BEING returned to London, our hero chiefly devoted himself to literary
pursuits, and especially to the work which he had engaged to execute.
As he had now advanced considerably in reputation, many applied to him
for his judgment concerning literary works, and on other subjects.
Female authors brought him their novels and dissertations, and some of
them appeared willing to submit to any terms he chose to prescribe,
provided Hamilton would give a favourable review of the productions
of their brain. They cared little what their other works might be, if
their literary works underwent a favourable investigation. In reviewing
the publications of men, Hamilton was very fair and impartial. But
the effusions of female pens he generally regarded with an eye of
indulgence; and, indeed, a critic must be very austere, who, when
an agreeable young woman brings her intellectual offspring for his
inspection, will very severely scrutinize every part. Observations
may be common-place, but a kiss of the fair deliverer’s sweet lips,
might convince even Aristarchus himself, that actions in which there
is little novelty, may still be very pleasing. Perhaps there may
be a small forgetfulness in such matters as nominatives and verbs,
relatives and antecedents; _whom_ where a pedantic grammarian might
require _who_, or it may be spelling somewhat different from the formal
stiffness of Dr. Johnson, or some little inadvertencies in the way
of geography, chronology, or history, such as that the Earl of Essex
commanded an expedition against Calais in Henry Vth’s wars; Algernon
Sidney lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth; or that Admiral Hawke
defeated the Spanish armada at La Hogue; or any little trifling mistake
of that kind. The sweet smile of harmony and good humour will atone
for a false concord. Our hero, in his criticisms upon the productions
of ladies, shewed, that with him at least, the age of chivalry was not
gone.
It was now the month of December, when one morning Hamilton was told
a young woman wanted to speak to him. “I have seen her before,” said
the servant; “I remember her shop-woman to Miss Edging the milliner.”
“Oh, I suppose she must want you, Charlotte?” “Very probably,” said
Charlotte; “I expect a cap home.” “No, miss, the cap will not be
ready till to-morrow morning; it is my master she wants.” Our hero
accordingly attended in the drawing-room, and saw a very pretty little
girl about twenty, who somewhat flurried, and blushing, begged pardon
for the great liberty she had taken; “but when business is slack,”
she said, “during summer, I have been doing a little in the novel
line; and Mr. Nincompoop, who keeps the eminent press for that kind
of _larning_, and who is a most capital judge, has been pleased to
think very well of it, and now it is published. But they tell me that
it is of great consequence to have it well spoken of in the Reviews.
Having, therefore, the honour of serving your mother and sister, and
having, I believe, given them satisfaction, particularly in bonnets
(for Miss Hamilton is very partial to my bonnets); I have even had
the honour of lacing cravats for you, sir: therefore, sir, I thought
you would excuse my freedom in begging a merciful criticism. I am a
young beginner, sir, and I hope you will make allowances.” “He must
be a very insensible critic,” said our hero, “that could see so very
sweet a girl, and be disposed to severity.” “Oh, sir, you gentlemen do
flatter so:” and now our hero, pulling a table before them, requested
Miss Lacecap to sit down upon the sofa, that they might with the more
convenience look over the work together. On the sofa accordingly did
our author and our critic sit. Miss pulled out two volumes, one of
which our author opening, read the title page, which was as follows:
“The Maze, of Marvels: or, the Loves of Carolino and Athalia.” “Very
pretty soft names your hero and your heroine.” “I am happy to have
your approbation, sir. I have an abstract of the plot written, sir.”
Accordingly she produced a paper. “I have to observe, sir, that what
put the plot in my head first, was reading a book called Ovid, I
believe Dryden is the author, where there was a very pretty affecting
story, called, ‘Pyramid and Thisby.’ I dare say you know the story?”
“Yes, I recollect something of it.” “Now, sir, I think a great deal in
a story is a pretty name.”
“Story--Carolino and Athalia often see one another at a _windore_, and
being both extraordinary handsome, they fall in love with each other;
but their parents being rival shopkeepers, is not friends, and so
they are against the lovers, and they are obliged to whisper secretly
through a crany in the wall of the back-yard. Accordingly they lament
that they cannot be oftener together and nearer, and agree to have
an assignation in a church-yard, when the neighbours should be in
bed.” “A church-yard!” said our hero; “is not that a melancholy scene
for a meeting of lovers?” “Oh, no. In the story-book Pyramid meets
with Thisby in a church-yard, near a great lord’s tomb, for it seems
lords did not then bury in the church. To be understood, I suppose,
the church-yard to be near town, at Mary-le-bone, for instance; so
off they set out to meet. Athalia gets first to the place.” “Do not
you think that makes Carolino very ungallant?” “Oh no, sir. You see
Carolino is her first love, and she has been to boarding school, and
reads novels and love-stories, and is therefore the more coming.
