Chapter IV.

I’ll call thee, Hamlet.

_Shakspeare._

Hurried away early on the ensuing morning, Margaret had no opportunity

of learning the fate of her lover. She only knew that all delusion was

at an end, and that—alas! for her future happiness—she had bestowed

her affections on an outlaw, one who might soon suffer the penalty of

his transgressions.

On her arrival at Mountfort castle, she learned that her father had

determined to celebrate the approaching anniversary of her birth, by a

tournament to be given to all comers at his castle. The preparation for

this festivity, though it partially diverted her mind, could not drive

away her melancholy. Often would she steal away with Ruth, to find a

mournful pleasure in conversing of the happy days they had spent at her

father’s lodge. Such conversations would generally end in a flood of

tears, in which the tender-hearted hand-maiden would share. Yet never,

not even for one moment, did Margaret suffer herself to dream of again

meeting her lover, for well she knew that such a thing would call down

upon her the eternal displeasure of her parent. Let it be recollected

that in that age the distinctions of rank were almost as impassable as

the grave. Nevertheless, the worm had fastened itself upon her heart,

and like thousands before and since, the heiress found how fearful it

was to love without hope.

Meantime the preparations for the tournament proceeded, and on the

morning of the expected day, crowds thronged to the plain in front of

the castle, on which the lists had been erected. The unrivalled beauty

of the heiress in whose honor the festivities were to be given, had

drawn together the chivalry of the realm, and a series of courses was

expected to be run such as had not been heard of for years. But

especially every tongue was loud in the praise of the young Earl of

Hastings, who, had just returned from the Holy land, where he had been

since boyhood, with the reputation of the best lance of the army. There

were many, however, of the competitors who sneered at his pretensions,

and promised themselves to unhorse him at the first shock.

“Margaret,” said her father, on the morning of the tournament, “you will

see lord Hastings in the lists to-day, and I wish you to mark him well,

for having heard of you by report, he has solicited your hand. Such an

alliance would raise higher than ever our noble house. I did not

hesitate. But now never blush, sweet one,—you maidens are ever

thus,—what! in tears. Go to your bower, child, and get ready for the

pageant. Many a proud dame will envy your lot to-day.”

Little did the inflexible, though affectionate father know of the agony

he was inflicting on that young heart. Margaret saw that her doom was

sealed, and she knew her parent too well even to expostulate, She went

to her chamber, but it was to weep. All hope was over. She had nourished

the romantic idea of continuing faithful to her unhappy lover by

refusing every alliance, never dreaming that her father would interfere.

Short-sighted girl! Already had he chosen for her, and she knew that the

decrees of fate were less inflexible than her parent.

At length, however, she aroused herself and proceeded to the lists, in

all the pomp of the heiress of her father’s vast possessions. How few

knew the heavy heart which throbbed in agony beneath that jewelled

boddice. The lists were gorgeously fitted up. A gallery in their centre,

opposite to where the shock of the combatants would take place was

appropriated to Margaret, who was to preside as queen of the

festivities. Around were her father’s countless guests, numbering half

the nobility of the realm, their wives and daughters flashing with

jewels, and all envying the fortunate being, who, at that moment, would

willingly have exchanged her rank and splendor for the peasant’s garb,

if it came attended by happiness.

The tournament began. Several courses had been run with various success,

when a herald rode into the lists and proclaimed that three courses yet

remained, all of which Sir Robert De Laney, a renowned knight, would

engage in with any three combatants, until overpowered or victorious.

Several knights instantly presented themselves. The lot fell upon three,

the Earl of Warren, Sir Edward Sidney, and lord Hastings. At once the

challenger presented himself for the first antagonist. But the skill of

his opponent was in vain. Lord Warren was hurled bleeding to the ground.

The Earl of Hastings now rode into the lists, and at his appearance a

buzz of admiration ran around the spectators. His mien, his

horsemanship, his comparative youth, and the renown he had brought with

him from the east, enlisted the popular wish in his favor. Nor did he

disappoint it. At the first shock he splintered his lance against his

antagonist’s front, while De Laney’s shaft just grazed by him. The older

knight reeled in the saddle, and scarcely saved himself from falling. A

shout of general applause rewarded the young Earl’s skill.

But there yet remained an equally renowned competitor with whom to

contend. By the laws of the tournament, Sir Edward Sidney had a right to

contest with the conqueror for the honors of the day, a privilege of

which he instantly signified his intention of availing himself. With

equal readiness the young Earl prepared for the contest. The combatants

took their places, and after a breathless hush of an instant the signal

was given, and they vanished from their stations. The shock of their

meeting was like that of an earthquake. The knight directing his lance

full at his adversary’s breast, aimed to bear him by main force to the

ground, but at the very instant of meeting, the young Earl bent in the

saddle to evade the blow, and altering the direction of his own lance as

he did so, he bore it full upon the breast of his antagonist, striking

him with such force as to hurl him from the saddle like a stone from a

sling. The discomfited knight fell heavily to the earth, and was borne

off by his squires; while the victor swept onward amid the acclamations

of the spectators. The heralds now proclaimed lord Hastings the

conqueror of the day, and led him toward the lady Margaret to receive

the prize.

Who can tell her feelings as she beheld the gallant train approaching?

She saw before her, her destined lover, and however she might have

admired his gallant exploits had her heart been disengaged, could

she—loving another as she did—look upon him with aught but aversion?

But though her emotion nearly overpowered her, she composed herself

sufficiently to go through with her approaching duty. As the victor

knelt at her feet, what sudden feeling was it which shot through her

bosom? Why did her cheek crimson, her breath come quick, her heart

flutter wildly? And why, as the helmet was removed from lord Hastings,

did she drop the crown with which she was to reward him, and with a half

suppressed scream, faint away? Why! but that in the victor of the

tourney she recognised her own outlaw lover.

The joy of the reviving maiden when she found her preserver bending over

her, and conjuring her to speak to him once more and forgive his

stratagem, we shall not attempt to describe. Suffice it to say that the

day of the tourney which opened as the darkest, set as the brightest, in

her life.

The young Earl happening to see his mistress accidentally had imbibed

the romantic idea of wooing her as an unknown and untitled stranger. For

this purpose he had secretly followed her down to the lodge, and attired

in an outlaw’s dress, had hovered around her path, waiting for a fitting

opportunity to introduce himself. The manner in which he was at length

favored by circumstances, as well as his subsequent success in his suit,

the reader has seen. But his pretended character was not without its

evils. He was seen, suspected, and captured by the forest keepers in the

way we have described. He only escaped by revealing his rank. After his

recovery from the wound he had received on that occasion, he had arrived

at lord Mountfort’s castle, determining to contest the prize in the

approaching tourney, and then reveal himself to his mistress.

It was but a few weeks after the fête, when the young Earl of Hastings

led to the altar the fair daughter of the house of Mountfort, who never

forgot, in her titled husband, the unknown OUTLAW LOVER.

* * * * *

OLD MEMORIES.

BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.

How swiftly do old memories float about our riper hours!

They’re like the fragrant breath that fills the vase of perish’d

flowers;

They bear an unextinguish’d ray, a light that never dies,

A borrow’d radiance gilding earth with lustre from the skies.

The joys that gather round us now, with all their rainbow beams,

Are bright, but evanescent, as the shadows in our dreams;

They pass before us like the leaves swept by the autumn’s blast,

Alas! too fragile for the earth—too beautiful to last.

We see the human flowers cut down, the kindred ones of home,

Whose garden was the loving heart, where storm clouds seldom come,

Making within that temple fair, a wilderness of woes,

A desert drear of that which once could “blossom as the Rose.”

We see the clasping chains unloose, and sever link by link,

Till hope turns shudderingly away, from sorrow’s fearful brink,

The band of sweet relationship, of close unwoven ties,

Is broken here—to reunite forever in the skies.

But memory with her guardian care, hath linger’d o’er each scene,

To paint them on the heart again when long years intervene.

When life’s bright summer days have gone, and all their beauty fled,

It brings us back the halcyon hours, that perish’d with the dead.

Oh! soft as music’s dying fall, from some loved voice’s tone,

Thine influence, mild and gentle power, across my mind is thrown;

Upon the harp strings of my heart, thine angel spirits play,

While fond old memories light its gloom, with many a moonlit ray.

* * * * *

THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER.

BY J. ROSS BROWNE.

(Continued from Page 104.)

Part III.

