# The Overland Monthly/Volume 5/Issue 3/Current Literature

CURRENT LITERATURE.
While those who honestly admired the living Hawthorne have, perhaps, been emboldened to emphasize their admiration more strongly since his death, it is quite probable that he has made but few new friends. It is to be feared that a generation, accustomed to look upon Irving and Cooper as representative American writers, and which has purchased so many editions of Uncle Tom's Cabin, must pass away before he will become the fashion. Popular opinion, which has a generous belief in "neglected genius," and is Only too apt to canonize right and left on the mere provocation of mortality, would perhaps assent that much of Hawthorne's reputation is posthumous. Every one who loved Hawthorne will, of course, deny this; yet they will be thankful for that present popularity, which has lately brought forward these posthumous Note- Books; which has helped them to a nearer knowledge of that subtile spirit, of whose individuality even they knew but little; which has shown them, in the chips gathered from his literary workshop, how honestly this man worked and how exquisite was his finish; how great was his performance, and how vast his possibilities.
In the preface to the English Note-Books, Mrs. Hawthorne suggests that the materials for a biography of her late husband may be found in those pages. She meets the objections which some have urged against this apparent intrusion upon the sanctity of his intellectual solitude, gracefully, if not altogether logically. It might be fairly doubted if a man of Hawthorne's habitual reserve would be apt to make his half-literary diary the best witness of his private, personal character, while, on 'the other hand, if he had done so, it is equally questionable whether it should have been offered to the public eye. Although we do not believe that he has here revealed any thing more of himself than those peculiar mental habits with which we are already familiar, there are some memoranda which were evidently intended for future revision; and we can not help thinking that his artistic fastidiousness, visible even in the composition of these confidences, should have been more respected.
The English Note-Books cover three years of Mr. Hawthorne's Liverpool Consulship, from which he extracted more profit—albeit of quite another kind—than most of his predecessors, even in the most lucrative days of that office. It is made up of studies of English life, character, and scenery — some of which have been rewritten and extended in Our Old Home. Being in the form of a diary, they rarely attempt more than a record of the superficial and external aspect of things that interested the author, and the occasional moral or analysis is due rather to the writer's mental habit than a deliberate attitude of criticism. Mr. Hawthorne evidently intended to revise these first impressions in after-years—some of them have been already revised in Our Old Home—but yet they are, on the whole, remarkably felicitous, truthful, and complete. It does not seem possible for the author to better either the style or wisdom of some of these reflections en passant. And when the reader observes how sparingly Mr. Hawthorne has drawn upon these materials for the finished sketches he has already given us, and how much is still left to be given, he will learn to appreciate the loss which literature sustained when his hand "let fall the pen and left the tale half-told." No lesser artist than the diarist could avail himself of the diary.
England would have undoubtedly fascicinated Mr. Hawthorne, if his critical and introspective faculty had not, as usual, sat in judgment on his taste. As it was, he brought ​
to it the educated American's reverence, without the educated American's secret distrust of himself and his own country; and the independent American's thought, without the independent American's intolerance of other people's thought. A child of the English Puritans, he moved about among the homes of his ancestors with much of his ancestorssympathy and appreciation, and perhaps much of that feeling and instinct which made his ancestors exiles. It might shock the sensitive shade of Mr. Justice Hathorne to know that Cathedrals are almost the only things that have quite filled out his descendant's ideal here in this old world;" but Nathaniel Hawthorne's ideal"' of a cathedral was purely poetical, and by no means dangerous to his Puritan equanimity. He enjoyed the repose of English rural scenery. Among the lakes and mountains of Wales he felt, after the fashion of his countrymen, the superior measurements of his own native land; but, unlike many of his own countrymen, the comparison did not prejudice his gesthetic sense. If in fancy he heard the
American Eagle scream contemptuously over
Snowdon, Skiddaw, and Ben Lomond, his ears were not closed against the sweeter music of the hills. He seems to have been at home in English society, perhaps more so than he would have been in the same level of American society; but the most violent democrat would, we hardly think, accuse him of toadyism. Like Irving, his romantic taste took unaffected delight in the half-feudal breadth and easy opulence of the social surroundings of the English higher classes; but he does not describe them with Irving's English and wholly material unctuousness. If in one instance he records that he walked away from an American who put his hat on his head in St. Paul's, and on another occasion he felt— perhaps more fastidiously than was becoming a guest—the smallness/of the entrance-hall, and the humble surroundings of a house to which he had been invited, we find an explanation rather in the man's sensitive organization than in the effect of any ulterior influences; and the simplicity with which he tells the incident is charming. It was quite impossible for such a nature as Hawthorne's to have had a genuine snobbish impulse; but it was not impossible for such a nature to mor bidly examine itself for any evidence of that quality. It was this fastidiousness which caused him to anxiously compare the representative Americans whom he met with the average Englishmen, although his judgment almost always leaned toward his countrymen. Most of his comments and criticisms, whether exhaustive or superficial, are all characterized by that simplicity which seems to be an unfailing indication of a great nature.
