This is one of the most deservedly attractive novels of the past season;
and the good sense with which it abounds, ought to insure it extensive
circulation. It has none of the affectation or presumptuousness of
"fashionable" literature; but is at once a rational picture of that order
of society to which its characters belong, and a just satire on the
_superior_ vices of the wealthy and the great. The author is evidently no
servile respecter of either of the latter classes, for which reason, his
work is the more estimable, and is a picture of _real_ life, whereas
fashion at best lends but a disguise, or artificial colouring to the
actions of men, and thus renders them the less important to the world, and
less to be depended on as scenes and portraitures of human character. The
former will, however, stand as lasting records of the men and manners of
the age in which they were drawn, whilst the latter, being in their own
day but caricatures of life, will, in course of time, fade and lose their
interest, and at length become levelled with the mere ephemera, or
day-flies of literature. It is true that novel-writing has, within the last
sixteen, or eighteen years, attained a much higher rank than it hitherto
enjoyed; but it should be remembered that this superiority has not been
grounded in mawkish records of the fashionable follies of high life, such
as my Lord Duke, or my Lady Bab, might indite below stairs, for the
amusement of those in the drawing-room; on the contrary, it was founded in
portraits and pictures of human nature, strengthened by historical, or
matter-of-fact interest, and stripped of the trickery of fancy and romance;
whereas, the chronicles of fashion are little better than the vagaries of
an eccentric few, who bear the same proportion to the general mass of
society, that the princes, heroes, and statesmen of history do to the
whole world. This is a fallacy of which thousands of Bath and Cheltenham
novel-readers are not yet aware, and which the listless _Dangles_ of
Brighton and Margate have yet to learn, ere they can hope to arrive at a
correct estimate of human nature; but to such readers we cordially
recommend _Penelope_ as the best corrective we can prescribe for the bile
of fashionable prejudice, or the nausea arising from overstrained fiction,
modified as it is to the romance of real life.
_Penelope_ has, however, one of the failings common to fashionable novels.
Its plot is weak and meagre--but it is still simple and natural, and has
not borrowed any of those adventitious aids to which we have alluded above.
It bears throughout an air of probability, untinctured by romance, and has
the strong impress of truth and fidelity to nature. Sketchy and vivacious,
always humorous and sometimes witty; it has many scenes and portraits,
which in terseness and energy, will compare with any of its predecessors;
and occasionally there are touches of genuine sentiment which seize on the
sympathies of the reader with more than common effect. The incidents of
the narrative do not present many opportunities for these displays of the
writer's talent, and we cannot refrain from thinking that their more
frequent introduction would have increased the success of the work--that
is, if we may be allowed to judge from the specimens with which the author
has here favoured us.
But we are getting somewhat too critical, and consequently as much out of
our element as modern aeronauts, who are no sooner in the air than they
seem to think of their descent. We shall not, however, impair the pleasure
of the reader by giving him a foretaste of the whole plot of _Penelope_;
but we shall rather confine ourselves to a few portrait-specimens of
characters, whose _drawing_ will, we hope, _attract_ the general reader;
presuming, as we do, that its claims to his attention will be found to
outweigh dozens of the scandalous chronicles of high fashion. We are not
told whether the parties ate with silver or steel forks, or burned wax or
tallow; but those characters must be indeed poorly drawn which do not
enable the reader to satisfy himself about such trifles, allowing that he
thinks them worth his study.
An outline of the characters may not be unacceptable. The scene lies
principally in the villages of Neverden and Smatterton; and between their
rectors Dr. Greendale and Mr. Darnley, and their families; the Earl of
Smatterton, of Smatterton Hall; Lord Spoonbill, his son; Sir George
Aimwell, of Neverden Hall; _Penelope Primrose_, the heroine, who is placed
by her father under the care of Dr. Greendale, whilst Mr. Primrose seeks
to repair his fortune in the Indies; and Robert Darnley, Penelope's suitor,
also for sometime in the Indies, who is thwarted in his views by Lord
Spoonbill, and a creature named colonel Crop, &c.