“That man,” says Theophrastus, “is justly called a lover of filthy

lucre, to whom the relish and value of a gain are enhanced by the

baseness of the means that have been employed in its acquisition.” I had

failed in my designs; but my brutal triumph over the cause of this

failure was almost equal in effect to success. I did not relent; I felt

no remorse; I would have acted the same part again: parental affection

was irrevocably dead. I enjoyed a kind of secret satisfaction at the

awful result of my violence. A long and lingering illness, augmented by

the horrors of our parting interview, had brought Valeria to the verge

of the grave. She had given birth to a son. Poverty had sternly asserted

its supremacy over the happiness of the young couple. Though since the

rupture between us had taken place, I had never visited or enquired

about her, there were many interlopers sufficiently officious to convey

to me news of her approaching dissolution. These hints I would have

disregarded, but for the sinister reports which from this time forth

were so liberally circulated to my disadvantage. A note hastily placed

in my hands one evening by a muffled figure, in whom, notwithstanding

the attempted disguise, I fancied I recognised the manly form and

contour of Da Vinci, confirmed me in my determination to witness the

results of my violence. It was traced in a tremulous hand, and read as

follows:—

“Father!—for Christian meekness and humanity, still compel me

to call you by the endearing name—will you not soften your

heart toward one, who, by all the laws of nature and of man,

should be its solace and its idol; and whose last wish is that

death should separate us in amity and mutual affection? Will you

not, now at least, when she, who was once the delight of your

old age, and the comforter of your bereaved heart, is on the bed

of death,—will you not hearken to her dying wish, and grant the

boon she so eagerly desires? O, have some mercy, my father—my

benefactor! Hasten to the death-bed of your wretched—wretched

daughter! May God forgive you, is the prayer of your erring

“Valeria.”

Two motives induced me to comply with the request contained in this

note. First, I was anxious to avoid the contumely of those who watched

my actions; and secondly, I felt a fiendish desire to behold the

consummation of my revenge. Throwing a hasty disguise over my person I

sallied out, and rapidly pushed my way through the thoroughfares of

Venice, to a remote part of the city called _Francesco della Vigna_.

Here, in an obscure lane, and surrounded by filth and poverty, I traced

my way to the wretched tenement of Da Vinci and Valeria. A kind of

involuntary sickness came over me as I ascended the stairs leading to

the miserable loft in which they lodged. It proceeded not from remorse;

it was not prompted by humanity; it was instinct conquering nature. With

some hesitation I entered the apartment of the dying woman. A spectacle,

which to any one but myself, would have appeared heart-rending, caused

me to shudder for the immensity of my guilt.

The haggard and wasted form of Valeria was stretched on the bare floor.

Her half-famished infant lay upon her breast. She breathed with

difficulty. Her eyes were sunken, her complexion pallid and unearthly.

Her features betrayed evidences of the most intense agony, both mental

and physical.

But the most shocking part of the scene was the ghastly semblance of Da

Vinci, as he sat by the bed-side of his dying wife. His hands were

crossed—his knees drawn together; his elbows rested on a broken table;

his hair fell in long and matted locks from his head; his skin was ashy

and squalid; and in place of the manly beauty which every lineament of

his countenance had once betrayed, his features were now haggard and

care-worn, and his once mellow and intellectual eye, was fixed with an

unmeaning stare on the wretch before him. Three days had scarcely

elapsed since I had recognised him in the strength and beauty of

manhood, but, oh, how changed! how fallen! how wretched!

On drawing near this afflicted group, I was startled and alarmed at the

change that came over the countenance of Da Vinci. At first the bereaved

man fixed upon me a stupid and sullen gaze; but on recognising the

author of his misery, his eyes flashed with maniacal ferocity; his lips

became pale and compressed; the large veins on his temples swelled, and

throbbed violently; and he exhibited the most alarming symptoms of

madness. I endeavored to draw back; but I was too late. His deadly

purpose was fixed. With a wild, shrieking laugh he sprang upon me. In an

instant his nails were buried in my neck. I struggled with desperate

energy. Incontinence and debauchery had sapped my vital principle, and

age had laid his searing hand on my frame; but I contended for life, and

I was powerful. On the other hand, Da Vinci, nerved by the delirium

which had taken possession of him, was irresistible.

“Fiend!” he shouted—“die!—die!—die!”

“You will murder me!” I groaned, already suffocating under his vice-like

grasp, “have mercy, for God’s sake!”

“You showed _her_ none!” he answered hoarsely.

“I repent—I shall make amends.”

“Too late—she is dying.”

“Oh, God, stop!—you strangle me! I am not fit to die.”

“So much the better. Die—villain, die!” and with a desperate exertion

he bore me to the floor. I essayed in vain to release myself from his

deadly grasp. A moment more, and death would have rescued me; but the

Almighty ordained that I should live to reap the fruits of my crimes.

Involuntarily, as the agonies of dissolution came upon me, my hand

sought one of those small daggers, with which an Italian is never

unprovided. I drew it from my bosom. I raised it to strike. Da Vinci saw

his danger; but he was too late. With irresistible strength I plunged it

in his side. He uttered no groan; he rolled from my person a dead man. I

stooped over the bleeding corpse in mute horror. The eyes were fixed

upon me with a glassy gaze. It was a fearful spectacle—one which was

well calculated to strike awe into the bosom of a murderer.

I turned a searching eye toward the prostrate form of my daughter. It

was inanimate. No sign of life or recognition illumined her ghastly

countenance. She had evidently swooned. As if in mockery of the dreadful

tragedy which had just transpired, the infant boy slumbered peacefully

by her side. The reproach was more than I could bear. Guilt—guilt was

whispered in my ear by a thousand voices. I rushed from the

blood-stained spot. I hurried to my desolate home. Here new miseries

awaited me, I bolted the doors; but they afforded me no security. I

drank deeply—but inebriation came not. I endeavored to sleep; but my

horrors were increased. This fearful state drove me to desperation. I

tried to pray: the Almighty heard me not. My heart was too black—too

guilty. Night had come. My sufferings were too intense for human

endurance. The lonely and ruinous garret in which I lay, augmented the

dreadful vividness with which I created the most revolting phantasmas in

every recess and corner; and the hollow moaning of the wind against the

roof filled my soul with ominous and harrowing sensations. A strange—an

indefinable desire to return to the scene of death, took possession of

my mind. It became too absorbing—too interminable to be resisted. The

moon had by this time ascended her throne in all her queenliness and

majesty. I rushed rapidly through the empty streets to the quay for the

night-gondoliers; and aided by the moonlight, soon succeeded in reaching

_San Francesco della Vigna_. Hastily dismissing the gondolier, I won my

way to the abode of the dead. An ominous silence reigned around it. I

shuddered—I turned pale; but I did not hesitate. Up the tottering

stairs I rushed; the door of the death-room was open; and my eyes at

once fell upon a picture which is indelibly engraved on my memory.

Valeria had, on recovering her senses, crept to the body of her husband.

She held the slumbering babe in one arm, while with the other she raised

the head of the dead man and reclined it on her bosom. She knew he was

dead—that he would never wake again; she saw the life-blood oozing from

his heart; but her devotion was superior to the evidence of her senses;

her constancy to the sword of death. She chafed his temples; she fondly

smoothed his hair; she kissed again and again his icy lips; and she

fervently prayed for the salvation of the dead. A pale, unearthly glow

was thrown over the group by occasional glances of the moon-beams; and

everything conspired to strike me with awe and remorse. But I was not

susceptible of the better feelings of humanity. I possessed no refined

sensibility. Whatever I felt was common to the lowest of God’s creation.

“Why,” I cried in a hollow voice, “why must this be? Why must my peace

be blasted by such scenes as these? I murdered him—is it not enough

that he should die? I seek nothing from him after death. Why—why do you

persecute me, Omnipotent God!”

“See!” shrieked a piercing voice, “see what you have done!”

For a moment I could not answer. The anguish of the accuser deprived me

of speech. But at length I stammered out,

“I did but defend my life.”

“You drove him mad.”

“He ruined, deceived, beggared me.”

“It is a calumny!” said Valeria, with flashing eyes, seeming for an

instant to forget her grief in indignation at the charge, “he honored

you!”

“I forgive him.”

“He is dead.”

I was silent. The last words were said in a voice of such exquisite

anguish that they went to my heart—stony as it was. If ever a pang of

remorse vibrated in my soul it was then. Valeria regarded me with an

expression more of sorrow than of anger. She clasped the infant to her

arms as if it were now her only solace; and burst into a flood of tears.

“Father,” she murmured, when her agitation had in some measure subsided;

“the hand of death is upon me. God in his infinite goodness has given

you the means of atonement for your crimes. A few hours and I shall be

no more. Take my child—you are rich—rich in worldly things—take him,

and have him brought up as he should be. I rely on you—I beseech you—I

command you! You cannot be so utterly callous to humanity, as to refuse;

let him not die in this miserable place. O, be kind to him—be more

merciful to him than you were to my poor, dead husband!”

Exhausted and heart-broken, the young mother sank upon the corpse of the

murdered man. Her eyes grew dim; her breathing became short and violent;

her hands and lips seemed bloodless; and after a few spasms she lay

still. I approached her. I placed my hand upon her heart. Already her

skin was cold and clammy. The sufferer was dead!

A chill crept over me as I stooped to examine the corpse. It seemed as

if the ghastly expression of the countenance was but the effect of some

horrible incubus—so vivid—so real—so revolting was it to the

observer. Fearfully did the presentiment of future retribution come upon

me at that moment. I was no longer the proud politician, concerting

magnificent schemes; I had nothing left of the bold and desperate

gambler; the greatness of purpose and energy of execution which had

hitherto marked my career, were at an end. I was now, what my crimes had

made me—an abject, guilty wretch. I shuddered to think of my awful

destination; I felt how terrible would be the punishment I so richly

merited; but remorse—penitence—sorrow—entered not my obdurate heart.