The record of his interviews with some of his famous literary contemporaries has a peculiar value now that most of these men have passed away, to say nothing of the frequent felicity of his comments. He managed to get a very clear idea'of Douglas Jerrold's susceptibility to criticism, albeit in a way that must have been embarrassing to both parties. He also met Reade, Taylor, Lever, Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, Howitt, and Mr. Tupper. The meeting with the latter was, however, more characteristic of Hawthorne than Tupper. "Soon entered Mr. Tupper," says the Note-Book, "and without seeing me, exchanged warm greetings with thé whitehaired gentleman. 'I suppose,' began Mr. Tupper, 'you have come to meet ——.Now, conscious that my name was going to be spoken, and not knowing but the excellent Mr. Tupper might say something which he would not quite like me to overhear, I advanced at once with outstretched hand and saluted him." It may be remarked herethat Mr. Hawthorne was quite a lion in London, and that he records the fact with a simplicity and unaffectedness that is utterly free from even the suspicion of egotism.
The office that Mr. Hawthorne held at Liverpool was then one of no inconsiderable profit and emolument. In offering it to his life-long friend, President Pierce undoubtedly had in view the advantage which a handsome income that was quite independent of literary effort had upon the purely literary character. It placed Mr. Hawthorne independent of that immediate popularity which is often so fatal to literary excellence. It surrounded him with the conditions most favorable to the development of his genius. But that the practical duties of the Consulate were of a nature that was unsympathetic, there can be little doubt. There is something pathetically amusing in his account of ​his trials and tribulations in his half-judicial mediation between reckless sailors and tyrannical ship- masters. His countrymen were often brought face to face with him in the most unpleasant aspects of their national character. That he performed his official functions with integrity and _ intelligence, there can be little doubt; but it is perhaps no reflection on his successor to know that the office has never been filled before nor since by so great a man.
If the novel-readers of the last ten years could have safely counted upon any one for fiction, pure and simple, without the suggestion of any extrinsic. purpose, moral or instructive, that one would have been Wilkie Collins. In all the fascinating intricacies of his wonderful plots, they felt that nothing was expected of them more than their breathless attention; that their sympathies, political or social, were not to be called upon, and that with the last evolution of the plot, and disclosure of the mystery, their responsibility to the novelist ended. He had fulfilled his duty by interesting them —a work requiring no little effort and talent; they had fulfilled theirs by being interested—a work requiring absolutely no talent or effort whatever.
The reader can imagine the concern with which Mr. Collins' admirers will now learn that Mr. Collins has joined the goodly fellowship of the social reformers; that he now has a fell moral purpose, and that, to use an expressive Californianism, he is at present "going for" the Marriage Laws of Great Britain. Mr. Reade's Trades Union outrages, Mr. Disraeli's Catholic tempest in a Protestant tea-pot, are as nothing to this. That household criticism of the popular novel, which used to content itself with the mere application of such adjectives as "nice" or "horrid" to the several characters; which never carried its speculations beyond wondering "how it would end," or "what was the secret"—all this must now be changed. Paterfamilias must be ready to explain the Parliamentary Acts to his family circle; young gentlemen must; among their other accomplishments, study up decisions of Scotch and Irish Judges, for the edification of their fair friends. For you men know all about these things, will be the unanswerable logic of these feminine critics; some of whom will find, doubtless, a convincing argument in favor of female suffrage.
