The Sun.
London, England, 1835-01-22 00:00:00

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JACK KETCH.

Churton. London. 1835.

The idea of this work is a good one, yet its con-
ception is by no means its least recommendation. With
ready powers of humour, it combines a fancy and a
pathos worthy of the best novelist of the day. The
scenes, as might be anticipated, are for the most part,
laid in low—in the very lowest—walks of life, as is

the case with " Jonathan Wild," and' Paul Clifford ;"
and in the hands of an inferior artist would have given
rise only to emotions of disgust ; but such is the au-
thor's skill that he contrives to throw a grace, without
departing from the truth of nature, over even his
broadest sketches. Though he is perpetually " stepping
on the brink of all we hate," yet the strong, natural
powers of his mind support him there, as Hazlitt ob-
served of Burke, in " dignified security." His portrait
of Catherine, the injured wife of his hero, may vie in
elegance and unaffected tenderness, with Charles
Lamb's Rosamond Grey. She blooms amidst the
dreary mass of vice and vulgarity by which she is sur-
sounded, like an Oasis in an Arabian desert. There
is no ambitious attempt at display in this delightful
character—nothing theatrical—nothing exaggerated—
the author has taken nature as his sole guide, and she
has borne him triumphantly through the perils of his
task. As a sample of his pathos, we quote his account
of the death of Catherine :
" I sat down in a chair, and my heart sank within me. The
young creature whom I had once loved, and who had so loved
me, through ill-treatment, cruelty, crime, and beggary—with-
out whom I had died of want in the streets ; who had never
given me a harsh word or a look of unkindness in her life—
she was passing away from me,—to leave me for ever,—to
damn me with a load of hoarded reproach, which my heart
was busy in preparing for me. Every act of cruelty, of mean-
ness, of base and paltry unkindness of which I had been guilty
since my marriage ; every endearing word she had ever spoken
to me ; but, worst of all, that sweet, helpless, timid face, that
had so often sought, and sought in vain, to appease my brutal
nature ; all these came, now that it was all too late to make
reparation, like the very retribution of God himself. Bitterly,
bitterly did the scalding tears start into my eyes ; but it was
a mockery—an insult to her whom I had so wronged, and I
forced them back again into my bosom. They have never
risen since.

" At this moment Mrs. Chadwick approached me hastily,
her face bathed in tears. Go at once to your wife,' she
cried, sobbing, ' she's sinking very fast, and wants to see you
before she dies. Oh ! I cannot bear the sight of the poor
thing any longer, indeed I and covering her face with
her apron, she sank into the chair which I had just left.
" I entered the room softly, and Catharine, by a mute
signal, motioned me to come to her side.. I did so, and she
made several efforts to speak, but could not articulate a word ;
but, at length, after I had bent my head towards her lips, she
uttered, in a painful whisper, I sent for you, John, to see you
once more—perhaps you may have something to say to me,—
for, John, lam dying. Will you not speak to me ?'
" I could not speak. Thrice did I strive to move my lips,
but I could not speak. She saw my state of mind, for she
looked mildly upon me,—but that she had ever done,—and
her hand leaned against my cheek. ' Dear John, when lam
gone, do not ' She was silent, and her hand fell U. on
her bosom.
Oh ! Catharine ! oh ! my sweet creature, can you forgive
me ?' Her lips, methought, moved,—but no sound escaped
them. Again—and again—but not a word came from her,—
and a sudden trembling moved her entire frame,—and all was
still."

This is genuine, unaffected tenderness ; the work.

ings of nature are visible throughout, and will touch
an answering chord in the heart of every reader.
Equally good, but in a different style, is the
episodical narrative, entitled " The Confession of
James Wilson," in which a certain gloomy power, like
that which Godwin has developed with such terrible
effect in his Mandeville, is the predominant feature.
It is impossible to peruse this thrilling story without
being struck with the vigour and fertility of the
author's mind. Its opening shows peculiar evidence
of skill, and in its sweetness and simplicity is in ad-
mirable contrast to the more tragic close. It is dra-
matic rather than narrative, and would form an ex-
cellent subject for the stage ; indeed, the scene where
the murderer's knife is found by his own children some
ten or a dozen years after the commission, is one ready
made for the dramatist. In speaking of his per-
sonages, we must not omit to notice the author's hu-
mourous sketches—which possess the rare excellence
of breadth without extravagance—of Bill Grimes, with
his one solitary reminiscence of having been " tossed
about three days on the Atlantic in a tar barrel ;" or
of the sharkish attorney, Jahez Snavel, with his " one
respectable client." We shall look for the next pro-
duction of this author with considerable interest and
curiosity ; in the firm conviction that if he will only
give fair play to his powers, he will attain high rank
as a novelist. His " James Wilson "is unques-
tionably, for its length, the finest talc we have read
for many years.