Necessity compelled me to comply with the dying request of Valeria. I

was aware that my conduct had excited much suspicion. It therefore

became my policy to avoid public attention; and I took the earliest

opportunity to have the unfortunate objects of my malevolence interred,

and the infant orphan confided to the care of a nurse. No suspicion was

excited at first; but strange things soon began to be whispered by the

individuals who occupied the lower part of the tenement in which the

tragedy had been enacted. The storm gradually gathered its forces for a

general explosion. Rumors, so liberally circulated at my expense,

reached the ears of the official authorities under the Doge. Manini was

not predisposed to turn a deaf ear to anything pertaining to my

downfall. His suspicions relative to my integrity had long been

confirmed. Enemies and interlopers were not wanted to construe every

thing into its most criminal aspect. The result was such as might be

expected. I was arrested by the city functionaries, on a charge of

murder. Universal horror was expressed when my crimes were made known.

It was evident that I had nothing to expect from public sympathy.—How

many are there who profess benevolence and charity, ever ready to

persecute the unfortunate with the most unmitigated severity! I

experienced the full effects of this human failing. My trial was long

and doubtful. Everything in the shape of evidence, however trivial or

absurd, was adduced in order to convict me. But nothing of a positive

nature could be brought up against me. It was true I had treated my

daughter with severity and inhumanity; but I could not be found guilty

on so general a charge. It was also true that a noise had been heard in

the apartment of Da Vinci a few hours before his corpse had been

discovered by the lower tenants of the house; but I was not seen. The

whole affair then though well understood, was in the eye of the law,

uncertain and inconclusive. Public opinion in a case like mine was not

regarded as having any weight. I was dismissed. My persecutions,

however, did not end so soon. A few devoted minions of the Doge, glad to

have an opportunity of satisfying their resentment for my former conduct

toward them, followed me unceasingly, and spared no pains to ensure my

self-conviction.

But I baffled them. My life, however, became one of extreme misery and

watchfulness. I feared to sleep lest I should be robbed or assassinated.

I dreaded a sight of the human countenance; for in every man I fancied I

recognised an enemy. Neither could I hide myself in solitude—my guilt

was too fearful—too relentless. I dared not walk in the public

thoroughfares; for the utmost detestation was pictured in every face;

and my ears were assailed with reproaches and contumely. I could not

roam the most obscure parts of the city, without being dogged and

persecuted by the blood-hounds of Manini. It was a miserable situation.

Health—comfort—happiness, were gone forever. Not even the common

enjoyments of life fell to my lot. I could not sleep—I knew no pleasure

in drink—I was too decrepid and impotent to enjoy artificial

stimulants: what then must have been the depth of my misery? It was too

great to be borne. I resolved to leave the theatre of my misfortunes;

and to bury myself in the busy haunts of the great English metropolis.

In the costume and character of a Jew, I embarked for the city of my

destination. Arrived there, I set up a small establishment as a usurer.

My thirst for accumulation was not satisfied by my crimes; nor did my

honesty profit by inaction. The great object was, however, in some

measure effected. I enjoyed as the guilty may enjoy the security of my

secluded situation. I passed many years in a state of negative

happiness. My internal miseries lost none of their poignancy; but they

caused me no physical inconvenience. I was free from immediate

conviction; and had every prospect of continuing unmolested. Time

soothed my terrors, though I still looked forward with fear and anxiety

to the day, when something worse might turn up, than mere imaginary

fears.

* * * * *

Age and imbecility have come upon me. I have spun out nearly the remains

of my guilty existence, in security and prosperity. I have acquired

riches; but have never enjoyed them. I have sinned and suffered; but my

crimes are not atoned for. A day will come when the fearful debt must be

paid. I await it with calmness. I repent of nothing that I have done. I

ask forgiveness neither of God nor of man. Let the full measure of His

retribution be my eternal ruin. I am content to die as I have

lived—fearless—guilty—unrelenting.

* * * * *

Here ends the Autobiography of this false and evil man. It is a

highly-colored, but we trust, not an extravagant picture of the effects

of avarice. The moral remains to be told. If, in the sequel or fourth

part, we can show that sooner or later retribution will fall upon the

guilty; we may say of our hero what Scott quotes of Charles the

Twelfth:—

“He left the name at which the world grew pale,

To point a moral, and adorn a tale.”

* * * * *

CHIMES OF ANTWERP.

One, two, and three, with measured stroke and numbers on they go,

For Ghentish Charles ’twas thus they woke, for blood-stained Alva so,

And still from out their airy cage of wreathed and trelliced stone,

They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown.

They float above the Plâce de Mer, and o’er thy roofs and towers,

Fair Antwerp, with thy solemn air and antique Flemish bowers;

And sweet and stately is the sound, and melancholy too,

As it should be where Memory the fabler dwells with you.

One, two, and three, with measured strokes and numbers they awake!

’Twas thus on Rubens’ ear at eve their sounds were wont to break;

And still o’er his best monument, with monumental tone,

They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown.

J. H.

* * * * *

A WINTER SCENE.

BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.

Oh how magnificent. How beautiful

The old grey wood appears. Each sturdy tree

Crown’d with a glorious diamond diadem

Of wreathen plumes and garlands. Every bush

And slender sapling, bending with the weight

Of its bright ornaments, seems to the view

Like youthful genius shrinking and o’erwhelm’d

With the chill weight of the cold world’s applause.

The sun is rising now, and every spray,

And feathery evergreen, grows radiant

With more than earthly glory. One might deem

Each twig a chain of gold profusely set

With ruby, emerald, and amethyst,

Sapphire and living diamond, splendid all

And dazzling past description. Yet there lives

No balm, no melody of loving birds

Amongst the icy branches; grandeur reigns

And frigid beauty, without life or joy.

No gentle breezes woo the branches now,

To bend and kiss their sweetly sighing lips,

And fling a cloud of incense, and bright flow’rs

Upon their lingering pinions. No young fruits

Lie in their curtain’d cradles, rocking soft

To the glad lullaby which smiling Hope

Sings round the fragrant clusters. No young birds

Lie chirping in their nests amongst green leaves.

No passing streamlet lingers in the bow’rs,

Forgetting, for a while, its morning hymn,

To touch the rich lip of the fragile flower

That lives upon its love one summer day,

Then lays the dying head so gently down

Upon its bosom, while the trembling depth

Reflects with sympathy the blighted gem,

And murmurs promise of another life,

And blest re-union at return of spring.

No young fawns gambol through the silent wood,

In the delight of life’s first consciousness

Of freedom, strength, and beauty. No fair child

Crushes the sweet buds with its little feet,

While bounding after the bright butterfly

Which floats upon its rich, brocaded wing

In graceful carelessness from bloom to bloom.

No merry laughter, no light-hearted lay,

No lover’s whisper floats among the bowers;

But all is icy beauty, cold and still,

Radiant and passionless, and void of bliss;

A glory that will quickly melt away

And leave no trace behind.

And such I deem

Is life within a nunnery; pure and bright

With heaven’s reflected glory; but all cold

And destitute of the fond sympathies

That are at once the bliss, the ornament,

And agony of life.

Liberty, Pa. March, 1841.

* * * * *

OH! GENTLE LOVE.

SUNG BY

MR. WILSON,

IN AUBER’S OPERA OF LESTOQ,

ARRANGED BY

T. COOKE.

Geo. W. Hewitt & Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration: musical score]

Oh gentle love, thy spirit o’er us beaming,

[Illustration: musical score]

Doth thro’ the soul its tenderness diffuse,

E’en as the glow, from morning’s sun light streaming,

Smiles o’er the earth, and tempereth its hues

Oh! gentle love, thy spirit o’er us beaming,

[Illustration: musical score]

Doth thro’ the soul its tenderness diffuse,

A magic all have felt and feel, how e’er they struggle to conceal

A magic all have felt and feel, how e’er they struggle to conceal,

Or as the dew upon the flowrets sleeping,

Over the leaves a distillation rains,

Which tho’ the day dissolve its pearly weeping,

Still in their heart reviving them remains.

* * * * *

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

PARTRIDGE SHOOTING.

Concluded.

Unless there be continual rain, or it be the depth of winter, birds will

visit their basking place some time in the course of the day, whether

the sun shine or not. The basking place is generally, but not

invariably, on the sunny side of the hedge. Birds may be most easily

approached in fine weather. All kinds of birds lie better in small

enclosures than in large ones, that is, when the cover in each is alike.

It need scarcely be added, that the more bushy the brambles, or the

higher the grass the more closely will lie the game.

A person who knows how to walk up to a bird will obtain more shots than

one who does not, especially in windy weather. Birds will not only allow

the shooter to approach nearer to them when he faces the wind, but they

present on rising, a fairer mark.

When the legs of a bird fired at fall, it is almost a certain proof that

it is struck in a vital part. A bird so struck should be narrowly

watched, when, in most instances, it will be seen, after flying about a

hundred yards if a grouse, or fifty yards if a partridge, to tower or

spire in the air, and fall down dead. When only one leg falls, the bird

should be watched, but in the latter case, it generally happens that the

leg or thigh only has been struck. Any bird that flinches, on being

fired at, or whose feathers are in the least disordered, should be

marked down, and followed. Grouse more frequently fly away wounded than

partridges. Grouse are often recovered several hundred yards from the

gun.

