_By the Author of Penelope, or Love's Labour Lost._
In our last volume we devoted nearly six of our columns to an outline of
the predecessor of the present work, or the novel of _Penelope_. We
there stated our opinion of the author's talents in a peculiar style of
novel-writing--a sort of mixture of satire and fashion, without the
starchness of the one, or the silly affectation of the other--abounding
in well-drawn pictures of real life, free from caricature, and teeming
with home-truths, in themselves of such plainness and ready application,
as to make precept and example follow on with near approaches to
probability and truth.
The author's _forte_ unquestionably lies in this species of
writing, and his "_Rank and Talent_" will, we think, bear us out in
this opinion. The story or canvass of the novel is simple, and well
prepared for his sketches and finished portraits of character. They
belong to fashionable and middle life, and the conceits and
eccentricities, as well as the straightforward integrity of their
stations are illustrated with peculiar force. Sound moral and knowledge
of the world are occasionally introduced with great tact, for the author
is no stranger to the inmost workings and recesses of the human heart;
and he adapts these lessons, and dovetails them with the narrative, in a
clever and agreeable style.
The outline of the story may be briefly told. The Hon. Philip Martindale
has an action brought against him, at the assizes, for the false
imprisonment of one Richard Smith, as a poacher; although the object of
the defendant was a beautiful girl residing with the defendant. Clara
Rivolta is rudely cross-examined as a witness; whilst the plaintiff's
case is conducted by Horatio Markham, an intelligent young barrister,
whose parents reside in the town where the action is tried. The cousin
of the defendant, Mr. John Martindale, an eccentric old gentleman who
builds an abbey for his titled relative to occupy, whilst he himself
lives in a cottage on the estate; seeks an acquaintance with Markham.
These parties reside at Brigland, and Philip Martindale, a dissipated
lover of the turf, who is dependent on his capricious cousin for his
supplies; and Horatio Markham, the hero, are thus introduced. Then we
have a country curate of the higher order, together with his loquacious
_half_; which are excellent portraits.
John Martindale is one of those eccentric beings--half-aristocrat, and
half-liberal, which are more rare in society than they were fifty years
since; and upon this curious compound turns the narrative. Clara Rivolta
and her mother, Signora Rivolta, the wife of Colonel R. quit their
native Italy, and visit Brigland, where old Martindale, on the
discovery, acknowledges the Signora as the fruit of an early imprudence
on the continent, and finally leaves them a large fortune. Clara is
married to Markham, and Philip Martindale, afterwards Earl of
Trimmerstone, marries a gay, giddy girl, who elopes with a perfumed
puppy of the first fragrance.
The round of the earl's dissipation is but a sorry picture of the
prostitution of rank; but the connexion leads us into a succession of
scenes of fashionable life, which are vividly drawn, as are two or three
of their adjuncts,--a popular west-end preacher, an anti-nervous
physician, the dandy already mentioned, a noble gambler, and a rich city
knight and his aspiring family--all of which are to the life.
Our extracts must be detached from the narrative; but they may serve to
illustrate the felicitous vein in which the characters are drawn.
The means by which Signora Rivolta is discovered by Martindale, is well
managed. One morning after the old gentleman had been amusing his
visiters with some Italian views, Mr. Denver, the curate, introduced to
Mr. Martindale with great parade Colonel Rivolta, whom he described as
having recently made his escape from the continent, where he was exposed
to persecution, if not to death, on account of his political opinions.
The reverend gentleman then proceeded to state, that the colonel had
previously to his own arrival in England sent over his wife and
daughter, whom he had committed to the care of Richard Smith; that with
them he had also transmitted some property, which old Richard had
invested for their use and benefit; that unfortunately the very first
night of the colonel's arrival at Brigland, the cottage in which Richard
Smith dwelt had been robbed by a gipsy; that in consequence of that
event the poor old man had been so seriously alarmed, that he had been
totally unable to attend to any thing, and that he had died, leaving
this poor foreigner in a strange land not knowing how to proceed as
to the recovery of his little property. After an interview, in which
Martindale promises the colonel his assistance, the latter was rising to
take leave, when his eye was arrested by a print which Mr. Martindale
held in his hand, and which he had unrolled while he was talking. As
soon as the colonel saw the picture, he recognised the scene which it
represented, and uttered an ejaculation, indicative of surprise and
pleasure. Mr. Martindale then, for the first time, observed the print,
and noticed its subject; he also looked upon it with surprise, but not
with pleasure; and then he asked the stranger if that scene were
familiar to him, with very great emotion the colonel replied:--"That
scene brings to my recollection the happiest day of my life."