Thisby, in the story, gets to the church-yard before Pyramid; it is as
it were more a novelty to her.” “A most excellent comment upon Ovid’s
Thisbe,” said our hero. “Yes Sir,” said the young lady, simpering;
“that same Ovid knew our _sect_.” By this time, in the progress of
criticism, our Longinus’s hand happened to have doubled the fair
Sappho’s neck, with its course directed onwards, and his lips had
reviewed hers in a kiss. When after an “a fie, sir,” in which the
smiling eyes did not correspond with the chiding tongue, she went
on; “Athalia is flustrated, on finding Carolino not there; but in
a few minutes he comes, a little afraid at being in the dark alone
in so dismal a place, and whistling ‘Lango Lee,’ to keep himself in
courage.” “Do you think that a natural circumstance?” “Oh, yes, I once
knew an instance myself: A gentleman belonging to the guards (but
interrupting the instance)----the bravest man in the world might be
afraid of apparitions.” “Certainly, no hero that was to meet with so
lovely a girl as you, in a sweet solitary retirement, could be under
the influence of fear.” “No, sir, Carolino and Athalia are not afraid
after they do meet; then they have something else to think of. But we
will go on with the story if you please, sir.” “Carolino and Athalia
meet at the gate of the Mary-le-bone burying-ground, by the light of
the moon, and they embrace one another with the warmest affection, and
reciprocate the sweet strains of love; when a watchman, almost at their
ears, calls past twelve o’clock.” Here the author observed, “I did not
know, sir, how to bring in a lion, because them kind of beastesses
are not to be found in the fields; but only at Exeter Change, and the
Tower.” “Why, my fair friend, you observe probability much better than
many of your sister novelists, and perhaps a watchman might occur to
your fancy as a more probable intruder into such a tender scene than
a lion.” “Oh yes, sir, but let us go on.” “The lovers, to escape the
questions of the watchman, cross the New Road into the fields near the
Jews Harp. For several months the fond lovers have interviews, but
ah the cruelty of destiny! poor Athalia finds a change in her shape,
which a cruel and unfeeling world is so malignant as to censure. She is
likely to be a mother without being a wife.” “Poor Athalia!” said the
critic; “but one comfort to her is, her case is not singular.” “Alas!
no,” said the author; and here she sighed, and was in some little
agitation; but our hero either not noticing, or not appearing to notice
her, proceeded, and read in the synopsis “a pathetic letter of Athalia
to Carolino, on discovering her condition.” Hamilton turned to the
place, and read as follows:
“My beloved Carolino,
How shall I communicate to you the fatal secret; alas! I am betrayed.
I will not reproach you. I am betrayed into _mistake_ by the soft
sensibility of too tender a heart. I cannot reproach you; I can only
blame myself, and a worthless and malignant world. Ah! why (as the
king of German moralists observes so strongly) should that be reckoned
dishonourable in event which proceeds from no malevolent intention?
Why should the indulgence of the sweetest of affections be reckoned
a crime? Why should it be deemed shameful to obey the impulses of
nature? Ah! when shall the corruptions of society suffer actions to
be estimated according to the divine sentiments of the “Virgin of the
sun,” even after the title ceased to be applicable. When, like Clara
and Lindor, shall we look on such incidents as innocent and even
laudable. I need not say, shall _we_ look, but shall a worthless and
wicked world look upon such occurrences in the right point of view.
Oh! sentiment, thou source of every thing that is great, and noble,
and refined, how are thy rights violated! It was only last night,
just as I had returned from meeting him that is so dear to my soul, my
mother, I found, had discovered _the sacred secret of my heart_: alas,
to be a secret no longer, for to her it was not long confined. These
human monsters, these foes to all fine sentiment, these repressors of
all delicate feeling!” “Who can these be,” said our hero. “Oh, sir,”
said the author, “do not you know who it means. I thought that one of
the best parts of my descriptions: but you will see as you go along.”
Our hero still not discovering, she said in a half whisper, “I mean,
sir, _the parish officers_, but I did not know how far they could
with propriety be mentioned in a pathetic scene. Perhaps you would
object to their introduction after interviews of sentimental love and
tenderness.” “Their introduction,” said our hero, “frequently takes
place after scenes of sentimental love: but let us go on with the
letter. And they say that these brutes in human shape, are endeavouring
to get hold of my charming Carolino, because he has felt the delicacy
of refined sentiment for his Athalia,--because we have loved beyond
vulgar rules. Oh, my Carolino, elude their search, and when safe beyond
their jurisdiction, inform your doating Athalia.”