Until November or December, young grouse, black-game, partridges, and

pheasants, may be distinguished from old ones by the lower beak not

being strong enough to bear the weight of their bodies. The lower beak

of an old partridge is strong enough to sustain the weight of a brace of

birds; but a young bird cannot be raised by the lower beak without the

lower beak bending under the weight.

The number of birds in a covey varies much, perhaps the average may be

from ten to fifteen. In some years, when the coveys are larger after a

fine hatching season, it is not uncommon to see upward of twenty birds

in a covey; and sometimes after a wet season, ten birds may be deemed a

fair covey. Birds are most numerous after a dry summer. When there are

thunder-storms about midsummer, great numbers of young birds are

drowned. The young birds have many enemies besides the elements, such as

cats, young dogs, hawks, foxes, and vermin of different descriptions.

When the eggs are taken, or the young birds destroyed soon after leaving

the shell, there will be a second hatch. Sportsmen often meet with

second hatches in September, when the old birds rise screaming, and

generally alight within fifty yards, as if to induce the young birds to

follow. In that case the fair sportsman will not fire at the old birds,

but will call in his dogs and leave the ground. At such times he should

look well after the young dogs, as, when they see the birds running,

they are apt to snatch up such of them as cannot get out of the way. The

very young birds are called cheepers, from their uttering a scream as

they rise. Full grown birds never scream as they rise, except when the

young ones are helpless, nor do young birds after they are large enough

for the table.

There are shooters who acquire an unsportsman-like habit of firing at a

covey immediately as it rises, before the birds are fairly on the wing,

and, thus without aiming at any individual bird, bring down two or

three. And sometimes they will make a foul shot by flanking a covey; the

birds being on the wing, come upon them suddenly, and make a

simultaneous wheel; they take them on the turn, when, for a moment—and

but for a moment—half the covey are in a line, and floor them rank and

file. These are tricks allied to poaching, and almost as reprehensible

as shooting at birds on the ground, which is nothing less than high

treason.

The cock partridge is distinguished from the hen by the brown feathers

which form a crescent, or horse-shoe, as it is sometimes called, on the

breast.

The pointer is decidedly the best dog for partridge shooting.

The dog should fall when the gun is fired, and remain down until he is

told to seek, when he should point the dead bird. A pointer that drops

to shot, becomes an excellent retriever.

The dog should be taught to obey the eye and the hand, rather than the

voice. A dog that will do so is invaluable, in open grounds, when birds

are wild.

Whenever speaking to a dog, whether encouragingly or reprovingly, the

sportsman should endeavor to look what he means, and the dog will

understand him. The dog will understand the look, if he does not the

words. The sportsman should never, with a smile on his countenance,

punish a dog; nor commend him when he has done well, but with an

apparent hearty good will: the dog will then take an interest in obeying

him.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_“Night and Morning.” A Novel. By the author of Pelham, Rienzi,

Eugene Aram, &c. 2 vols. Re-published by Harper & Brothers, New

York._

The Right Hon. Charles Leopold Beaufort, of Beaufort Court, England, a

proud and misanthropical old bachelor, with a rental of twenty thousand

pounds, has two nephews, Philip and Robert Beaufort. The former, who is

the elder of the two, and heir-apparent to the uncle’s estate, is

thoughtless and generous, with unsteady principles. The latter is a

crafty man-of-the-world, whose only honesty consists in appearing

honest—a scrupulous decorist. Philip, in love with Catharine Morton,

the daughter of a tradesman, and in fear of his aristocratic uncle’s

displeasure, is married clandestinely, in a remote village of Wales, by

a quondam college friend, to whom he had presented a living—the Rev.

Caleb Price. The better to keep the secret, a very old Welshman, certain

soon to die, and William Smith, Philip’s servant, are the sole witnesses

of the ceremony. This performed, Smith is hired to bury himself in

Australia until called for, while the deaf man dies as expected. Some

time having elapsed, Philip, dreading accident to the register, writes

to Caleb for an attested copy of the record. Caleb is too ill to make

it, but employs a neighboring curate, Morgan Jones, to make and attest

it, and despatches it, just before dying, to Philip, who, fearing his

wife’s impatience of the concealment required, deposites the document,

without her knowledge, in a secret drawer of a bureau. The register

itself is afterwards accidentally destroyed. Catharine has soon two

children—first Philip, the hero of the novel, and then Sydney. For

their sakes she bravely endures the stigma upon her character. She

continues to live openly with her husband as his mistress, bearing her

maiden name of Morton; and the uncle, whose nerves would have been

shocked at a mis-alliance, and who would have disinherited its

perpetrator, winks at what he considers the venial vice. The old

gentleman lives on for sixteen years, and yet no disclosure is made. At

last he dies, bequeathing his property to his eldest nephew, as was

anticipated. The latter prepares forthwith to own Catharine as his wife;

relates to his brother the facts of the clandestine marriage; speaks of

the secreted document, without designating the place of deposit; is

disbelieved by that person entirely; mounts his horse to make

arrangements for a second wedding, and for proving the first; is thrown,

breaks his neck, and expires without uttering a word. Catharine,

ignorant of the secret drawer (although aware that a record had been

secreted), failing to find William Smith, and trusting her cause to an

unskilful lawyer, is unable to prove her marriage, but in the effort to

do so makes an enemy of Robert Beaufort, who takes possession of the

estate as heir at law. Thus the strict precautions taken by the father

to preserve his secret during the uncle’s life, frustrate the wife in

her attempts to develop it after his death, and the sons are still

considered illegitimate. This is the pivot of the story. Its incidents

are made up of the struggles of the young men with their fate, but

chiefly of the endeavors of the elder, Philip, to demonstrate the

marriage and redeem the good name of his mother. This he finally

accomplishes, (after her death, and after a host of vicissitudes

experienced in his own person) by the accidental return of William

Smith, and by the discovery of an additional witness in Morgan Jones,

who made the extract from the register, and to whom the rightful heir is

guided by this long-sought document itself, obtained from the hands of

Robert Beaufort, (who had found it in the bureau,) through the

instrumentality of one Fanny, the heroine, and in the end the wife of

the hero.

We do not give this as the plot of “Night and Morning,” but as the

ground-work of the plot; which latter, woven from the incidents above

mentioned, is in itself exceedingly complex. The ground-work, as will be

seen, is of no very original character—it is even absurdly

common-place. We are not asserting too much when we say that every

second novel since the flood has turned upon some series of hopeless

efforts, either to establish legitimacy, or to prove a will, or to get

possession of a great sum of money most unjustly withheld, or to find

out a ragamuffin of a father, who had been much better left unfound.

But, saying nothing of the basis upon which this story has been erected,

the story itself is, in many respects, worthy its contriver.

The word “plot,” as commonly accepted, conveys but an indefinite

meaning. Most persons think of it as of simple _complexity_; and into

this error even so fine a critic as Augustus William Schlegel has

obviously fallen, when he confounds its idea with that of the mere

_intrigue_ in which the Spanish dramas of Cervantes and Calderon abound.

But the greatest involution of incident will not result in plot; which,

properly defined, is _that in which no part can be displaced without

ruin to the whole_. It may be described as a building so dependently

constructed, that to change the position of a single brick is to

overthrow the entire fabric. In this definition and description, we of

course refer only to that infinite perfection which the true artist

bears ever in mind—that unattainable goal to which his eyes are always

directed, but of the possibility of attaining which he still endeavors,

if wise, to cheat himself into the belief. The reading world, however,

is satisfied with a less rigid construction of the term. It is content

to think that plot a good one, in which none of the _leading_ incidents

can be _removed_ without _detriment_ to the mass. Here indeed is a

material difference; and in this view of the case the plot of “Night and

Morning” is decidedly excellent. Speaking comparatively, and in regard

to stories similarly composed, it is one of the best. This the author

has evidently designed to make it. For this purpose he has taxed his

powers to the utmost. Every page bears marks of excessive elaboration,

all tending to one point—a perfect adaptation of the very numerous

atoms of a very unusually involute story. The better to attain his

object he has resorted to the expedient of writing his book backwards.

This is a simple thing in itself, but may not be generally understood.