For a few seconds the party were totally silent; for the clergyman and
the foreigner were struck dumb with astonishment at the altered looks of
the old gentleman, and were surprised to see him crushing the picture
in both hands. He then, as if with an effort of great resolution,
exclaimed:--"And it brings to my recollection the most miserable day
of my life."
* * * * *
The agitation of the old gentleman abated, and he replied: "I thank you
for your kindness, sir, but my sorrow arises from self-reproach. I have
inflicted injuries which can never be redressed." He hesitated, as if
wishing, but dreading to say more. Then changing the tone of his voice,
as if he were about to speak on some totally different subject, he
continued addressing himself to Colonel Rivolta:--"I presume, sir, you
are a native of Genoa, or you are very familiar with that city." "I was
born," replied the foreigner, "at Naples; but very early in life I was
removed to Genoa, that I might be engaged in merchandize; for my
patrimony was very small, and my relations would have despised me, had I
endeavoured by any occupation to gain a livelihood in my native city."
"Then you were not originally destined for the army?" "I was not; but
after I had been some few years in Genoa, I began to grow weary of the
pursuits of merchandize, and indeed to feel some of that pride of which
I had accused my relations, and I thought that I should be satisfied
with very little if I might be free from the occupation of the merchant;
and while I was so thinking, I met by chance an old acquaintance who
persuaded me to undertake the profession of arms, to which I was indeed
not reluctant. And so I left my merchandise, and did not see Genoa again
for nearly two years. It was then that I was so much interested in that
scene which the picture portrays; for in a very small house which is in
the same street, directly opposite to that palace, there lived an old
woman, whose name was ----"
The attention of the old gentleman had been powerfully arrested by the
commencement of the Italian's narrative; and he listened very calmly
till the narrator arrived at the point when he was about to mention the
name of the old woman who lived opposite to the palace in question: then
was Mr. Martindale again excited, and without waiting for the conclusion
of the sentence, interrupted it by exclaiming: "Ah! what! do you know
that old woman? Is she living? Where is she?--Stop--no--let me
see--impossible!--Why I must be nearly seventy--yes--are you sure? Is
not her name Bianchi?"
To this hurried and confused mass of interrogation, the colonel replied
that her name was Bianchi; but that she had died nearly twenty years
ago, at a very advanced age, being at the time of her death nearly
ninety years of age. Hearing this, the old gentleman assumed a great
calmness and composure of manner, though he trembled as if in an ague;
and turning to the astonished clergyman, who was pleasing himself with
the anticipation of some catastrophe or anecdote which might form a fine
subject for town-talk, he very deliberately said:--"Mr. Denver, I beg I
may not intrude any longer on your valuable time. This gentleman, I
find, can give me some account of an old acquaintance of mine. The
inquiries may not be interesting to you. Make my best compliments to
Mrs. Denver."
When this good man was withdrawn, Mr. Martindale requested the stranger
to be seated; and unmindful of the guests whom he had left to amuse
themselves and each other, he commenced very deliberately to examine the
foreigner concerning those matters which had so strongly excited his
feelings.
"You tell me," said Mr. Martindale, "that the old woman, Bianchi, has
been dead nearly twenty years. Now, my good friend, can you inform me
how long you were acquainted with this old woman before her death."
"I knew her," replied the colonel, "only for about four years before
she died." "And had you much intimacy with her, so as to hear her
talk about former days." "Very often indeed," replied the foreigner,
"did she talk about the past; for as her age was very great, and her
memory was very good, it was great interest to hear her tell of ancient
things; and she was a woman of most excellent understanding, and very
benevolent in her disposition. Indeed, I can say that I loved the old
woman much, very much indeed. I was sorry at her death." "But tell me,"
said Mr. Martindale, impatiently, "did you ever hear her say any thing
of an infant--an orphan that was committed to her care nearly forty
years ago?" At this question, the eyes of the stranger brightened, and
his face was overspread with a smile of delight, when he replied: "Oh
yes, much indeed, much indeed! that orphan is my wife,"
This rapidity of explanation was almost too much for the old gentleman's
feelings. His limbs had been trembling with the agitation arising from
thus reverting to days and events long passed; and he had entertained
some hope from the language of the foreigner, that he might gain some
intelligence concerning one that had been forgotten, but whose image was
again revived in his memory. He had thought but lightly in the days of
his youth of that which he then called folly, but more seriously in the
days of his age of that same conduct which then he called vice. It would
have been happiness to his soul, could an opportunity have been afforded
him of making something like amends to the representatives of the
injured, even though the injured had been long asleep in the grave. When
all at once, therefore, the intelligence burst upon him, that one was
living in whom he possessed an interest, and over whose destiny he
should have watched, but whom he had neglected and forgotten, he felt
his soul melt within him; and well it was for him that he found relief
in tears. Surprised beyond measure was Colonel Rivolta, when he observed
the effect produced on Mr. Martindale, and heard the old gentleman say
with trembling voice:--"And that orphan, sir, is my daughter." He paused
for a minute or two, and his companion was too much astonished and
interested to interrupt him: recovering himself, he continued: "For many
years after that child was born, I had not the means of making any other
provision for it than placing it under the care of the old woman of whom
we have been speaking. I gave her such compensation as my circumstances
then allowed; and as the mother died soon after the birth of the infant,
I thought myself freed from all farther responsibility when I had made
provision for the infant. I endeavoured, indeed, to forget the event
altogether; and as I wished to form a respectable connexion in marriage,
I took especial care to conceal this transgression. However, various
circumstances prevented me from time to time from entering into the
married state; and having within the last twelve years come into the
possession of larger property than I had ever anticipated, it occurred
to me that there should be living at Genoa a child of mine, then indeed
long past childhood. I wrote to Genoa, and had no answer; I went to
Genoa, and could find no trace either of my child or of the old woman to
whose care I had entrusted her; and I was grieved not so much for the
loss of my child, as for the lack of an opportunity of making some
amends for my crime. I am delighted to hear that she lives. To-morrow I
will see her."