In the early part of the narrative, Dr. Greendale dies, and Penelope is
removed from Smatterton to London, where she is to be brought out as a
singer, under the patronage of the Countess of Smatterton, and Spoonbill
is first struck with her charms, and resolves to frustrate his absent
rival.
The roguery of a postboy named Nick Muggins, who is employed by the noble
suitor to intercept letters, and the aid of Crop, who acts as a sort of
go-between, are put in requisition for this purpose; but the villany of the
latter is finely defeated in his mistaking a silly, forward girl, Miss
Glossop, for Penelope, and accordingly prevailing on her to elope with him
to Lord Spoonbill's villa, where the blunder is soon discovered by his
lordship, who in return is horsewhipped by the father of Miss Glossop;
and Darnley and Penelope are eventually married.
There are two or three adjuncts, as Peter Kipperson, a "march of intellect"
man, Erpingham, one of Spoonbill's companions in debauchery, Ellen
Fitzpatrick, one of his victims, Dr. Greendale's successor, Charles
Pringle; and Zephaniah Pringle, a literary coxcomb of the first order.
The portrait of Dr. Greendale is of high finish--full of the truth and
amiability of the Christian character--one who regarded the false
distinctions of society in their proper light, and knew how to set a right
value upon the influence of good example, and who was "loved and respected
for the steadiness and respectability of his character; for the integrity,
purity, simplicity, and sincerity of his life." At the same time, the
doctor is finely contrasted with his wife, who possessed the common
failing of paying homage to her illustrious neighbours to obtain their
notice and patronage, and who felt flattered by a collateral branch of the
Smattertons accepting an invitation to her table. Of the _heroine_, we
quote the author's outline:--
_Penelope Primrose_ exceeded the middle stature, that her dark blue eyes
were shaded by a deep and graceful fringe, that her complexion was
somewhat too pale for beauty, but that its paleness was not perceptible as
a defect whenever a smile illumined her countenance, and developed the
dimples that lurked in her cheek and underlip. Her features were regular,
her gait exceedingly graceful, and her voice musical in the highest degree.
Seldom, indeed, would she indulge in the pleasure of vocal music, but when
she did, as was sometimes the case to please the Countess of Smatterton,
her ladyship, who was a most excellent judge, used invariably to pronounce
Miss Primrose as the finest and purest singer that she had ever heard.
The character of Lord Spoonbill is struck out with singular felicity and
spirit:--
Lord Spoonbill was not one of those careless young men who lose at the
university what they have gained at school; one reason was, that he had
little or nothing to lose; nor was his lordship one of those foolish
people who go to a university and study hard to acquire languages which
they never use, and sciences which they never apply in after-life. His
lordship had sense enough to conclude that, as the nobility do not talk
Greek, he had no occasion to learn it; and as hereditary legislators have
nothing to do with the exact sciences, it would be a piece of idle
impertinence in him to study mathematics. But his lordship had heard that
hereditary legislators did occasionally indulge in other pursuits, and for
those pursuits he took especial care to qualify himself. In his lordship's
cranium, the organ of exclusiveness was strongly developed. We do not mean
that his head was so constructed internally, as to exclude all useful
furniture, but that he had a strong sense of the grandeur of nobility and
the inseparable dignity which attaches itself to the privileged orders.
The only instances in which he condescended to persons in inferior rank,
were when he was engaged at the race-course at Newmarket, or when he found
that condescension might enable him to fleece some play-loving plebeian,
or when affairs of gallantry were concerned. In these matters no one could
be more condescending than Lord Spoonbill. We should leave but an
imperfect impression on the minds of our readers if we should omit to
speak of his lordship's outward and visible form. This was an essential
part of himself which he never neglected or forgot; and it should not be
neglected or forgotten by his historian. He was tall and slender, his face
was long, pale and thin, his forehead was narrow, his eyes large and dull,
his nose aquiline, his mouth wide, his teeth beautifully white and well
formed, and displayed far more liberally than many exhibitions in the
metropolis which are only "open from ten till dusk." His lips were thin,
but his whiskers were tremendously thick. Of his person he was naturally
and justly proud. Who ever possessed such a person and was not proud of it?