An example will best convey the idea. Drawing near the _dénouement_ of

his tale, our novelist had proceeded so far as to render it necessary

that means should be devised for the discovery of the missing marriage

record. This record is in the old bureau—this bureau is at Fernside,

originally the seat of Philip’s father, but now in possession of one

Lord Lilburne, a member of Robert Beaufort’s family. Two things now

strike the writer—first, that the retrieval of the hero’s fortune

should be brought about by no less a personage than the heroine—by some

lady who should in the end be his bride—and, secondly, that this lady

must procure access to Fernside. Up to this period in the narrative, it

had been the design to make Camilla Beaufort, Philip’s cousin, the

heroine; but in such case, the cousin and Lord Lilburne being friends,

the document must have been obtained by fair means; whereas foul means

are the most dramatic. There would have been no _difficulties_ to

overcome in introducing Camilla into the house in question. She would

have merely rung the bell and walked in. Moreover, in getting the paper,

she would have had no chance of getting up a scene. This lady is

therefore dropped as the heroine; Mr. Bulwer retraces his steps, creates

Fanny, brings Philip to love her, and employs Lilburne, (a courtly

villain, invented for all the _high_ dirty work, as De Burgh Smith for

all the _low_ dirty work of the story,) employs Lilburne to abduct her

to Fernside, where the capture of the document is at length (more

dramatically than naturally) contrived. In short, these latter incidents

were emendations, and their really episodical character is easily traced

by the critic. What appears first in the published book, was last in the

original MS. Many of the most striking portions of the novel were

_interleaved_ in the same manner—thus giving to after-thought that air

of premeditation which is so pleasing. Effect seems to follow cause in

the most natural and in the most provident manner, but, in the true

construction, the cause (and here we commit no bull) is absolutely

brought about by the effect. The many brief, and seemingly insulated

chapters met with in the course of the narrative, are the interposed

after-thoughts in question.

So careful has been our author in this working-up of his story—in this

nice dovetailing of its constituent parts—that it is difficult to

detect a blemish in any portion. What he has intended to do he has done

well; and his main intention, as we have before hinted, was _perfection

of plot_. A few defects, indeed, we note; and note them chiefly to show

the skill with which that narrative is wrought, where such blemishes are

the sole ones.

In the first place, there are some descriptive passages such as the love

adventures of Caleb Price, the account of Gawtrey’s early life, prefaced

by that of his grandfather, and the dinner-scene at Love’s, which

scarcely come within the category of matters tending to develop the main

events. These things, in short, might have been omitted with advantage

(because without detriment) to the whole.

At page 254, vol. 2, we perceive the first indications of slovenliness,

(arising no doubt from the writer’s anxiety to conclude his task) in an

incident utterly without aim, and composed at random. We mean the

relapse of Philip into a second illness when nursed by Fanny through the

first, at the house of old Gawtrey.

At page 21, vol. 1, we are told that Caleb Price, having received from

his friend Beaufort a certain letter (whose contents would have been

important in the subsequent attempts to establish Catharine’s claim)

held it over the flame of the candle, and that “as the paper dropped on

the carpetless floor, Mr. Jones prudently set thereon the broad sole of

his boot, and the maid servant brushed it into the grate.”

“Ah, trample it out; hurry it among the ashes. The last as the rest,”

said Caleb, hoarsely. “Friendship, fortune, hope, love, life—a little

flame—and then—and then—”

“_Don’t be uneasy—it’s quite out_,” said Mr. Jones.

Now this is related with much emphasis; and, upon reading it, we

resolved to hold in memory that this important paper, although torn, was

still unburned, and that its fragments had been thrown into a vacant

grate. In fact, it was the design of the novelist to re-produce these

fragments in the _dénouement_—a design which he has forgotten to carry

out.

We have defined the word “plot,” in a definition of our own to be sure,

but in one which we do not the less consider substantially correct; and

we have said that it has been a main point with Mr. Bulwer in this his

last novel, “Night and Morning,” to work up his plot as near perfection

as possible. We have asserted, too, that his design is well

accomplished; but we do not the less assert that it has been conceived

and executed in error.

The interest of plot, referring, as it does, to cultivated thought in

the reader, and appealing to considerations analogous with those which

are the essence of sculptural taste, is by no means a popular interest;

although it has the peculiarity of being appreciated in its atoms by

all, while in its totality of beauty it is comprehended but by the few.

The pleasure which the many derive from it is disjointed, ineffective,

and evanescent; and even in the case of the critical reader it is a

pleasure which may be purchased too dearly. A good tale maybe written

without it. Some of the finest fictions in the world have neglected it

altogether. We see nothing of it in Gil Blas, in the Pilgrim’s Progress,

or in Robinson Crusoe. Thus it is not an essential in story-telling at

all; although, well-managed, within proper limits, it is a thing to be

desired. At best it is but a secondary and rigidly artistical merit, for

which no merit of a higher class—no merit founded in nature—should be

sacrificed. But in the book before us _much_ is sacrificed for its sake,

and every thing is rendered subservient to its purposes. So excessive

is, here, the involution of circumstances, that it has been found

impossible to dwell for more than a brief period upon any particular

one. The writer seems in a perpetual flurry to accomplish what, in

autorical parlance, is called “bringing up one’s time.” He flounders in

the vain attempt to keep all his multitudinous incidents at one and the

same moment before the eye. His ability has been sadly taxed in the

effort—but more sadly the time and temper of the reader. No sooner do

we begin to take some slight degree of interest in some

cursorily-sketched event, than we are hurried off to some other, for

which a new feeling is to be built up, only to be tumbled down,

forthwith, as before. And thus, since there is no sufficiently

continuous scene in the whole novel, it results that there is not a

strongly effective one. Time not being given us in which to become

absorbed, we are only permitted to admire, while we are not the less

chilled, tantalised, wearied, and displeased. Nature, with natural

interest, has been given up a bond-maiden to an elaborate, but still to

a misconceived, perverted, and most unsatisfactory Art.

Very little reflection might have sufficed to convince Mr. Bulwer that

narratives, even one fourth so long as the one now lying upon our table,

are _essentially_ inadapted to that nice and complex adjustment of

incident at which he has made this desperate attempt. In the wire-drawn

romances which have been so long fashionable, (God only knows how or

why) the pleasure we derive (if any) is a composite one, and made up of

the respective sums of the various pleasurable sentiments experienced in

perusal. Without excessive and fatiguing exertion, inconsistent with

legitimate interest, the mind cannot comprehend at one time, and in one

survey, the numerous individual items which go to establish the whole.

Thus the high ideal sense of the _unique_ is sure to be wanting:—for,

however absolute in itself be the unity of the novel, it must inevitably

fail of appreciation. We speak now of that species of unity which is

alone worth the attention of the critic—the unity or totality _of

effect_.

But we could never bring ourselves to attach any idea of merit to mere

_length_ in the abstract. A long story does not appear to us necessarily

twice as good as one only half so long. The ordinary talk about

“continuous and sustained effort” is pure twaddle and nothing more.

Perseverance is one thing and genius is another—whatever Buffon or

Hogarth may assert to the contrary—and notwithstanding that, in many

passages of the dogmatical literature of old Rome, such phrases as

“_diligentia maxima_,” “_diligentia mirabilis_,” can be construed only

as “great talent” or “wonderful ability.” Now if the author of “Ernest

Maltravers,” implicitly following authority like _les moutons de

Panurge, will_ persist in writing long romances because long romances

have been written before—if, in short, he cannot be satisfied with the

brief tale (a species of composition which admits of the highest

development of artistical power in alliance with the wildest vigor of

imagination)—he must then content himself, perforce, with a more simply

and more rigidly narrative form.

And here, could he see these comments upon a work which, (estimating it,

as is the wont of all artists of his calibre, by the labor which it has

cost him,) he considers his _chef d’œuvre_, he would assure us, with a

smile, that it is precisely because the book is _not_ narrative, and

_is_ dramatic, that he holds it in so lofty an esteem. Now in regard to

its being dramatic, we should reply that, so far as the radical and

ineradicable _deficiencies_ of the drama go—it is. This continual and

vexatious shifting of scene, with a view of bringing up events to the

time being, originated at a period when books were not; and in fact, had

the drama not preceded books, it might never have succeeded them—we

might, and probably should, never have had a drama at all. By the

frequent “bringing up” of his events the dramatist strove to supply, as

well as he could, the want of the combining, arranging, and especially

of the _commenting_ power, now in possession of the narrative author. No

doubt it was a deep but vague sense of this want which brought into

birth the Greek chorus—a thing altogether apart from the drama

itself—_never_ upon the stage—and representing, or personifying, the

expression of the sympathy of the audience in the matters transacted.

In brief, while the drama of colloquy, vivacious and breathing of life,

is well adopted into narration, the drama of action and passion will

always prove, when employed beyond due limits, a source of embarrassment

to the narrator, and it can afford him, at best, nothing which he does

not already possess in full force. We have spoken upon this head much at

length; for we remember that, in some preface to one of his previous

novels, (some preface in which he endeavored to pre-reason and pre-coax

us into admiration of what was to follow—a bad practice,) Mr. Bulwer

was at great pains to insist upon the peculiar merits of what he even

then termed the dramatic conduct of his story. The simple truth was

that, then as now, he had merely concentrated into his book all the

_necessary evils_ of the stage.