From the letter he returned to the story: “Carolino betakes himself
to sea, and according to the song, ‘Syrens in every port he finds;’
but being a brave fellow, and becoming an able seaman, rises in his
profession; in a year or two is made a captain, and takes a Spanish
prize; his share of which is about two hundred thousand pounds. He
purchases a fine estate, and is made a lord. In all this time he
forgets sentiment and poor Athalia; but she adheres to sentiment
and elevation of mind. She incurs great distress, _advertises in the
newspapers for the protection of a man of honour and sentiment_:
finds one in a worthy gentleman who benignantly undertakes the causes
of distressed fellow-creatures, persecuted by the rigidity of the
law. From this protector, she passes to one of his clients, who is
extricated from the danger by which he is threatened, and afterwards
accompanies a friend of his on his travels. Returning after a great
variety of adventures, she still solicits and obtains patronage; and
while under her succession of guardians, she cherishes her exalted
sentiments, and preserves her mind constant to her first lover.” “In
short,” says our hero, “Athalia appears to be like a ship, which
having one captain, has a great number of lieutenants, that in turns
super-intend the quarter-gallery in his absence.” “I hope, however,
the captain comes on board at last.” “Oh, yes sir, I bring it all
right before the end.” “She comes home; finds her boy, who, as the
great Rousseau directs, had been sent to the Foundling, a fine youth
of eighteen, enlisted in the guards; but totally ignorant of his
parents. She makes herself known, and promises in a few days to inform
him who was his father. The very next evening he rescues a gentleman
from robbers. The gentleman takes him to his house, and behold, it is
discovered that he is his own father Carolino, now earl of Muscadello,
Baron Bobadilio. Finding his Athalia is still alive, he instantaneously
repents, and has a tender interview, in which she acknowledges all her
_mistakes_, at least as many of them as she can remember. The earl
finds that her heart and sentiment had been uniformly true to him,
recovers all his former love, marries her, and procures an act for the
legitimation of his son, who is thenceforth my Lord Bobadilio: is first
a great rake, but after continuing three years in that capacity, falls
in love with Lady Bella Rosebud, marries her, and becomes instantly
eminent for virtue and religion. The earl and countess of Muscadello,
my lord and my lady Bobadilio, vie with each other in holiness, wisdom,
and goodness. Carolino and his Athalia, when they behold the children
of their beloved Bobadilio sporting before them, contemplate with
delight the Mazes of Marvels, and see sentiment triumphant, and bless
the happy night when they first met at Mary-le-bone burying ground, and
crossed into the fields between the Jews-harp and old Mother Red-cap’s.”
“Now for the moral. It is in the last sentence, sir; that is the right
place you know, sir, for the _moral_.” “So your sister novelists seem
to think, and with many of them it is certainly the only place.”
“Hence we may learn that the highest perfection of human nature is
sentimental refinement; that endowed with this gift, though youth may
fall into those _mistakes_[3] from which humanity can never be free,
and to which sentimental susceptibility is peculiarly exposed from its
exquisite fineness, yet the heart will regain its purity and elevation,
and after the rectification of venial mistakes, resplendant brilliancy
of character will ensue. Cultivate then, my dear young friends, above
all excellencies, sentimental refinement.”
“Well, sir,” said miss rising, making a curtsey, “How do you approve
of my work?” “It is like yourself, lovely and charming.” “Would you
have the goodness, sir, to write a review of it?” “I can refuse nothing
to so fair an applicant, I could be the Carolino myself to such an
Athalia.” He now thought he heard some one on the outside of the door,
and did not doubt but female curiosity in the person of the maid might
be listening to what was going forward; he accordingly suspended some
_part_ of his remarks, and made an appointment for the evening, by
which time, he said, he should do full justice to the subject; and
after again very closely reviewing her lips, he asked if she would not
see his mother and sister, and they parted. Our hero accordingly set
about the review, which he executed to the following purport. “It was
avowedly and evidently the work of the young beginner, but displayed
considerable genius. Led by fancy, more than experience and actual
knowledge, the author had too much given way to the marvellous; but on
the whole, it far surpassed the usual productions of Mr. Nincompoop’s
press,” This review, with a favourable analysis, and the best specimens
that could be selected, our critic carried to the fair author, who was
very much gratified.
About this time a new species of writings began to make its appearance
in works of fancy, and professed imitation of life and manners. Le Sage
and Fielding had carried the exhibition of human nature and passions,
the manners and characters of the times, to a degree of perfection
that has not been equalled, and scarcely could be surpassed. Miss
Burney pursuing the same track, but possessing greater originality
of genius, introduced an extensive variety, not resembling Fielding
in detail, but like him, copying from life--excelling in strength of
delineation and in humour of colouring. Less comprehensive in range,
but acute in observation, picturesque in description, interesting in
tale, impressive in character, and pathetic in incident, situation,
and feeling, Charlotte Smith headed a different species of just
representers of conduct, character, and passion. From the strong, but
somewhat coarse and farcical satire of a Roderic and honest Strap,
to the delicate tenderness of Adelina, Emeline, and Godolphin, the
various classes of the comic epopee, appear to have been exemplified
by masterly writers, all adhering to existing or probable archetypes.
