shah's representative,and if the shah himself was here he would cut your head off;but as I am a good man I will only punish you with a few blows. Give him the shoe, ' he cried out to several of us; andhaving named me as the principal agent, I was obliged to take off my slipper, and inflict on the mouth of my friend as many blows as I could. I went to work as quietly as possible; but with all my ingenuity I could not avoid knocking out a certain old and solitary tooth, which had stood sentry at the door of his mouth ever since the last reign.HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 387" The poor sufferer left the ambassador in pain and anger.I heard him vow eternal vengeance; and to me he said, ' Oh you of little fortune! why would you hit my tooth! You didbetter things when you were a ferash, and beat men's toes.'" I swore upon the sacred book that I was without help, thatI was ordered to strike; and I only begged that if he were everobliged to do the same to me that he would not spare me.'Vol. ii. p. 271 .99But it is an amourette of our adventurous friendHajji Baba which chiefly interested us. The gallant secretary had made an acquaintance at Astley's(whichplace of amusem*nt he calls the horse-opera)with a father, mother, and three daughters, thefirst of whom was a devotee, who converted Jews,and made stockings for the poor; the second,beautiful and fashionable; the third was not comeout yet, but had a tendency to blue, in the garterat least. All this was made known to our Hajjiby the loquacity of the mother, who expatiatedupon the wealth and generosity of her husband."" Mashallah! praises to Allah! ' said I, he is also veryfat; ' and I added, what may his fortunate name be? ' ' Hogg,at your excellency's service,' said she.. " It is an old Scotchfamily, and we flatter ourselves that we come from some of theoldest of the stock.'- Penah be khoda! refuge in Allah! 'exclaimed I to myself; 6 a family of the unclean beast! and oldhogs into the bargain! My luck is on the rise to have fallen into such a set. And pray what may yours and the youngladies' names be? ' said I. ' We're all Hoggs too, ' said themother. "This leads to a visiting acquaintance, which thesecretary keeps private from the ambassador, theambitious Ispahani having in secret nourished hopesof securing the affections and property of thebeautiful Miss Bessy Hogg. The ladies, on their388 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.part, had adopted some idea that their Easternfriend was a mirza, or prince, which Hajji Babafailed not to confirm, gaining thus an amazing stepin their favour." This being established, it was quite amusing to observe the rate at which they started with the word ' Prince,' as if it hadnever crossed their lips before. Whatever they addressed to me was prefaced with that monosyllable, until at length, in my own defence, I was obliged myself to ask a few questions. • Whereis your papa? ' said I to the beautiful Bessy. The mammaanswered, He is gone into the city; he attends to his businessevery day, and returns in the evening.'—' Ah! then, ' said I,'he is merchant- same in my country: -merchant sit in bazar all day, at night shut up shop, and come home-What he sell,ma'am? '- - ' Mr Hogg, ' said the lady, with some dignity, ' doesnot keep a shop, he is an East India merchant.'- Then perhaps he sell ham, ' said I, thinking that his name might be adesignation of his trade, as it frequently is in Persia.• Sellshams! ' exclaimed the lady, whilst her daughters tittered .should he sell hams, prince? ' -' Because he one Hogg, ma'am.In our country, merchant sometime called after the thing hesells. La, prince! ' exclaimed the lady, what an odd custom.Hogg is an old family name, and has nothing to do with the animal. There are Hoggs both in England and Scotland.'-' You might as well say, prince, ' remarked the young Jessy,that Sir Francis Bacon, the famous Lord Verulam, was a porkbutcher.' And that all our Smiths, ' Taylors, Coopers, Bakers,Cooks, and a thousand others, were representatives of their professions, ' added Bessy. Well, I never heard any thing like it, 'summed up the mamma. ' Mr Hogg a ham-seller indeed! La,prince! what could you be thinking of? ' " -Vol. ii. p. 93.6WhyThis false step is soon repaired; and, by dint ofhis supposed quality, our friend Hajji, whom noscruple or fear of consequences ever deters from¹ The prince did not know Verstegan's couplet, or he might have found an answer-"Whence cometh Smith, be he lord , knight, or squire,But from the clown that forged in the fire? "HAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND . 389prosecuting an immediate advantage, is invited toa splendid dinner by the family of Hoggs, andtreated with such distinction, that he conceives himself to be on the point of making a conquest of themoon-faced object of his affections; whilst, on theother hand, he has no small reason to be apprehensive of the envoy's displeasure, should he bedetected in the act of taking upon himself thecharacter of a prince. This fact transpires, likemost others, through the medium of the newspapers, which announce the grand entertainmentgiven by those distinguished fashionables, Mr andMrs Hogg, of No. Portland Place, to hisHighness the Persian Prince Mirza Hajji Baba.Great is the displeasure of the ambassador; andgreat above measure is the embarrassment ofhis worthy secretary, justly suspected of being theillustrious prince who has shared the banquet of theunclean beasts, as the cousins of the Ettrick Shepherd are unceremoniously denominated; and as heendeavours to vindicate himself, with some warmth,against the charge of having eaten a good dinner,he draws on himself the discipline of the shoe-heel,applied repeatedly to his teeth by the envoy himself, while his hands are held by two of the assistants.This mis-adventure does not prevent the enterprising secretary from persevering in his schemeon the heart and fortune of the lively Bessy. Heis even able to extract some countenance from theambassador, who, understanding that the damsel390 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.has a fortune of fifty thousand tomauns, proposesthat the profits of the adventure shall be fairly divided betwixt himself and his dependent, he getting the portion, and Hajji Baba the person of thelady. But, though this obstacle is removed, it isin vain that Hajji makes love in the Persian manner, by rubbing his own shawl against the back ofthe young lady's pelisse; it is in vain too that helearns from an Englishman-(who had, probably,in his mind, the lively story of " Altham and hisWife," that there have been instances of lovetales being favourably received in England whentold under an umbrella, and in the middle of ashower. Chance, assisted by his own dexterity,gave him the desired opportunity, with its adjuncts of the umbrella and the rain, which he considered as essential to a propitious explanation.But while, in the most correct style, we presume,of Persian adoration, he styles the young lady histooti sheker khur, or sugar-loving parrot, and invitesherto "wife with him and live with him" the lovelyBessy slips her arm from under that of her lover,and hints something of speaking to mamma.prosecution of the story is, we think, a little caricatured. The father of the Hoggs, as Hajji callshim, is represented as applying to the ambassador,and to the mehmandar or interpreter, for the purpose of learning our friend's real character, birth,fortune, and expectations. Now, as the said Hoggis described as a wealthy India merchant, we thinkthat he must certainly have known what wool aTheHAJJI BABA IN ENGLAND. 391Persian's red cap is composed of, and that it isimpossible he could have thought for a moment ofmatching his daughter with a foreigner, of a falsereligion, and a barbarous country, while there wereso many bachelors, good men on ' Change, and verygood Christians, doubtless, to boot. It is wonderful, however, that in a work which afforded suchtempting opportunities to push humorous incidents into extravagance, the author should haveresisted the license, except only in the presentinstance. The appeal to the too veracious mehmandar is utterly destructive of Hajji Baba's tender hopes; and the moonfaced Bessy Hogg, insteadof being made a princess after the desire of ourPersian secretary, or the " lady" of a young longspurred hussar officer, after her own inclinations,becomes the wife of a wealthy grocer, and herOriental admirer is a resigned witness of the ceremony which, we doubt not, to her great ultimatecomfort and satisfaction, makes her Mrs Figby.The departure of the embassy, with all the preparatory bustle, and above all, the settlement oflong bills which it involves, is described with thetruth and spirit which characterise this lively work,and of which we have given so many instances.Hajji Baba returns safely to Persia. The wonderswhich he saw at the court of Britain he narratedbefore the throne of the Shah; was invested witha dress of honour; and dismissed from the royalpresence with his head, like that of Horace, knocking against every star in the zodiac.392 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.Before laying aside these two volumes, we cannot resist the temptation to turn back for a momentto the travels of Abou Taleb (reviewed in our8th number), which are the production of a bonafide Mussulman. The advantage, of course, remains infinitely on the side of the work writtento amuse, over that which was composed for thepurpose of instruction. Such ludicrous errors asHajji cherishes and records, his real prototype,when he fell into any of them, took especial careto conceal; giving us only the result of what he learned from matured consideration and experience.Abou Taleb deals, therefore, in matter of fact, andis most prosaic exactly where the secretary of thePersian embassy