Giving up his attention to the one point upon which we have commented,

our novelist has failed to do himself justice in others. The

overstrained effort at perfection of plot has seduced him into absurd

sacrifices of verisimilitude, as regards the connexion of his _dramatis

personæ_ each with each, and each with the main events. However

incidental be the appearance of any personage upon the stage, this

personage is sure to be linked in, will I nill I, with the matters in

hand. Philip, on the stage-coach, for example, converses with but one

individual, William Gawtrey; yet this man’s fate (not subsequently but

previously) is interwoven into that of Philip himself, through the

latter’s relationship to Lilburne. The hero goes to his mother’s grave,

and there comes in contact with this Gawtrey’s father. He meets Fanny,

and Fanny happens to be also involved in his _destiny_ (a pet word,

conveying a pet idea of the author’s) through _her_ relationship to

Lilburne. The witness in the case of his mother’s marriage is missing,

and this individual turns up at last in the brother of that very Charles

De Burgh Smith with whom so perfectly accidental an intimacy has already

been established. The wronged heir proceeds at random to look for a

lawyer, and stumbles at once upon the precise one who had figured before

in the story, and who knows all about previous investigations. Setting

out in search of Liancourt, the first person he sees is that gentleman

himself. Entering a horse-bazaar in a remote portion of the country, the

steed up for sale at the exact moment of his entrance is recognised as

the pet of his better days. Now our quarrel with these coincidences is

not that they sometimes, but that they everlastingly occur, and that

nothing occurs besides. We find no fault with Philip for chancing, at

the identically proper moment, upon the identical men, women, and horses

necessary for his own ends and the ends of the story—but we do think it

excessively hard that he should _never happen upon anything else_.

In delineation of character, our artist has done little worth notice.

His highest merit in this respect is, with a solitary exception, the

negative one of not having subjected himself to dispraise. Catharine and

Camilla are—pretty well in their way. Philip is very much like all

other heroes—perhaps a little more stiff, a little more obstinate, and

a little more desperately unlucky than the generality of his class.

Sydney is drawn with truth. Plaskwith, Plimmins, and the Mortons, just

sufficiently caricatured, are very good outline copies from the shaded

originals of Dickens. Of Gawtrey—father and son,—of De Burgh Smith, of

Robert Beaufort and of Lilburne, what is it possible to say, except that

they belong to that extensive firm of Gawtrey, Smith, Beaufort, Lilburne

and company, which has figured in every novel since the days of Charles

Grandison, and which is doomed to the same eternal configuration till

romance-writing shall be no more?

For Fanny the author distinctly avows a partiality; and he does not err

in his preference. We have observed, in some previous review, that

_original_ characters, so called, can only be critically praised as

such, either when presenting qualities known in real life, but never

before depicted (a combination nearly impossible) or when presenting

qualities which, although unknown, or even known to be hypothetical, are

so skilfully adapted to the circumstances around them, that our sense of

fitness is not offended, and we find ourselves seeking a reason why

those things _might not have been_ which we are still satisfied _are

not_. Fanny appertains to this latter class of originality—which in

itself belongs to the loftier regions of _the Ideal_. Her first

movements in the story, before her conception (which we have already

characterized as an after-thought) had assumed distinct shape in the

brain of the author, are altogether ineffective and frivolous. They

consist of the unmeaning affectation and rhodomontade with which it is

customary to invest the lunatic in common-place fiction. But the

subsequent effects of love upon her mental development are finely

imagined and richly painted; and, although reason teaches us their

impossibility, yet it is sufficient for the purposes of the artist that

fancy delights in believing them possible.

Mr. Bulwer has been often and justly charged with defects of _style_;

but the charges have been sadly deficient in specification, and for the

most part have confounded the idea of mere language with that of style

itself, although the former is no more the latter, than an oak is a

forest, or than a word is a thought. Without pausing to define what a

little reflection will enable any reader to define for himself, we may

say that the chief constituent of a good style (a constituent which, in

the case of Washington Irving, has been mistaken for the thing

constituted) is what artists have agreed to denominate _tone_. The

writer who, varying this as occasion may require, well adapts it to the

fluctuations of his narrative, accomplishes an important object in

style. Mr. Bulwer’s tone is always correct; and so great is the virtue

of this quality that he can scarcely be termed, upon the whole, a bad

stylist.

His mere English is grossly defective—turgid, involved, and

ungrammatical. There is scarcely a page of “Night and Morning” upon

which a school-boy could not detect at least half a dozen instances of

faulty construction. Sentences such as this are continually

occurring—“And at last silenced, if not convinced, his eyes closed, and

the tears yet wet upon their lashes, fell asleep.” Here, strictly

speaking, it is the eyes which “fell asleep,” and which were “silent if

not convinced.” The pronoun, “he,” is wanting for the verb “fell.” The

whole would read better thus—“And at last, silent, if not convinced, he

closed his eyes, and fell asleep with the tears yet on the lashes.” It

will be seen that, besides other modifications, we have changed “upon”

into “on,” and omitted “wet” as superfluous when applied to tear; who

ever heard of a dry one? The sentence in question, which occurs at page

83, vol. 1, was the first which arrested our attention on opening the

book at random; but its errors are sufficiently illustrative of the

_character_ of those faults of phraseology in which the work abounds,

and which have arisen, not so much through carelessness, as from a

peculiar bias in the mind of the writer, leading him, per force, into

_involution_, whether here in style, or elsewhere in plot. The beauty of

simplicity is not that which can be appreciated by Mr. Bulwer; and

whatever may be the true merits of his intelligence, the merit of

luminous and precise thought is evidently not one of the number.

At page 194, vol. 1, we have this—“I am not what you seem to

suppose—exactly a swindler, certainly not a robber.” Here, to make

himself intelligible, the speaker should have repeated the words “I am

not,” before “exactly.” As it stands, the sentence does not imply that

“I am not exactly a swindler, &c.” but (if anything) that the person

addressed, imagined me to be certainly not a robber but exactly a

swindler—an implication which it was not intended to convey. Such

awkwardness in a practised writer would be inconceivable, did we not

refer in memory to that moral bias of which we have just spoken. Our

readers will of course examine the English of “Night and Morning” for

themselves. From the evidence of one or two sentences we cannot expect

them to form a judgment in the premises. Dreading indeed the suspicion

of unfairness, we had pencilled item after item for comment—but we have

abandoned the task in despair. It would be an endless labor to proceed

with examples. In fact it is folly to particularize where the blunders

would be the rule, and the grammar the exception.

Sir Lytton has one desperate mannerism of which we would be glad to see

him well rid—a fashion of beginning short sentences, after very long

ones, with the phrase “So there,” or something equivalent, and this too,

when there is no sequence in the matter to warrant the use of the word

“So.” Thus, at page 136, vol. I,—“So there they sat on the cold stone,

these two orphans;” at page 179,—“So there by the calm banks of the

placid lake, the youngest born of Catharine passed his tranquil

days,”—and just below, on the same page,—“So thus was he severed from

both his protectors, Arthur and Philip;” and at page 241, vol. II,—“So

there sat the old man,” &c. &c.—and in innumerable other instances

throughout the work.

Among the _niäiseries_ of his style we may mention the coxcombical use

of little French sentences, without the shadow of an excuse for their

employment. At page 22, vol. 2, in the scene at the counterfeiter’s

cellar, what can be more nonsensical than Gawtrey’s “_C’est juste; buvez

donc, cher ami_,”—“_C’est juste; buvez donc, vieux rénard_,”—and “_Ce

n’est pas vrai; buvez donc Monsieur Favart?_” Why should these

platitudes be alone given in French, when it is obvious that the entire

conversation was carried on in that tongue? And, again, when, at page

49, Fanny exclaims—“_Méchant_, every one dies to Fanny!”—why could not

this heroine have as well confined herself to one language? At page 38,

the climax of absurdity, in this respect, is fairly capped; and it is

difficult to keep one’s countenance, when we read of a Parisian cobbler

breathing his last in a garret, and screaming out “_Je m’étouffe_—Air!”

Whenever a startling incident is recorded, our novelist seems to make it

a point of conscience that somebody should “fall insensible.” Thus at

page 172, vol. 1,—“‘My brother, my brother, they have taken thee from

me,’ cried Philip, and he fell insensible,”—and at page 38, vol. 2, “‘I

was unkind to him at the last,’ and with these words she fell upon the

corpse insensible,” &c. &c. There is a great deal too much of this. An

occasional swoon is a thing of no consequence, but “even Stamboul must

have an end,” and Mr. Bulwer should make an end of his syncopes.

Again. That gentlemen and ladies, when called upon to give alms, or to

defray some trifling incidental expense, are in the invariable habit of

giving the whole contents of their purses without examination, and,

moreover, of “throwing” the purse into the bargain, is an idea most

erroneously entertained. At page 55, vol. 1, we are told that Philip,

“as he spoke, _slid_ his purse into the woman’s hand.” At page 110, “a

hint for money restored Beaufort to his recollection, and he _flung_ his

purse into the nearest hand outstretched to receive it.” At page 87,

“Lilburne _tossed_ his purse into the hands of his valet, whose face

seems to lose its anxious embarrassment at the touch of the gold.” It is

true that the “anxious embarrassment” of any valet out of a novel, would

have been rather increased than diminished by having a purse of gold

tossed at his head—but what we wish our readers to observe, is that

magnificent contempt of filthy lucre with which the characters of Sir

Edward Lytton Bulwer “fling,” “slide,” “toss,” and tumble whole purses

of money about!

