[Illustration: At Easter Time the Baron de B.-W. visits his friend
_The_ Peer of Brighton.]
Seeing that _A Wild Wooing_ (published by F. V. WHITE & CO.) is by
FLORENCE WARDEN, authoress of _The House on the Marsh_, the Baron
anticipated a real treat. But he was somewhat disappointed. The novel
is in one volume, which is an attraction, and that volume is of a
portable size, which is another note in its favour; also it is
not illustrated, which is an undisguised blessing. The story is
interesting up to a certain point, which, however, does not take you
very far into the book, and, after this point, the murmurings behind
walls, the moving and dragging of heavy bodies under the floors, the
insecure rope-ladders, the trap-doors, cellars, underground passages,
smugglers, murderers, victims, and all sorts of mixed mysteries,
become tiresome. There is yet another fault, which is, that the story
is not told in so convincing a style as to make the reader feel quite
sure that the authoress is not "getting at him" all the time, and
just trying to see what quantity of old melodramatic stuff he will
patiently stand.
Henceforth FLORENCE WARDEN will do well to get away from the rusty
bars, bolts, chains, trap-doors, and cellars, from ruined castles,
as grim as that of _Udolpho_, "of which," as Sir WALTER said in his
preface to _Waverley_, "the Eastern wing had long been uninhabited,
and the keys either lost, or consigned to the care of some aged butler
or housekeeper, whose trembling steps, &c., &c." Accidentally, turning
from "White" to "Black," the Baron took up the first volume of the
excellent re-issue of the _Waverley Novels_, by Messrs. ADAM AND
CHARLES BLACK, called _The Dryburgh Edition_, and commenced reading
the introductory chapter of _Waverley_, which at that time, gave the
death-thrust to the melodramatic horrors of romantic tales, whether
evolved from the inner consciousness of English writers, or openly
acknowledged as "taken from the German."
In view of the sensational romance of the present day, towards which,
when really good, the Baron owns to having a decided leaning--it is
interesting to note how brave Sir WALTER defied the existing fashion
in novels of his own time, spurned the sentimental "Mordaunts," the
"Belvilles," and such like played-out names of ancient chivalry,
laughed at the heroine "with a profusion of auburn hair and a harp,"
and, like the Magician of the North that he was, boldly gave to the
world his historic novels, in which, where History doesn't suit the
requirements of fiction, it is so much the worse for History. Are
there very many of the present generation who have not read Sir WALTER
SCOTT'S novels? If there be any--and there must be, or where would be
the demand to occasion this new and admirably devised supply--let them
at once put aside modern sensationalism, and commence WALTER SCOTT as
a study. The Baron knows personally one man of mature years, who has
read neither _Waverley_ nor several others of the series, and him he
envies, for, as the student in question has already set himself to the
task, he has the greatest literary pleasure of his life yet to
come. Type, size of book, excellent as a library edition; and the
illustrations, so far as they have gone, are good, and not too
distracting. And so, after this unequivocal expression of his
sentiments, he signs himself,