is most lively, imaginative, andabsurd. It is odd that, though both works bearthe marked impress of Oriental composition, theyhardly evince an idea in common with each other,excepting that the authors show the same holyscruple at employing a brush composed of hog'sbristles for the purposes of the bath. There is onepolitical plan for the settlement of our national debt,which Abou Taleb does us the favour to suggest,and which in the Hajji's hands could not have failedto make a grand figure. Nothing could be more easy, he imagines, than to assemble the creditors ofgovernment in the presence of parliament, andinform them in plain language that they mustinstantly enter into a compromise, and agree to becontented with receiving a certain proportion oftheir debt. We have only to observe, that theKUZZILBASH. 393remedy seems to us to stop halfway; and that ifthe " Light of the Universe," or any other Orientalmonarch had a parcel of troublesome creditorsassembled in the Atmeidan, before the " refuge ofthe world," or whatever his palace might be called,he would probably make them glad to compound,not for half only, but for all their claims, merely bydrawing up a few nasakchies around the congregation. How the remedy would work in Europeunder favour ofthe learned Oriental physician-thewise may make some drachm of a scruple.Another work of considerable merit, belongingto the same class of composition, has attracted ourfavourable notice, though we are at present compelled to introduce it only in a very summary way.It is called the Kuzzilbash, that is, the " Redcap,"by which is meant the Persian soldier, so namedfrom the distinguishing part of his attire. ThisOriental romance, for such it must be termed , displays an accurate and intimate acquaintance withthe manners and customs, as well as the history ofPersia. The power of description displayed in it,so far at least as external circ*mstances are concerned, is of a most rich and picturesque character.The author's pictures of natural scenery in theEast, show an eye familiar with its beauties andits terrors; and indicate, we are tempted to think,no ordinary acquaintance with the art of thedraughtsman. The following description of whathad once been an ornamented garden, but wasbecome a place of rendezvous for a marauding394 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.tribe of Turcomans, might be easily transferred tocanvass as a counterpart to Goldsmith's Auburn:-" Just upon the edge of the bank, the little stream, after fill- ing a canal, had been trained to fall over an artificial cascade of stone, the sides of which had been adorned with ornaments of thesame; but the canal was almost obliterated, and the stone over which the water rushed was broken, and had fallen in such amanner as to confine the stream still more. A rude spout ofstone had been placed so as to collect it in the basin below, andto enable the women to fill their water- vessels more easily. Ahuge old sycamore-tree, once the chief ornament of the garden,grew on one side and overshadowed the basin; and a vine, whichhad rooted itself among the broken stones, formed a still closercovering, protecting the water from the rays of the sun, so as to render it always cool and refreshing. It was a delicious spot,and had become the favourite rendezvous of the whole aoul: thewomen came morning and evening to fill their water- skins; the elders of the men met to smoke their calleeoons under the shade,and the youths to talk over their exploits performed or anticipated,to play at games of chance, and listen to the tales of a Kissago,or to gossip with the women; the children sported below upon the green bank, or threw themselves into the sparkling waters of the little lake at its foot. "-Vol. i . pp. 59, 60.The following sketch of a Persian cavalier hasthe richness and freshness of one of Heber's, orMorier's, or Sir John Malcolm's pages:-" He was a man of goodly stature, and powerful frame; his countenance, hard, strongly marked, and furnished with a thick black beard, bore testimony of exposure to many a blast, but itstill preserved a prepossessing expression of good- humour and be- nevolence. His turban, which was formed of a cashmere shawl,sorely tached and torn, and twisted here and there with small steel chains, according to the fashion of the time, was wound around ared cloth cap, that rose in four peaks high above the head. Hisoemah, or riding- coat, of crimson cloth, much stained and faded,opening at the bosom, showed the links of a coat- of- mail whichhe wore below; a yellow shawl formed his girdle; his huge shul-KUZZILBASH. 