The Recess and Emma Corbet, verging to the province of Melpomene rather
than Thalia, are still imitations of probability. Genius, ardent after
novelty, will sometimes leave an old road, not because it may not lead
it to its journey’s end, but because it is old. There was at this time
a great disposition to literary innovation, that shewing itself on
subjects of serious reasoning, religion, morality, and politics, was
also manifest in works of amusement. Conception far out-went actual
existence and experience. The object of ingenuity appeared to be to
enchain and petrify by astonishment more than to allure by pleasure,
impel by profit, or guide by wisdom. There was a very prevalent
disposition to question established truths, and to transcend admitted
probabilities; and while serious pretenders to philosophy proposed new
principles and rules for governing social and political man, literary
dispensers of amusement also chalked out a new system of tales and
exhibitions, and instead of the probable, frequently substituted the
marvellous. Some persons of great genius began, and others followed
this style of writing. The Eloise of Rousseau rendered it very popular
on the continent. It glided along all the eccentricities and easy
extravagance of the French ingenuity, and was dragged through all the
studied wildness of German labour. Genius relieved the marvellous by
the probable, introduced its fanciful beings in circumstances which,
diminishing or overpowering the incredible, gave full force to the
appearance; while pains-taking dulness never failed to introduce such
adjuncts and appendages as broke the spell, and shewed the improbable
absurdity. Shakespeare could manage a ghost; but if he introduced
a ghost, he brought such a being discovering a foul and unnatural
murder, not amusing himself with a tune on an organ. This new style of
writing, or old romance revived, generated or regenerated in France
or Switzerland, received its clothing from the literary taylors of
Germany; and a ponderous garbit was containing the heavy armour and
escutcheons, and heraldic blazonry of the feudal times, and the motly
patch-work of modern illuminism. It obtained from its uncouth enormity,
the name of the _Gigantesque_. If dexterity or skill happened, at
any time, to betake themselves to this species of exhibition, they
excited a horror and amazement, which, for a time, might suspend the
faculties of the reader, but the gross improbability soon dispelled
the deception; but it was reserved for English genius so to temper the
marvellous with the probable, and so to mingle both with the pleasing
and pathetic, as to hurry on the reader wherever the writer chose. Such
were the reflections of our hero, when the “Romance of the Forest” was
first sent for his critical examination. The able and inventive author
chusing a different tract from a Burney and a Smith, and accommodating
herself to the growing taste for the gigantesque, admitted it with the
modifications of judgment in her scenery and machinery, but did not
chuse it as the ground-work of her story. The actual tale is natural,
and during the age and manners which she describes, is probable. No
object is actually presented which was not within the compass of known
existence at the time. The impressions though arising from imaginary
beings, were natural in the characters and state of mind represented.
An innocent and inexperienced girl, dejected with the consciousness
of her destitute situation, conceiving herself the victim of villany
and treachery, where she for a time had experienced protection, torn
from the man that she loved, and apprehensive of violation from the man
that she hated, in a vast and desolate edifice, which she had recently
discovered to be the scene of murder, hearing noises at the still
hour of midnight, is perfectly consonant to nature, in apprehending a
visitation from the apparitions of the dead. The fears which disturb
the marquis, and drive him from the abbey, the scene of conscious
murder, is perfectly consonant to the feelings of enormous guilt.
La Motte vacillating between the depravity of habitual indulgence
ripened into profligacy, and the remains of honourable and virtuous
feelings, by temporary impulse driven to crime, but by the remnants
of humanity held from hardened atrocity, is a character at once
natural and instructive, and very forcibly pourtrays the proclivity
of pleasurable vice. The passions, characters, and manners, are in
this production natural, striking, and impressive; the fable in its
principal constituents, sufficiently probable to interest the reader
in the fortunes of the actors; the descriptions of external nature,
perhaps too exuberant; but it is the exuberance of genius prompted
by taste and sensibility, exquisitely susceptible of the beauties of
nature; she cannot restrain her fancy from expatiating on subjects
which have afforded to herself so delightful sensations and images.
Her marvellous is not improbable. Such were the critical reflections
of our hero on his examination of this novel, together with the taste
of the times, when it made its appearance. He predicted, however, that
attempted imitation, by inferior genius, would inundate the public
with monstrous fictions, bearing no resemblance to any thing that ever
existed in any age or country, and as it afterwards appeared, he was
not mistaken in his prophecies.