Thus forewarned and prepared, Mr. Collins' friends may receive him on his old footing. For his ulterior social object does not hurt his story; even the legal quotations which are necessary for his purpose are not so technical but that they may be understood by the most careless reader. The following statement of the central fact in the "Prologue" is an instance of this perspicuity:
"Mr. Delamayn stated the law, as that law still stands—to the disgrace of the English Legislature and the English Nation.
"'By the Irish Statute of George the Second,' he said, 'every marriage celebrated by a Popish priest between two Protestants, or between a Papist and any person who has been a Protestant within twelve months before the marriage, is declared null and void. And by two other Acts of the same reign such a celebration of marriage is made a felony on the part of the priest. The clergy in Ireland of other religious denominations have been relieved from this law. But it still remains in force so far as the Roman Catholic priesthood is concerned.'
"'Is such a state of things possible in the age we live in!' exclaimed Mr. Kendrew.
"Mr. Delamayn smiled. He had outgrown the customary illusions as to the age we live in.
"'There are other instances in which the Irish marriage-law presents some curious anomalies of its own,' he went on. 'It is felony, as I have just told you, for a Roman Catholic priest to celebrate a marriage which may be lawfully celebrated by a parochial clergyman, a Presbyterian minister, and a Nonconformist minister. It is also felony (by another law) on the part of a parochial clergyman to celebrate a marriage that may be lawfully celebrated by a Roman Catholic priest. And it is again felony (by yet another law) for a Presbyterian minister and a Non-conformist minister to celebrate a marriage which may be lawfully celebrated by a clergyman of the Established Church.'"
With these facts the reader will readily understand that Mr. Collins has the conditions for any number of unhappy marriages, and any amount of domestic unhappiness. But he is sparing of his material. The above illustration of the 'Irish marriage,'"' in which a husband takes advantage of the law to discard and displace a faithful wife, to make room for a later choice, is only an introduction, or prologue, to the real story, which is about a Scottish marriage, in which the ​
daughter of the previous victim suffers from what would seem to be the hereditary matrimonial ill-luck. Mr. Collins evidently entertains a theory that accidents of this kind run in families, based possibly on the same statistics by which some ingenious individual proved that being struck by lightning was an idiosyncrasy of his own kin. We can stand a pedigree of bad husbands and unfaithful lovers; but when Mr. Collins attempts to show us that the condition of the wife descends to the daughter; that the female issue of an abused and deserted wife is bound to become, in turn, an abused and deserted wife, we respectfully raise our voice in protest. Even if we were prepared to go back to Adam and Eve to find the secret of the present unhappiness of some married couples, it is not probable that the Divorce courts would admit the testimony, and it is doubtful if legislation ever yet has done much to remove hereditary traits. The moral of which would seem to be that the daughter of an unhappy couple should remain single—which, we may safely assume, she won't. Dismissing the prologue, then, as immaterial to the issue of the real story, we find in the heroine, "Anne Silvester," a young woman whom we think we have frequently met in the company of Wilkie Collins. She is, we might say, not entirely abnormal, but unnecessarily mysterious, and has that slight suspicion of insanity, without which Mr. Collins seems to find it impossible to express originality. She has "a nervous uncertainty in the eye," and "a nervous contraction of one corner of the mouth"—all of which are, however, fascinating to mankind, and are particularly dangerous qualities in a governess. To these charms "Miss Silvester" has added great strength of mind and character, which do not, however, prevent her from becoming the victim of "Geoffrey Delamayn"—an athletic young brute, physically perfect, but with neither mind nor character. She urges him to redeem his promise, and secretly marry her, and appoints a clandestine meeting at an old inn at "Craig Fernie." "Geoffrey," who begins to find his amour burdensome, takes Arnold Brinkworth"into his confidence, and prevails upon him to go to "Craig Fernie," at the appointed hour, with an excuse. "Arnold Brinkworth," whose simple and