Upon this interesting disclosure hinge the principal incidents. In the
course of these are some admirable pleasantries; especially a
horse-race, and the description of Trimmerstone, in vol. i.; and the
clerical prig, and a slight sketch of the dangle Tippetson, in vol. ii.
The Earl of Trimmerstone's portrait, after old Martindale's death is
well drawn:
The Earl of Trimmerstone was depressed in spirits; it is indeed very
natural that he should be. The life which he had led, the companions
with whom he had associated, the disappointments which he had
experienced, his foolish marriage, the disgraceful conduct of his silly
countess, the taunts and reproaches of his opulent relative, the
weariness and disgust that he felt in having nothing to do, and the
annoyance of an empty title, which merely mocked him with the epithet of
right honourable, all these things combined to render him almost
disgusted with, and weary of life. His solitude was soon invaded by a
visit from the Rev. Marmaduke Sprout, rector of Trimmerstone, who was
rather fanatical in his theology, and finical in attire and address. He
could presently render himself agreeable to any person of exalted rank
by his very courteous and conciliating demeanour; and he possessed a
peculiar softness and gentleness of manner, with which indeed the Earl
of Trimmerstone would, in his past days of cock-fighting, horse-racing,
and boxing, have been thoroughly disgusted. But his lordship was quite
an altered man. Formerly, the lowest pursuits under the name of sport or
fancy had been agreeable to his lordship; and every species of religious
sentiment he had regarded with the profoundest contempt and the most
unmingled abhorrence. But now he was sick, and weary of all these things!
and because one extreme was purely offensive and wearisome, he took
it for granted that the opposite must be truly delightful and highly
consistent, and so under the tuition of Mr. Sprout, he changed and
reversed all his habits, good, bad, and indifferent. From staking
thousands at a horse-race, he turned up his eyes at the grievous
abomination of half-crown whist; and, indeed, had he been disposed to
card-playing, he could not have indulged himself at Trimmerstone, for
Mr. Sprout had banished almost all card-playing from the place, so
that there was not a pack of cards in the parish, except two or three
mutilated well-thumbed packs of quadrille-cards, which were still used
by a knot of antiquated spinsters worthy of the good old days of
Sacheverel and High Church. Quadrille-cards will not do for whist,
for all the eights, nines, and tens are thrown out. Formerly, Lord
Trimmerstone used to be proud of giving some of his acquaintance a
sumptuous dinner; but now he had changed all that, and he only kept one
female cook, who could just manage to make a comfortable and snug little
dish or two for his lordship's own self, occasionally assisted by the
Rev. Mr. Sprout. Formerly, his lordship had been disposed to be lively,
and oftentimes facetious; but now he was prodigiously grave, and almost
sulky. Formerly, his lordship never went to church; now he went twice
every Sunday, and said Amen as loud as the clerk, and with much more
solemnity, for the clerk did not turn up his eyes for fear of losing the
place. Formerly, his lordship had been very candid; now he had become
exceedingly censorious, and he seemed to measure his religion by the
severity with which he reproved transgressors. His lordship several
times attempted to make all the inhabitants of Trimmerstone go to church
twice every Sunday, except his own cook. But in this his lordship could
not succeed, and indeed it was well for him that he could not; for if
he had, the church would have been so crowded that he could not have
enjoyed a great, large, lined, stuffed, padded, carpeted pew for
himself.
In another portion of the MIRROR we have quoted half a dozen of the
author's amenities just to show the reader that in depicting the follies
of fashionable life, there is less fiddle-faddle--less _rank_ than
_talent_--and more sense than in many other chronicles of the ton.
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