_Colonel Crop_ was only Colonel Crop; he enjoyed the rank of colonel, and
that was all the rank that he could boast; he was tolerated at the castle;
he dined occasionally with his lordship; and occasionally partook of the
pleasure of shooting the birds which were cultivated on his lordship's
estate. In town, he patronised the countess' routs, and in the country he
was a companion for the earl, when not otherwise engaged. He was proud of
the earl's acquaintance, though he was not weak enough to suppose that he
was more than tolerated. The haughtiest of the great do sometimes pick up
such acquaintances as Colonel Crop, and they cannot easily get rid of them.
We must pass over Peter Kipperson, an excellent whole-length portrait of a
man who makes a noise in these marching times, and show in _Sir George
Aimwell_, of Neverden Hall, Bart., who was descended from a long line of
illustrious ancestry, and was a wholesale poulterer, and one of the great
unpaid. Not that we mean by this expression to insinuate that the retail
poulterers did not pay him for what they had: we merely mean to say, that
the preserve-worshiping, springgun-setting, poacher-committing baronet
administered justice for nothing; and with reverence be it spoken, that
was quite as much as it was worth. The worthy baronet was a most active
magistrate, peculiarly acute in matters of summary conviction; and
thinking it a great pity that any rogue should escape, or that any accused,
but honest man, should lose an opportunity of clearing his character by
means of a jury of his fellow-countrymen, he never failed to commit all
that were brought before him.
Sir George professed Whig politics; these were hereditary in his family,
but by no means constitutional in him as an individual. Therefore he
passed for a very moderate Whig; for one who would not clog the wheels of
government. In short, he was no more a Whig than a game preserver ought to
be; and that, as our readers know, is not much. He took especial pains to
keep the parish clear of vagrants and paupers; and by his great activity
he kept down the poor-rates to a moderate sum. Sir George, though a
professed Whig, was not very partial to the education of the lower orders,
and he always expressed himself well pleased when he met with a country
booby who could neither read nor write. For this reason Nick Muggins, the
postboy, was a great favourite with him. Our worthy baronet could not see
the use of reading, and he thought it a great piece of affectation for
country gentlemen to have libraries. His own books, for he had a few, were
huddled together in a light closet, where he kept his guns and sporting
tackle. There was a Lady Aimwell, wife to Sir George; but this lady was a
piece of still life, of whom the neighbours knew nothing, and for whom her
husband cared nothing.
Everybody in the neighbourhood remembers the impressive admonition which
Sir George gave to an old man who was convicted at the quarter sessions of
having a bit of string in his pocket, and therefore strongly suspected of
a design of a malicious nature against the game.
"John Carter," said the worthy baronet, "let me address to you a few
words on the sin of poaching. Poaching, John Carter--is--is a sin of which
too many are guilty, owing to the lenity of our most excellent laws. I
think that if everybody thought, as I think, of the moral heinousness of
this offence, nobody would be guilty of it. Poaching is not yet made
felony; but there is no saying how soon it may be made so, if the crime be
persisted in. It is a moral offence of the greatest enormity, and is one
of those crying, national sins, which may one day or other bring down the
vengeance of heaven on our guilty country. Now, John Carter, if you go to
gaol for six months, I hope the tread-mill and the chaplain will work a
thorough reformation in your morals."