honorable nature offers an opportunity for one of those contrasts in which most novelists delight, accepts the delicate mission, and, to save the reputation of "Anne," personates the character of her expectant husband before the inn people. This is, of course, the pivot of the plot. Need we say that the villainous "Geoffrey" avails himself of this most infelicitous kindness to attempt to shift the matrimonial burden of "Miss Silvester" upon his friend; who, being engaged to "Miss Silvester's" dear friend "Blanche," is naturally embarrassed? We need not say so; the situation being palpably provided for that purpose. But it is here where the Scotch marriage-law, with its delightful uncertainty, enters into the plot. Viewed in the clear, impartial light of Scotch judicial decisions, it would appear that the parties are legally married or not, just as they may choose to elect. To save her friend "Blanche," who has been since married to "Arnold Brinkworth," "Anne Silvester" elects that "Mr. Brinkworth" is not her husband, but on the same evidence which is insufficient to establish a marriage with him, claims the athletic "Geoffrey"—whom she now despises. We do not know that we have made this clear to the reader; we do not know that it is entirely clear to ourself: but we are happy to state that this legal obscurity does not prevent "Miss Silvester" from establishing her marriage with "Geoffrey," and acquitting her friend's husband of unintentional and disinterested bigamy. "Geoffrey," who is disappointed in securing the hand and fortune of "Mrs. Glenarm," contingent upon his success in freeing himself from the claims of "Anne Silvester," accepts the situation, with the mentally reserved right of murdering his wife when he shall have an opportunity. He makes the attempt, and is frustrated by "Hester Dethridge," a darkly mysterious, deaf woman, who seems to have once done a little husband-killing on her own account; is overtaken by one of those providential epileptic strokes which follow villainy about and is apt to unpleasantly interfere with its consummation, and dies. At which point Happiness and a New Husband dawn upon the long-suffering "Anne."
So much for the inconvenience and un​pleasantness—to put it in no stronger terms—which may result from the present uncertain and indefinite—to put it with equal mildness—Marriage Laws of Great Britain and Ireland. But Wilkie Collins has discovered another "evil," which he shows up as deftly —the sin of popular "muscularity." "Geoffrey" is the University "stroke oar"—a trained animal, with no ideas beyond his muscular triumphs and developments, and no literature beyond his betting-book. The delineation of his career is not only a clever moral satire upon the ultra Muscular School, and Animal Young England generally, but is a very judicious and scientific study of the physical evils of this excessive cultivation of the Physical. He shows us that the strong man does not last —that the trained animal is unreliable with all his training—and that muscle and sinew may be cultivated at the expense of vitality. "Geoffrey" breaks down physically—or, to use the graphic language of his class, "goes stale."
How far those arguments which Mr. Collins puts in the mouth of "the Doctor" are borne out by medical experience, we can not say; but we most heartily welcome any thing which looks like a reaction to the muscular extremes of "Guy Livingstone"? and Henry Kingsley. We have become somewhat tired of the sinewy arms and mighty fists of these gentle academicians; we are a little hoarse from throwing up our caps over the winning Oxford or Cambridge crew; we would like to contemplate victorious Manhood on some other field than a "cricket-ground," or some other place than a springboard, and from some surer eminence than a tight-rope or a flying-trapeze. It is quite possible that the Muscular Novel has "gone stale," as the Muscular Hero would seem to be likely to, and we only hope that Mr. Wilkie Collins has "knocked it out of time."
There is much honest writing in this book, and some that is very fine. We have in mind the chapter on the owls in the summerhouse, which, as a playful political satire, we think is quite unsurpassed in its way—a very Dickens-like way—by any but Charles Dickens. Yet, with the exception of the character of "Geoffrey," the dramatis personae are in the hands of the regular Wilkie Collins stock-company, and we recognize the old actors under their new costumes. That very clever artist who once made a happy hit as the Woman in White, reappears as "Hester" with poor success; and in "Anne Silvester" we have only the usual walking-lady.
