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, suggests 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 violent part. To mark how
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


NOVEMBIR 15, 1856.

into full play. We can pardon much in a
character which possesses so many elements
of goodness, but we doubt whether too much
indulgence is not claimed for the irremediable
error Edith is on the point of committing
when saved by the interposition of her hus-
band. The principal merit of the book con-
sists in its portraiture of Swedish social life.
The personages, without greatly attracting the
reader, are all lifelike, and though the action
is certainly too lengthened, it does not in any
part want for vivacity. Throughout the narra-
tive we feel that we are in companionship with
a highly intelligent and cultivated mind,
though we strangely miss the romantic genius
conspicuous in every page of the " Rose of
Tisleton." The tale is published in a single
volume, and forms a welcome addition to Mr.
Bentley's " Library of Fiction ;" but we
almost fear that Edith presents a dangerous
example to the young ladyhood of England.

PUBLICATIONS RECEIVED.—Nor. 13.
tonics.

The Five Gateways of Knowledge Macmillan and Co.
Lectures in Aid of Self Improrement Longmans
The Student's Handbook of Medieral Hixtory Griffin & Co.

3fedieval Ph;lorophy

Griffin and Co.

German Reading Book

D. Nutt

Economy of Nature Chapman and Hall
Nanon; or, Iromen's War T. Hodgson
Russian Popular Tales Chapman and Hall
Russia at the time of the Coronation al Alexander IT.
Br...dbury and Evans
Bir Robert Peel as a Type of Statesmanship Longmans