Of course the contact of Sir George with such a man as Kipperson, affords
great merriment: _ex. gr._ part of a dinner scene at Neverden Hall:--
Now Peter was a very literary man, who thought there was nothing worth
living for but science and literature; and having somewhere read that it
was impossible to take shelter in a shower of rain with such a man as
Burke, without discovering him to be a man of genius, Peter was desirous
of continually showing off, and was instant in season and out of season.
Therefore when sitting at the table of the worthy baronet, he assailed the
magistrate with various scientific subjects, but all to no purpose; there
was no response from his worthy host. Endeavouring to adapt himself to the
moderate talents and circumscribed reading of the baronet, he next started
the subject of novels and novel reading, taking care to insinuate that,
though Sir George might not read the trash of circulating libraries, he
might be acquainted with some of our best novels. To this at last the
baronet replied--"Oh, yes; I remember many years ago reading a novel
called Tom Jones, written by a Bow Street officer. I recollect something
about it--it was very low stuff--I forget the particulars, but it was
written in the manner of servants."
Hereupon Mr. Peter Kipperson set it down as an indisputable fact that
baronets and magistrates were the most ignorant creatures on the face of
the earth, and he congratulated himself that neither he nor Sir Isaac
Newton were baronets.
A scene between Lord Spoonbill and one of his victims, whom he meets in
his father's park, has some fine touches of remorse:--
Agitated by distracting thoughts, he stood at the park gate, gazing
alternately in different directions; and by the intensity of his feelings
was at last rivetted in an almost unconscious state of mind to the spot on
which he was standing. Suddenly his pulse beat quicker, and his heart
seemed to swell within him, when at a little distance he saw the dreaded
one approaching him. Had he seen her anywhere else his first impulse would
have been to avoid her; but here his truest and best policy was to submit
to an interview, however painful. Shall he meet her with kindness?--
Shall he meet her with reproaches?--Shall he meet her with coldness? These
were inquiries rapidly passing through his mind as she drew nearer and
nearer. It was difficult for him to decide between cruelty and hypocrisy;
but the last was the most natural to him, so far as custom is a second
nature.
The afflicted one moved slowly with her eyes fixed on the ground, and she
saw not her enemy till so near to him, that on lifting up her face and
recognising his well-known features, the sudden shock produced a slight
hysteric shriek.
Lord Spoonbill was not so lost to all feeling of humanity as to be
insensible to the anguish of mind which she now suffered, who had once
regarded him as a friend, and had loved him, "not wisely, but too well."
He held out his hand to her with an unpremeditated look of kindness and
affection; and which, being unpremeditated, bore the aspect of sincerity.
The stranger at first hesitated, and seemed not disposed to accept the
offered hand; but she looked up in his face, and the blood mounted to her
cheeks and the tears stood in her eyes, and she gave him her hand, and
covered her face and wept bitterly.
There are moments in which shameless profligates look foolish and feel
that they are contemptible. This was such a moment to Lord Spoonbill. He
was moved, and he was mortified that he was moved; and there was a general
feeling of confusion and perplexity in his mind. What could he say? or how
could he act? He began to stammer out something like gentleness, and
something like reproof. But she who stood before him was as an accusing
spirit, to whom apology was mockery, and repentance too late.
In the first volume too, there is a successful satire on the changes of
sixteen years in the condition of the people of England--between Mr.
Primrose, who had been absent for that period, and the egregious Peter
Kipperson. It is quite in the _forte_ of the writer, and we regret that we
have not room to quote it at full length.
Such are the only specimens which our limits enable us to present to the
reader; but we hope they will be sufficient to induce him to turn to the
work itself--and we doubt not--for his further gratification. Digressions
occur too frequently to suit the pioneering taste of a certain class of
readers; they may serve as resting-places in an intricate plot, but they
were not, on that account, wanted here. At the same time, they are
recommended by plain sense, knowledge of the world, shrewdness, and
harmless satire on the weak sides of our nature, and are therefore
_useful_; whilst their terseness and vivacity will free them from the
charge of dulness, or the sin of prosing.
* * * * *