The Rob Roy has gained a certain reputation as a traveler, and is popularly known as a canoe that has traversed the waters of many of the rivers and lakes of the several continents. It is in reality a sort of Pheenix, a new boat for every cruise, still retaining the old name. In the present volume we are told how the author carried the Rod Roy, and had it carried, through the lands of Egypt and Syria, and how, occasionally, under peculiarly favorable circumstances, the Rob Roy carried the author 'on the ancient rivers, lakes, and seas in Bible lands."
There is about such a cruise, superficially considered, a suggestion of trickery, an apparent attempt to gain éclat by doing an ordinary thing in an unusual way. We have no wish to quarrel with this harmless vanity. If any one wishes to go round the world on a wheelbarrow, he has our best wishes for his success, and the enjoyment of his journey; at the same time, we are unwilling to admit that he has done any thing peculiarly heroic or praiseworthy. In the present instance, however, we are at once relieved from even the suspicion of such a thing, for the author says, in the opening chapter: "It was novel, indeed, to paddle an English canoe upon the Red Sea and the Nile, but what was seen there could be met with in other modes of travel. When, however, the 20d Roy essayed the Syrian lakes, and rivers and seas of Palestine, she entered on scenes never opened before to the traveler's gaze, and which were entirely inaccessible, except in a canoe."
Such sentiments are not only proper, but inspiring; and the reader resignedly wades through the mass of colorless and uninteresting detail, until the author enters upon the real business. And then, in spite of his own testimony to the contrary, it is difficult to believe that other modes of traveling would not ​
have been more effectual for his purpose. This purpose is to find the real source of the Jordan. He not only succeeds in finding several real sources, but settles the fact incontrovertibly. We wish we had not the moral certainty that the next traveler thirsting for renown will exhaust the water of these fountains and smite the rocks for others—but we are used to new sources of rivers, and accept that inevitable portion of useless knowledge uncomplainingly; but when our author finds, also, a "new mouth," we revolt: it is simply more than our limited intelligence can comprehend. Besides, this is an innovation which, if admitted, may lead to very disastrous results in regard to the authenticity of former travelers, until some one, more adventurous than the rest, shall declare that the Jordan is not the Jordan at all, and our associations be thus remorselessly swept away. It is difficult to say what is the real value of the accumulation of such facts as are here given. It does not, as far as we could ascertain, establish any new or interesting principle in Geology, or discovery in Geography. But in such a journey one naturally expects rather a sentimental than a scientific interest. And here it fails signally. The reflections are of the most commonplace orthodoxy, without the slightest tinge of individuality.
There is, however, a vein of marked individuality in the book, and this is the author's loyalty to the Commodore of the Canoe Club, His Royal Highness, and also his intense appreciation of his countrymen. He tells us that the Orientals, although they hate all other Europeans and especially the French, love every Englishman; and that the magic words "I am an Englishman"? will cower a marauding band of Arabs. In fact, it is the only talisman needed for a safe and pleasant journey among these unscrupulous people.
There is, of course, the usual fling at traveling Americans, to which we only object because the picture is drawn too mildly. Can any American, acquainted with his species, imagine an unappreciative fellow-countryman, describing the Dead Sea with no stronger expression of disapprobation than merely, "It is only a dull-like place." If any of that large class of English people — the uneducated masses—ever went beyond
the smell of their own peat-fires, they would, undoubtedly, use such an expression. The difference between American and English travelers is, perhaps, that there is only one class of English, while there are two classes of Americans, who travel. Let us hope that our uneducated traveling countrymen, if they have gained for us a reputation for being ignorant and unrefined, have gained for themselves a greater breadth of thought, and more freedom of ideas, than the corresponding class of the older and more enlightened countries have yet attained.
THE WRITINGS OF ANNE ISABELLA THACKERAY. New York: Harper & Brothers.