395wars, or riding trowsers, of thick fawn- coloured Kerman woollenstuff, fell in folds over the large red leather boots in which his legs were cased. By his side hung a crooked scymitar in a blackleather scabbard, and from the holsters of his saddle peeped out the but-ends of a pair of pistols; weapons of which I then knew not the use, any more than of the matchlock which was slung at his back. He was mounted on a powerful but jaded horse, andappeared to have already travelled far. "Scenes ofactive life are paintedbythe author oftheKuzzilbash with the same truth, accuracy, and picturesque effect, which he displays in landscapes orsingle figures. In war, especially, he is at home;and gives the attack, the retreat, the rally, thebloody and desperate close combat, the flight, pursuit, and massacre, with all the current of a headyfight, as one who must have witnessed such terrors.We regret we have not space to give a fartherextract; and still more that we cannot add tothese just praises any compliment to the art withwhich the author has conducted the incidents of hisstory-which are, to say the least, very slightly puttogether, and frequently place out of perspectivethe hero and his affairs. The historical events aredwelt on so often, and at such length, that we loseinterest for the Kuzzilbash, in tracing the career ofNadir and the revolutions of Persia. This is asin which, we hope, the author will not cleave to,on further experience. We must also hint, thatthe moral characters of the agents whom he introduces, are not sufficiently discriminated to maintain much interest with the reader; they too muchresemble the fortem Gyan fortemque CloanthumIt may be answered, with plausibility, that people,396 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.trammelled by the dogmatic rules of a false religion, and the general pressure of an arbitrary government, are not apt to run into the individualvarieties of character to be found in a free andChristian community. But a more close inspection of that great mass which preserves, at thefirst view, one dull appearance of universal resemblance, gives a great many differences both of a national, a professional, and an individual kind. While,then, we sincerely hope the author of the Kuzzilbash will resume the pen, we would venture to recommend that he commence on a more restrictedcanvass, and lend considerably more attention tothe discrimination of his characters, and the combination of his story. In this case, with his stores ofinformation and powers of language, we cannothelp thinking he will secure public favour.In the mean time, and with our recollection ofthe remarkable circ*mstance, that English literature has found an interest even in Persia, we feeldisposed to nourish hopes that the taste may increase. Why may not European productionsbecome, in time, as indispensable to the moralhabits of a Persian, as a Chinese leaf to an European breakfast? Such expectations may appearextravagant to that sect of dampers who may betermed the Cui-bonists. -What would be the goodconsequence, they may ask, should Britain be ableto introduce into Persia the whole trash which loadsher own circulating libraries? We reply thatthese volumes of inanity, as Johnson would haveKUZZILBASH. 397termed them, are yet not more inane than theromances of the middle ages, which spread wideover Europe the system of chivalry, and therebywrought a more powerful change on human manners than ever was produced by any one cause, theChristian religion alone excepted. " Let any onewho lists," says a lively French author, " makelaws for a people, so I have liberty to composetheir songs " a similarity of books paves the wayfor a similarity of manners; and the veil of separation once rent, there is no saying how soon it maybe altogether removed .66 goThe possibility of a great change being introduced by very slight beginnings may be illustratedby the tale which Lockman tells of a vizier, who,having offended his master, was condemned to perpetual captivity in a lofty tower. At night hiswife came to weep below his window. " Ceaseyour grief," said the sage,home for the present, and return hither when you have procured alive black beetle, together with a little ghee (orbuffalo's butter), three clews, one of the finest silk,another of stout packthread, and another of whipcord; finally, a stout coil of rope." When sheagain came to the foot of the tower, provided according to her husband's commands, he directedher to touch the head of the insect with a little ofthe ghee, to tie one end of the silk thread aroundhim, and to place the reptile on the wall of thetower. Seduced by the smell of the butter, whichhe conceived to be in store somewhere above him,398 CRITICISM ON NOVELS AND ROMANCES.the beetle continued to ascend till he reached thetop, and thus put the vizier in possession of theend of the silk thread, who drew up the packthreadby means of the silk, the small cord by means ofthe packthread, and, by means of the cord, a stoutrope capable of sustaining his own weight, -andso at last escaped from the place of his duresse.END OF VOLUME EIGHTEENTH.EDINBURGH; PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND CO. , PAUL'S WORK.I

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