But the predominant and most important failing of the author of

“Devereux,” in point of style, is an absolute mania for

metaphor—metaphor always running into allegory. Pure allegory is at all

times an abomination—a remnant of antique barbarism—appealing only to

our faculties of comparison, without even a remote interest for our

reason, or for our fancy. Metaphor, its softened image, has indisputable

force when sparingly and skilfully employed. Vigorous writers use it

rarely indeed. Mr. Bulwer is all metaphor or all allegory—mixed

metaphor and unsustained allegory—and nothing if neither. He cannot

express a dozen consecutive sentences in an honest and manly manner. He

is the king-coxcomb of figures-of-speech. His rage for personification

is really ludicrous. The simplest noun becomes animate in his hands.

Never, by any accident, does he write even so ordinary a word as time,

or temper, or talent, without the capital T. Seldom, indeed, is he

content with the dignity and mysticism thus imposed;—for the most part

it is Time, Temper and Talent. Nor does the common-place character of

anything which he wishes to personify exclude it from the prosopopeia.

At page 256, volume 1, we have some profound rigmarole, seriously urged,

about piemen crying “all hot! all hot!” “in the ear of Infant and Ragged

Hunger,” thus written; and, at page 207, there is something positively

transcendental all about LAW—a very little thing in itself, in some

cases—but which Mr. Bulwer, in his book, has thought proper to make

quite as big as we have printed it above. Who cannot fancy him, in the

former instance, saying to himself, as he gnaws the top of his quill,

“that is a fine thought!” and exclaiming in the latter, as he puts his

finger to the side of his nose, “ah, how _very_ fine an idea that is!”

This absurdity, indeed, is chiefly observable in those philosophical

discussions with which he is in the wicked habit of interspersing his

fictions, and springs only from a rabid anxiety to look wise—to appear

profound—even when wisdom is quite out of place, and profundity the

quintessence of folly. A “still small voice” has whispered in his ear

that, as to the real matter of fact, _he is shallow_—a whisper which he

does not intend to believe, and which, by dint of loud talking in

parables, he hopes to prevent from reaching the ears of the public. Now,

in truth, the public, great-gander as it is, is content to swallow his

romance without much examination, but cannot help turning up its nose at

his logic.

“The men of sense,” says Helvetius, “those idols of the unthinking, are

very inferior to the men of passions. It is the strong passions which,

rescuing us from Sloth, can alone impart to us that continuous and

earnest attention necessary to great intellectual

efforts”—Understanding the word “efforts” in its legitimate force, and

not confounding it altogether with achievements, we may well apply to

Mr. Bulwer the philosopher’s remark, thence deducing the secret of his

success as a novelist. He is emphatically the man “of passions.” With an

intellect rather well balanced than lofty, he has not full claim to the

title of a man of genius. Urged by the burning desire of doing much, he

has certainly done something. Elaborate even to fault, he will never

write a bad book, and has once or twice been upon the point of

concocting a good one. It is the custom to call him a fine writer, but

in doing so we should judge him less by an artistical standard of

excellence, than by comparison with the drivellers who surround him. To

Scott he is altogether inferior, except in that mock and tawdry

philosophy which the Caledonian had the discretion to avoid, and the

courage to contemn. In pathos, humour, and verisimilitude he is unequal

to Dickens; surpassing him only in general knowledge, and in the

sentiment of Art. Of James he is more than the equal at all points.

While he could never fall as low as D’Israeli has occasionally fallen,

neither himself, nor any of those whom we have mentioned, have ever

risen nearly so high as that very gifted and very extraordinary man.

In regard to “Night and Morning” we cannot agree with that critical

opinion which considers it the best novel of its author. It is only not

his worst. It is not as good as Eugene Aram, nor as Rienzi—and is not

at all comparable with Ernest Maltravers. Upon the whole it is a good

book. Its merits beyond doubt overbalance its defects, and if we have

not dwelt upon the former with as much unction as upon the latter, it is

because the Bulwerian beauties are precisely of that secondary character

which never fails of the fullest public appreciation.

* * * * *

_“Sketches of Conspicuous Living Characters of France.”

Translated by R. M. Walsh. Lea and Blanchard._

The public are much indebted to Mr. Walsh for this book, which is one of

unusual interest and value. It is a translation from the French, of

fifteen biographical and critical sketches, written, and originally

published in weekly numbers at Paris, by some one who styles himself

“_un homme de rien_”—the better to conceal the fact, perhaps, that he

is really un _homme de beaucoup_. Whatever, unhappily, may be the case

with ourselves, or in England, it is clear that in the capital of

France, at least,—that hot-bed of journalism, and Paradise of

journalists—nobody has any right to call himself “nobody,” while

wielding so vigorous and vivacious a pen as the author of these

articles.

We are told in the Preface to the present translation that they met with

the greatest success, upon their first appearance, and were considered

by the Parisians as perfectly authentic in their statement of facts, and

“as impartial in their appreciation of the different personages sketched

as could be desired.” “As impartial, &c.” means, we presume, entirely

so; for in matters of this kind an absolute impartiality, of course, is

all, but still the least “that could be desired.”

Mr. Walsh farther assures us that Châteaubriand wrote the author a

letter “of a highly complimentary tenor” which was published, but of

which the translator, “unfortunately, does not happen to have a copy in

his possession.” A more unfortunate circumstance is that Mr. W. should

have thought it necessary to bolster a book which needs no bolstering,

by the authority of any name, however great; and the most unfortunate

thing of all, so far as regards the weight of the authority, is that

Châteaubriand himself is belauded _ad nauseam_ in those very pages to

the inditer of which he sent that letter of the “complimentary tenor.”

When any body shall puff _us_, as this Mr. Nobody has bepuffed the

author of _The Martyrs_, we will send them a letter “of a complimentary

tenor” too. We do not mean to decry the general merit of the book, or

the candor of him who composed it. We wish merely to observe that

Châteaubriand, under the circumstances, cannot be received as evidence

of the one, nor his biography as instance of the other.

These sketches of men now playing important parts in the great drama of

French affairs would be interesting, if only from their subjects. We

have here biographies, (sufficiently full) of Thiers, Châteaubriand,

Laffitte, Guizot, Lamartine, Soult, Berryer, De La Mennais, Hugo, Dupin,

Béranger, Odillon Barrot, Arago, George Sand, and the Duke De Broglie.

We are most pleased with those of Thiers, Hugo, Sand, Arago, and

Béranger.

Among many good stories of Thiers, this is told. A prize had been

offered by the Academy of Aix for the best eulogium on Vauvenargues.

Thiers, then quite a boy, sent a M. S. It was deemed excellent; but the

author being suspected, and no other candidate deserving the palm, the

committee, rather than award it to a Jacobin, postponed their decision

for a year. At the expiration of this time our youth’s article again

made its appearance, but, meanwhile, a production had arrived from Paris

which was thought far better. The judges were rejoiced. They were no

longer under the cruel necessity of giving the first honor to a

Jacobin—but felt bound to present him with the second. The name of the

Parisian victor was unsealed. It was that of Thiers—Monsieur Tonson

come again. He had been at great pains to mystify the committee; (other

committees of the same kind more frequently reverse affairs and mystify

the public) the M. S. had been copied in a strange hand, and been sent

from Aix to Paris and from Paris to Aix. Thus our little friend obtained

both the main prize and the _accessit_.

An anecdote somewhat similar is related of Victor Hugo. In 1817, the

Academy offered a premium for the best poem on the advantages of study.

Hugo entered the lists. His piece was considered worthiest, but was

rejected because a falsehood was supposed to be implied in the

concluding lines, which ran thus:—

Moi qui, toujours fuyant les cités et les cours,

De trois lustres à peine ai vu finir le cours.

The Academy would not believe that any one under twenty-five years of

age had written so fine a poem, and, supposing a mystification designed,

thought to punish the author by refusing him the prize. Informed of the

facts, Hugo hastened to show the certificate of his birth to the

reporter, M. Raynouard; but it was too late—the premium had been

awarded.

Of Laffitte many remarkable incidents are narrated evincing the noble

liberality of his disposition.

In the notice of Berryer it is said that, a letter being addressed by

the Duchess of Berry to the legitimists of Paris, to inform them of her

arrival, it was accompanied by a long note in cypher, the key of which

she had forgotten to give. “The penetrating mind of Berryer,” says our

biographer, “soon discovered it. It was this phrase substituted for the

twenty-four letters of the alphabet—_Le gouvernement provisoire_.”

All this is very well as an anecdote; but we cannot understand the

extraordinary penetration required in the matter. The phrase “_Le

gouvernement provisoire_” is French, and the note in cypher was

addressed to Frenchmen. The difficulty of decyphering may well be

supposed much greater had the key been in a foreign tongue; yet any one

who will take the trouble may address us a note, in the same manner as

here proposed, and the key-phrase may be either in French, Italian,

Spanish, German, Latin or Greek, (or in any of the dialects of these

languages), and we pledge ourselves for the solution of the riddle. The

experiment may afford our readers some amusement—let them try it.

But we are rambling from our theme. The genius of Arago is finely

painted, and the character of his quackery put in a true light. The

straight-forward, plainly-written critical comments upon this

philosopher, as well as upon George Sand, and that absurd

antithesis-hunter, Victor Hugo, please us far more than that mere cant

and rhapsody in which the biographer involves himself when speaking of

Châteaubriand and Lamartine. We have observed that all great authors who

fall occasionally into the sins of ranting and raving, meet with critics

who think the only way to elucidate, is to out-rant and out-rave them. A

beautiful confusion of thought of course ensues, which it is truly

refreshing to contemplate.