They who have already had the good fortune to meet an occasional story of Miss Thackeray's will welcome the present volume of her complete works. It is even possible that they will find the enjoyment which they had promised themselves, for every story exceeds their anticipations. The stories are of such equal merit in regard to quality, and yet diverse in regard to kind, that, after the first impulsive criticism of considering the last one read as the very best, it will depend upon individual taste and sympathies to elect permanent favorites. For we believe that those who enjoy Miss Thackeray's writings at all will at once assign them a place in that miscellaneous class which Emerson calls "favorites," and which we regard not altogether critically, but with a sort of personal friendship and sympathy.
The most considerable story, in regard to length, is "The Village on the Cliff."" This may be said to aspire to a plot, although the interest rather centres upon the development of the characters of the two "Catharines,"and is maintained by the quiet and continuous movement. The character of the impulsive Normandy woman, "Reine," relieves the somewhat colorless goodness of the English heroines. Not that we apprehend that this patient heroism is less heroic with a quiet sublimity and real pathos, but the dash of bright coloring adds a certain vivacity to the picture, like the gleaming of the red cloak of the peasant against the gray walls of some medieval town.
But it is the "Five Old Friends"—the old ​
fairy stories of "The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood," "Cinderella," "Beauty and the Beast," "Little Red Riding Hood," and "Jack the Giant-Killer"—in which we think Miss Thackeray is happiest. The historic figures of the doughty and somewhat Quixotic "Jack;" the faithful, trusty, ugly "Beast;" charming little "Cinderella,"and all of the rest of them, Miss Thackeray shows us are masquerading before us, as every-day acquaintances. Only, we have been too busy or too dull to recognize them. But in these pages we have come to the house of the "Interpreter," and the dullest of "Pilgrims," who shall say "What means this?" shall receive such a vivid and glowing explanation that he will continue his pilgrimage, happier and stronger, because he has looked on the pictures. Perhaps no better idea can be gained of her writings than is contained in this quotation from the story "Sola:" "What does it take to make a tragedy? Youth, summer days, beauty, kind hearts, a garden to stroll in; on one side an impulsive word, perhaps a look in which unconscious truth shines out of steadfast eyes, perhaps a pang of jealousy in a tender heart; and then a pause or two, a word, a rose off a tree—that is material enough for a tragedy." To be sure the people who usually get into a novel would decline an engagement with such meagre stage accessories. There would have to be, at least, a pistol for the hero to shoot his rival with, a light-gray powder for somebody to put into a glass of wine, and the revelation of some fearful mystery in the closing chapter. But Miss Thackeray's characters are as simple and natural as the circumstances by which they are surrounded. If she has a theory to delineate by character, it is that of self-abnegation. We sometimes wish that her characters would consider their own personal inclinations, instead of consulting the wishes of aunts, uncles, and cousins, and betraying a tender concern for the feelings of all their estimable kith and kin. But we do not apprehend that this fault of self-abnegation will become epidemic. The good people who already practice it will find encouragement in these pages, and the selfish ones models which it will not harm them to contemplate.
The paper entitled "Little Scholars" is charming in its way. It is a description of public charities for children in London. The sympathy and appreciation for children which it evinces are rarer than the love for them. One is conscious, in reading these accounts, that the authoress has been admitted into that odd Free Masonry, and that she is still acquainted with all of those quaint secrets which most of us have outgrown. How deftly she uses the pass- words which admit her to their confidences, but which are as impossible for the uninitiated to pronounce as the ancient "Shibboleth" was to any but the elect. And once more, to let her speak for herself, after describing, with equal sympathy, the charities of Protestants, Catholics, and Jews, she says: "And so, I suppose, people of all nations and religions love and tend their little ones, and watch and yearn over them. . . . Who has not seen and noted these things, and blessed, with a thankful, humble heart, that fatherly Providence which has sent this pure and tender religion of little children to all creeds and to all the world? "
Queen Hortense: A Life - Picture of the apoleonic Era. An Historical Novel. By L. Muhlbach. Translated from the German by Chapman Coleman. New York: D. Appleton & Co.
