The Press. — London, England, 1856-11-15 00:00:00

THE PRESS. 1098 maids of honour ; and the heiress of the Medici accord ingly rode out to meet her with an equal retinue. The grim old walls of Cafaggiolo, and the lovely Apennine valley around them, never saw before or since so gay and br.lliant a cavalcade. The Florentine ladies were, as old Cambi fails not to tell us in his quaint way, right splen. didly dressed. And for the stranger bride, area della spola resla de rare blame°, ed area un bet t irino , ed era blanche, e belle, the said bride had a dress of white satin, and a pretty little face ; and was of fair complexion and good looking. How readily the conversation of the two girls, as they rode together towards Florence, sug gests itself to the imagination. They must have had more than twenty miles to ride together There was thetefore plenty of time for the young ladies to become acquainted with each other; and though seeing each other for the first time, how much they must have had to say to one another ! What comparing of anticipa tions, and hopes and fears! what mutual questionings! Young Margaret, however, had but little of interest to c tiumunicate to her new friend ; but how much might not Catherine have told of all that was most interesting to Margaret. She well knew Alessandro; she must have formed a very tolerable correct estimate of Clement; she was fatniliar with Florence, over which the new duchess was so soon to reign, and with the palace her own rightful property, which was to be the young stranger's home. Was there any unreserved chattering between the (lark Italian girl of fourteen and the fair-haired German maiden of eleven years old? At that age girls' hearts are wont to be open, and their tongues free to each other. Was there any disclosure of Italian secrets to the young "barbarian " from beyond the mountains? It is easy to conjure up out of the darkness of the past the bodily presentment of the remarkably contrasted little Indies, as they ambled on side by side, at the head of their gay cavalcade ; the small, slenderly•formed, lathy large eyed Italian, with her dark hair and yellow-white complexion, her two years of abso lute seniority, land much more than two years' worth of superiority in shrewdness and knowledge of men and things on one side; on the other, the more amply formed sod bright-complexioned German, with her blue eyes and e!►ildish mien. . . . . They reached Florence a little before the Ave Maria which rings out of every steeple at sunset, and were met at the Prato gate by Alessandro and the Cardinal Cibo, with the whole body of the nobles in gala dresses, great numbers of the citizens, and the whole of the garrison under arms,—"cheffu chora bells "—a gallant sight to see. A few months later, and Catherine was herself wedded with extraordinary splendour, in the town of Marseilles, to the young D uke of Orleans. The ceremony was celebrated on the :Nth October, 1333, Catherine then being fourteen years and six mouths old, and Henry, her husband, one year older•. Before we close the book, we may notice an evidence to the kindliness of Catherine's nature before she entered on the stormy stage of life. Vasari, the painter, relates that when engaged on a portrait of the young Duches sina, she took occasion of his absence to smear the picture over with black paint, and " had I " not hurriedly made my escape," he adds, in telling her frolic, " I had like to be served "in the same manner." He continues :--- She well deserves that we sli3ull wish to keep her por- trait among us, for her kind and amiable ways with all of us; though when she goes her image will remain graven in our hearts. In truth, my dear irien.l, I have such an affection for her, for the sake of her remarkable good qualities, as well as for her kindness to me and my fellow citizens, that I adore her as 1 du the saints in Paradise, if it is permissible to say so. Her sweetness of disposition cannot he painted, mud of that my brush can secure no memorial. Surely it is a striking proof of the wrong headeduess of Mr. Trollope, that while there is no one sentence in his volume which does not speak of the tenderness and goodness of Catherine up to the period of her marriage, he persists in representing her girlhood as a fit preparation fur the dark and cruel deeds of her after life. Never did any man more per sistingly read his materials backwards, or more obstinately construct a theory in direct oppo sition to fact. Nothing seems to ns more melancholy than the deterioration of character which, as in the case of Catherine, so often takes place through conflict with the world. For what is life given us but to cultivate the better parts of our nature, to make us more humane, more consi derate, more spiritually-minded ! Yet how seldcm does this take place, how rarely does the heart become chastened and purified by its trials ! In contemplating historic charac ters, by what other standard can we estimate them than whether their course was on the whole upward or downwar,l ? We fear that in mediaeval history the latter was almost uni formly the case. There are bright exceptions, but the violence of the time in a manner com pelled those who were destined to contend with it to play a viole nt p art . T o mar k h ow Catherine changed from the lighthearted, pure, affectionate girl, adored by those who knew her as a saint in Paradise, to the plotter of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, must admit, if only for its truth, of higher instruc tion than to receive the vulgar and gloomy conception of Mr Trollope that the whale training'of her girlhood was a fit preparation for her career as an exterminating queen. He has shown in this volume some research and occasional vigour of thought —as, for instance, when he insists that the disasters of Clement's pontificate were due as much to his weakness as to his dishonesty; and when he reasons that tile uncertainty of life produced by extra ordinary calamities, as pestilence and war, con duces as frequently to recklessness as to reflection; but he is one of those undiscrimi nating persons who as often as they set up a theory are sure to run their heads against it Theories of all kinds require great breadth of treatment, and very comprehensive survey. They are usually more ingenious than sound. It is unlucky for Mr. Trollope that he formed his conclusion before he began his biography. The ei priori method has led him into a fatal mistake. If he hopes to redeem his error, he must in future dispense with that self suffi ciency, equally offensive and misleading, which seems to have taken possession of his mind. It may be overlooked by the casual reader, but he may be sure it will be detected and branded by those who care to penetrate beyond the surface, and that it will detract from the readableness, as it is certain to vitiate the truth, of his compositions. 