The account of George Sand (Madame Dudevant) is full of piquancy and

spirit. The writer, by dint of a little chicanery, obtained access, it

seems, to her boudoir, with an opportunity of sketching her in

dishabille. He found her in a gentleman’s frock coat, smoking a cigar.

Speaking of the equivocal costume affected by this lady, Mr. Walsh, in a

foot-note, comments upon a nice distinction made once by a soldier on

duty at the Chamber of Deputies. Madame D., habited in male attire, was

making her way into the gallery, when the man, presenting his musket

before her, cried out “_Monsieur_, les _dames_ ne passent pas par ici!”

But we regret that our space will not allow us to cull even a few of the

good things with which the book abounds. The whole volume is exceedingly

_piquant_, and replete with that racy wit which is so peculiarly French

as to make us believe it a consequence of the _tournure_ of the language

itself. But if a Frenchman is invariably witty, he is not the less

everlastingly bombastic; and these memoirs are decidedly French. What

can we do but smile when we hear any one talk about Châteaubriand’s

_Essay upon English Poetry_, with his _Translation of Milton_! as a task

which he alone was qualified to execute!—or when we read page after

page in which Lamartine is discoursed of as “a noble child, with flaxen

locks,” “disporting upon the banks of the Seine,” “picking up Grecian

lyres dropped by the mild Chenier,” “enriching them with Christian

chords,” and “ravishing the world with new melodies!” What can we do but

laugh outright at such phrases as the “sympathetic swan-like cries,” and

the “singular lyric precocity of the crystal soul”—of such an ass as

the author of Bug-Jargal?

So far as mere translation goes, the volume now before us is, in some

respects, not very well done. Too little care has been taken in

rendering the French idioms by English equivalents; and, because a

French writer, through the impulses of his vivacity, cannot avoid

telling, in the present tense, a story of the past, it does not follow

that such a misusage of language is consonant with the graver genius of

the Saxon. Mr. Walsh is always too literal, although sufficiently

correct. He should not employ, however, even in translation, such queer

words as “to legitimate,” meaning “to legitimatize,” or “to fulmine,”

meaning “to fulminate.”

At page 211, the force of the compound “_l’homme-calembourg_” is not

conveyed by the words “_the_ punster,” even when we italicize _the_.

_The walking-pun_, perhaps, is an analogous phrase which might be more

properly employed.

There is some odd mistake at page 274, where the translator speaks of

measuring the diameter of the earth by measuring its _rays_. We presume

the word in the original is _rayons_; if so we can only translate it by

the Latin _radii_. No doubt a radius, literally, is a ray; but science

has its own terms, and _will_ employ them. We should like to see either

Mr. Walsh or Monsieur Arago (or both together) trying to measure a _ray_

of the earth.

The mechanical execution of the book is good, saving a thousand

outrageous typographical blunders, and _that_ lithograph of Thiers. We

have no doubt in the world that this gentleman (who ran away during the

three days and hid himself in the woods of Montmorency), is a somewhat

dirty, insignificant little fellow, and so be it; but we will never be

brought to believe that any individual in Christendom ever did or could

look half as saucy, or as greasy, as does “Monsieur Mirabeau-mouche” in

that picture.

* * * * *

_“Heads of the People: or Portraits of the English.” Drawn by

Kenny Meadows. With Original Essays by Distinguished Writers.

Carey & Hart._

The design of this book is among the number of those which are

_obviously_ good—and the book itself is, upon the whole, an amusing

one. It might have been better, no doubt. With designs by Cruikshanks,

and letter-press by _the best_ of the English literati, how glorious a

work might have been concocted “upon this hint!” Not that some of the

names here found are _not_ among the best—but we should have had the

_Dii majorum gentium_ exclusively—one paper from each. These papers,

too, should have been written with some uniformity of manner, or of

plan, and have confined themselves to racy and truthful delineation of

that character which is _peculiarly_ British, while the engravings

should have been careful embodiments of the text. As it is, the

publication has something of a hap-hazard, and, if the truth must be

told, of a catchpenny air, which makes very much against it,

notwithstanding the exceeding merit of several of the essays, and of

three or four of the designs. The preface seems to have been written by

some one who had a proper sense of what the volume _should be_, but

affords no indication of what it really _is_.

There are twenty-six “Heads” in all. Some of them are pure caricatures

without merit—“The Creditor,” for example, and “The Debtor,”

(injudiciously placed as frontispieces), The “Diner-Out,” The

“Sentimental Singer,” “The Man of Many Goes” and “The Printer’s Devil.”

Others are equally caricatures, but of so vivid and truth-preserving an

exaggeration, that we admire without scruple:—we allude to “The Lion of

the Party,” “The Waiter,” “The Linen-Draper’s Assistant” and “The

Stock-Broker.” Some are full of natural truth—for instance “The Young

Lord,” “The Dress-Maker,” “The Young Squire,” “The Basket Woman,”

“Captain Rook” and “Mr. Pigeon.” “The Last Go” is the best thing in the

volume—combining the extreme of the ludicrous with absolute fidelity.

“The Fashionable Authoress,” “The Cockney” and “The Family Governess”

are tame and unmeaning. The rest have no particular merit or demerit.

About the whole there is a great deal of bad drawing, which we know not

whether to attribute to the designer or engraver.

The same variety of value is observable in the text. In general the

articles are not very creditable; although one or two are of surpassing

excellence. The longest called “Tavern Heads” (illustrated by seven or

eight sketches) is a rambling, disjointed narrative in imitation of

Dickens, and written probably by the author of a clever production

entitled “Pickwick Abroad,” never yet republished, we believe, in this

country. The paper called “Captain Rook and Mr. Pigeon,” and

superscribed with the name of William Thackeray, is one of the finest

specimens of easily-mingled humor and wit we have ever had the pleasure

of perusing.

* * * * *

_“The Flying Dutchman.” By the author of Gentleman Jack. 2 vols.

Carey & Hart._

The legend of the Flying Dutchman has long since been worn out, and its

attempted resuscitation by this author has, as he should have known,

proved an entire failure. Indeed we have rarely read a less creditable

novel than this. The characters are strange; the incidents unnatural;

and the descriptions of the mighty deep surpassed by nine out of ten of

our ordinary sea-writers. The tyranny which formerly existed, and indeed

still exists in a measure, in the British navy is, however, sketched

with a bold pencil; but with this single redeeming trait, the public,

much less the critics, will scarcely be satisfied. The desertion of

Ramsay on the Island; his miraculous meeting with the very one he wished

to meet, Angela; the whole farcical story, of the deception practised in

the appearance of the Flying Dutchman’s frigate; the singular

preservation of Capt. Livingston from drowning, when cast overboard

unseen at night; and the clap-trap of the trial scene, when the

aforesaid captain and the corporal appear so unexpectedly, furnish a

series of improbabilities only to be endured by a novel-reader of

sufficient voracity to gorge, shark-like, any and everything, no matter

what.

* * * * *

_“Patchwork.” By Capt. Basil Hall. 2 vols. Lea & Blanchard._

Captain Hall is one of the most agreeable of writers. We like him for

the same reason that we like a good drawing-room conversationist—there

is such a pleasure in listening to his elegant nothings. Not that the

captain is unable to be profound. He has, on the contrary, some

reputation for science. But in his hands even the most trifling personal

adventures become interesting from the very piquancy with which they are

told.

The present work is made up of a series of desultory sketches of

travels, in every quarter of the globe, and extending through a period

of nearly thirty years. You almost forget yourself as you read, and

fancy that you are listening to an oral narrative from Capt. Hall in

person. In the most charming manner possible you are transported from

the glaciers of the Alps to the waters of the Pacific, and then whisked

back again to old Europe, and hurried to Vesuvius, Malta, and Etna in

pleasing succession. The descriptions of these various places, mingled

with scientific observations, and narratives of personal adventures,

form altogether one of the pleasantest books for after-dinner perusal,

especially on a sunny April day, when, reposed at length upon a sofa,

beside an open casement, with the birds carolling without, and the balmy

spring breathing across us, we forget, for a while, the dull business of

life.

* * * * *

_“Georgia Illustrated.” W. & W. C. Richards, Penfield, Ga._

This is a praiseworthy work, and reflects high credit on all concerned

in it. The views are selected with taste, and give us a high opinion of

the scenery of Georgia. They are accompanied by a letter-press

description, from the pen of the editor, W. C. Richards. The engravings

are executed in excellent style by Messrs. Rawdon, Wright, Hatch and

Smillie. Such works cannot be too extensively patronised. They encourage

the arts; foster a love for the beautiful; and acquaint the public with

some of the loveliest gems of our native scenery. Was it not a disgrace

to our country that both “Hinton’s Topography” and the still later

“American Scenery,” emanated wholly from England—the capital embarked,

the sketchers and engravers employed, and even the place of publication

being English?

* * * * *

[Illustration: FASHIONS FOR APRIL 1841 FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and

typesetting errors have been corrected without note. A cover was

created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.

[The end of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 4, April 1841_, George

R. Graham, Editor]