The Muhlbach novels, which were so popular when they first appeared, two or three years ago, are already a drug in the market, even voracious circulating libraries receiving them with apathy. So much delectable gossip, although whispered in high places, at length palls upon the public appetite. In fact, is not the American novel-reading public already acquainted with every scandalous tidbit concerning "Joseph II and his Court?" Has rumor said any thing of Marie Antoinette which this same public does not know? Or were there any intrigues of crowned heads which are not already as familiar as household words? But if the American public is flattering itself that it has exhausted all of the sources of information in regard to these topics, the persistent appearance of the Muhlbach novels successfully demonstrates that this belief is no more than a pleasant delusion, and that there are yet secret things to be made plain. Queen Hortense is, we be​lieve, the latest volume in which these shreds of refuse, misnamed history, have been rescued from oblivion. It contains all the faults of her previous performances: history diluted until it loses all significance; things which might be effectively told in a paragraph eked out with ejaculations of admiration, or mild disapproval; characters which a certain class of minds fail to recognize as human beings, under the guise of "Your Majesty," or "Your Royal Highness." The details which are given in Queen Hortense are not only often tiresome and insipid, but are related upon the hypothesis that mere incidental contact with greatness is of the most intense interest. Ancient wisdom, which often comes to us in the form of epigrams, has declared that "No man is a hero to his own valet." But ancient wisdom is refuted in these pages; for the authoress, although evincing that intimate knowledge so readily obtained by a
valet or waiting-maid, never exhibits her personages in unheroic attitudes.
Such books are at best merely the relic-gatherer's collection, into which a good many pseudo articles may easily creep. These things, besides having the effect of bringing what might be really worthy of veneration or respect into disrepute, are also frequently so ill-selected as to entirely misrepresent character. De Quincy called historical novels "illegitimate biography." The term "historical novel" is, in fact, so paradoxical that in its hydra-headed aspect it eludes criticism. It is incomprehensible, except by faith; and as it has not yet been recorded that any man's faith has been able to remove mountains, we have reason to suppose that that quality of the human mind is limited. But any one who can conceive of an historical novel may hope, in time, to attain the great test. These works, in reality, purport to be history, with the glamour of romance which we usually, but not necessarily, yield to fiction, thrown over them.
If we regard Queen Hortense as history, history loses its significance as an ennobling science. It has nothing of the spirit, character, or influence of the era which it attempts to represent. It is true, historical characters are thrust before us with a cer
tain recklessness, which the authoress may innocently suppose will pass for reality. But the manikins have so often a self -conscious air of being patted on the head for making a pretty speech, or being propped from the background to maintain a royal attitude, that in spite of their '* good clothes" we can not fail to recognize them as puppets. Such things are supposed to satisfy the claims of history, and we can never more plead ignorance of the manner in which Royalty royally demeans itself under the most discouraging of circumstances.
But as we are supposed to be amused as well as instructed, such works may be at least a partial success, if they are very entertaining. The chief merit in a work of fiction —skill, or even cleverness in the development of plot —is of course out of the reach of this class of novelists; development of character is hardly more within their grasp—or only to the most patient, clear-sighted, and skillful—for we necessarily come upon scenes and characters with which we are at least partly familiar, and while historic interest demands external truth, the fictitious interest also demands a certain verisimilitude to what we might conceive to be the actual experience of characters endowed with given qualities. But compensation, in a certain degree, might be attained by felicity of style or vigorous thoughts, as well as by presenting skillfully collated facts: thus forming out of what often seems chaos a sharp and decisive picture. There is, however, no compensation to be found in Muhlbach, who has, we believe, already produced quite a library of these novels—no doubt to the great advancement of glib popular information. But we should be sorry to have the coming scholar—boy or girl—draw knowledge from such shallow sources. The reader may gather some idea of their reliability as pictures of men and manners from the following somewhat astonishing zoological fact: '* His glance again quailed, as the lion recoils from the angry glance of a pure, innocent woman."We suspect that this knowledge is at least hypothetical, and receive it as one of the instances where history yields to the superior demands of fiction.