1. Woman's Life ; or, the Trials of Caprice. By Emilie Carlen. London : Bentley. 2. Hunchback of Notre Dame. By Victor Hugo. London : Hodgson. WE place these two books together, though one is new and one old, from a grateful recol lection of the pleasure, or some higher send. ment, afforded to us by the authors in past time. If asked to point out the most genuine and gifted specimens of romance pro lured since the days of Scott, we should specify the " Notre Dame" of Victor Hugo ; " The Rose of Tisleton "of Emilie Carlen ; the '• Eugene Aram " of Sir E. B Lytton ; and the' Barnaby Nudge" of Dickens. It is singular that while the two first named authors have produced nothing comparable to the works above named, our English authors have been prolific in fic• tions which may at least challenge comparison with those romances of their pen which seem to us most attractive. It is more than twenty years since we first read Victor Hugo's great romance, and endea voured to reconstruct that ancient Paris which he has so vividly described. The church of Notre Dame seemed then sanctified by his genius. We viewed every part of it in refe rence to his narrative, and the wild and poetic fiction acquired reality as its material monu ments were more closely surveyed. That un accountable thrill which all must have felt when standing by a great man's tomb,—the reflex sensation imparted by physical conti uuity with the immediate symbols of mighty intelligences awl deeds still living in imagi nation,—must have been widely felt, and per haps most by strangers, when this tine romance was read in view of the towers of that cathedral which presides over its action. Our first impression of the original was never disturbed until this cheap edition—as far as we know the first that has appeared—came before us. We were then unwilling to interfere with the spell which environed our recollection of this most singular and fascinating work. Yet, strange to say, from the moment we opened the book, it resumed all its former power over our fancy. It was not only that we perceived new beauties in its descriptions, but that the story itself became for a second time en trancing, and was followed with breathless interest This test of a second perusal is one which few romances will bear ; and that Victor Hugo's should stand it, not only so well, but that we should attain a higher opinion of its merit than we ever before conceived, is a tolerably sure proof of the eminent genius which pervades it. What works have we not read in those intervening years,—what events in the actual world have we not witnessed ! The (Paris of SATURDAY, 1856 is no longer the Paris of 1833 or 1834. We have watched events, which will make a mighty figure in history, through every stage of their progress. We have seen ministries, dynasties, and kingdoms revolutionised ; we feel how different in nature, ideas, and sur roundings we are from what we were then ; how a whole life of active being separates our thoughts and feelings of this day from the thoughts and feelings of that ; yet by a myste rious instinct,—acting like those natural powers which by inscrutable laws detect che mical affinities, however worn and disguised the substances,—this romance for us bridges over the past, and establishes identity of being through the closest identity of feeling and sen timent. To speak the literal truth, we have read this work with all the devotion with which we read it more than twentyyears back. We see nothing to change in our opinion of it. We thought it then the most poetic and tragic of all romances ever written. We think it so still. Pity and Terror are never suffered to sleep while we read; and these tragic elements so meet and mingle that it is impossible to say which predominates, or which exercises the most irresistible fascination. From the condemnation we hear of French novels this one should always be specially ex cepted. It is impo-sible that any work which so powerfully excites all the finer sympathies of the heart can be otherwise than healthy and humanising in its general tendency. The essential poetry of the narrative raises it above the sphere of ordinary fictions and imparts to it higher worth. With a tolerable knowledge of the fictitious literature of most countries, we have no hesitation in ranking this as the most poetic romance ever written. We recollect the delight with which thirty years ago we read the poetic tales of Scott, Byron, and Moore. If we turn to them now we find that in the two former we are only charmed by occasional passages, and that attention is diverted from the narrative by the beauty of particular images ; while, as regards the latter, we are unable to peruse the laboured verse with even tolerable patience. It is not thus with the romance of Victor Hugo. We still think there is nothing in any language more masterly than the description of ancient Paris surveyed from the towers of Notre Dame—nothing more dramatic than the attack of the cathedral by night—nothing in all our recollection so pathetic as the recognition of Esmeralda by the recluse, and the frantic efforts the unfortunate mother makes to save the daughter so newly found. The construc tion of this wonderful work is equal to its beauties of detail. It is the Iliad of modern romance. Nor do we know how it is that the supreme poetry of the author's ideas have missed the homage of that superb artistic illustration which has been bestowed on a thousand inferior productions. The " Hose of Tisleton," by Emilie Carlen, has no pretension to the sublimity of Victor Hugo's chef-d'oeuvre. It is in a totally different stN le. It is a romance of the domestic life of Sweden, but constructed with perfect skill, and vivified by characters drawn with admira ble truth, and contrasted with rare intelligence. What Scott has achieved for the hills and glens of Scotland, Emilie Carlen in her beautiful fiction has accmnplished for the stormy seas and rocky shores of her native land. The two groups which divide her narrative—the one of the gallant lieutenant's family, the other of the criminal smuggler's home—equally engage attention ; and every page, teeming with beau ties of its own, brings us nearer to the dreadful catastrophe which purifies hearts by suffering, and marks the sleepless vengeance of Heaven. From the " Rose of Tisleton " it is an im mense descent to the most recent of Emilie Carleu's tales, " Woman's Life." There are many pretty and affecting passages in this novel. Its great fault—a fault which no ex cellence of composition can supply—is want of substance. The story in construction is not unlike some of Mrs. Inchbald's fictions. It turns on the development of a young lady's character. Edith is excessively proud, pas sionate, and capricious ; and, as she forms an attachment to a gentleman much below her in social station, all those qualities are brought