Εικόνες σελίδας
PDF
Ηλεκτρ. έκδοση

It was Everard. My heart stood still. His foot was upon the ledge of the window. I cried out with a loud voice, but I was unheard, for the next moment he had entered the flaming room. I prepared to follow him. I ascended, and ascending I beheld a shadow pass across the inner wall of the apartinent. Again, I lifted up my voice; but again I was unheard; I continued to ascend the ladder, and had already reached mid-way, when I heard a terrific crash. The floor of the room had fallen in, and with it-oh God! that I should have the power to write of these things! -Everard Sinclair, the young, the brave, the sacrificed, fell also. He died, as he had lived, for his neighbour.

I know not what passed after this: They found next morning three blackened and mutilated corpses. There was the body of a young man amongst the ashes, with a little child clasped in either arm.

We now take our leave of Jerningham. With all its faults, we regarded it, when we first read it, as a work of great promise, and the author's subsequent work, of which we have yet to speak, has fully confirmed that judgment. The chief faults in Jerningham are the result of an immature judgment, and a want of experience, which is no where more exemplified than in the manner in which the conclusion is hurried and jumbled, and in the awkwardness with which the author disposes of some of his principal characters. The fact is, he was oppressed with the extent of his matter. He had written enough for five volumes; he was obliged to bring this mass within the compass of three; and, in order to fit his work for this Procrustes' bed of the publishers, he has been obliged to dismiss his characters in a very summary manner, in the exercise of that despotic power which the imagination gives the writer of fiction over the Beings it calls up for his purpose; but there are beauties enough in Jerningham, -not to redeem its faults, perhaps, but to prove its author to be a man of genius and cultivated mind.

DOVETON, OR THE MAN OF MANY IMPULSES.

This is altogether, both in design and execution, an extraordinary production, Jerningham was, in many respects, a philosophical novel, but Doveton is avowedly a physcological romance, the real scope of which lies not on the surface. The work is, in fact, an allegory in which certain qualities of the mind are embodied in the characters. In the Court Magazine, a critic, the Honorable Mrs. Norton, we believe, who edits that work, observes:

"Daveton has its very foundation in the poetry of the author's nature, and it might be apostrophized, as Byron apostrophized the scene of Rousseau's passionate Dream of Romance,

Whose very trees take root in love.

It is the writer's spirit taking refuge in a group of fictitious figures, and assuming, in the yearning of its restlessness, new shapes at every turn.'

This is true to a certain extent, but rather too vague. It is true that the design of Doveton has its foundation in the poetry, and, perhaps, we may add, the susceptibility of the author's nature. No mind not highly imaginative and highly cultivated, could have conceived the idea of this work, or at least, could have given a local habitation and a name to that idea, in human characters, and incidents of actual, though highly intellectual life, as our author has done. The idea embodied in Doveton, is not indeed entirely new. Some critics have referred the novel to the model of Godwin's Caleb Williams, but we believe that the actual model is rather German than English, and that Gothe's Welhelm Meister is more likely to have suggested the idea of Doveton than any English novel.

Although Doveton is, however, as we have explained, an allegory, it does not deal with mere abstractions personified; if it had, we confess that we should never have been in a condition to review it,-for we could never have read it. We dislike such allegory, because we cannot sympathize with ab

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. We have heard it said that very young people. enjoy that work, because they do not suspect the allegory; they read the narrative as one of real life; but we never could do so, because the very names let us at once into the secret of the allegory. Faith, hope, and charity, are beautiful virtues; we can admire them in the abstract, and derive high gratification from practising and seeing them practised; but we cannot endure their personification. We mention this under the impression, that our taste, in this respect, is by no means uncommon, and when, therefore, we state that Doveton, though allegorical in its design, is a work which is calculated by its characters, incidents and descriptions, to interest deeply even those who have not penetration or patience enough to discover its hidden meaning, we shall not be suspected of being misled by any partiality for allegory in general.

Doveton is, as we have said, a physcological romance. All the characters in it represent qualities of the mind. In Gerard Doveton we trace the imaginative or poetical faculty; in John Smith, judgment, or the reasoning faculty; in Sir Reginald Euston, generosity; in Michael, Ella, and Lawrence Moore, the wisdom, beauty and freedom of nature, uncontaminated by art. In other characters, religion, innocent mirth, and domestic charity. With this key, the work should be read in order that the reader may be fully qualified to judge of its real merits. He must not forget to bear in mind also, the title, "DOVETON, OR THE Man of many Impulses." Gerard Doveton has been rightly described as a creature of impulse rather than reflection, for the action of the imagination is not governed by reflection.

Of the manner in which the author has carried his design into effect, we entertain a very high opinion. Some of the characters are admirably drawn, and Ella Moore, especially, is a beautiful creation of a poetic mind. We are not sure, however, that we should not have preferred that sweet personification of innocence and domestic charity, Cousin Emily. It has been justly remarked that the interest of Doveton is less stirring and exciting than that of Jerningham. The author intended it to be so; and, although, in consequence, the former will be preferred by the mere novel reader, in whom the prevailing love of excitement is predominant, we have no doubt that to minds of purer taste, the quiet beauty of the latter, will not appeal in vain; while no man of the least discernment can question, we think, that Doveton is a work displaying infinitely greater depth of thought and power of development than Jerningham.

The great fault of the work is, we think, the design. The attempt to personify abstract qualities in the characters of a romance or novel, necessarily involves the danger of elevating them all above the standard of humanity. The personifications of lofty qualities cannot be expected to think and talk and act like any mortals of whom any reader can recal the resemblance, and hence the sympathy and interest the persons of a novel or romance ought to excite, are, to a certain extent, diminished. Of the extent to which Mr. Kaye has avoided this danger, our extracts will probably enable our readers to judge. In the mean time we must confess, that some of the characters and dialogues appear to us too exalted, although there are many scenes in the work equally natural and beautiful.

A singular feature of Doveton is a poetical dedication, in which we think the author has been particularly happy.

The thoughts of this poem are natural and beautiful, and they are embodied in poetry worthy of them. A young poet sighs for lofty genius, merely that he may dedicate its fruits to his beloved: he desponds of attaining it; sees nothing in the future but failure and despair; but consoles himself with the idea that there are things worthier of attainment than fame-that weighed against

youthful heart, and, we think, they are very naturally, forcibly and sweetly delineated in the following poem :

TO MARY

Oh! for a giant's strength to build a tower-
A cloud-surmounting tower of piled thought,
Laughing to scorn the vainly-boasted power

Of time, to shake the fabric I had wrought,
That I might write thy name upon its base,
With a proud look of triumph on my face.

But this poor, feeble, tottering thing of naught,
This crumbling heap of unabiding dust,
Is all unworthy of thee; and mistrust
Creeps into my desponding heart as, now,
With pale face, weary eyes, and throbbing brow,
I look upon the little I have done,

Until I almost think that thou, the one,
Whose praise were sweeter to me than all fame,
Will pity me, and turn aside with shame,

For thy poor friend's sad weakness. What to me
Were a world's verdict, if condemned by thee?
II.

Oh! would that I could sing as Petrarch sung,
Pouring his soul out in a flood of rhyme,
Mighty as his great passion, which nor time,
Nor myriad-handed circumstance has flung
Into the limbo of forgotten things.

Oh! for such power, that thy dear name might be
Embalmed for ever in sweet poetry!

But I-what can I do ?-my feeble wings
Flutter, and droop after their flutterings,
Till my soul faints within me, and, whene'er
I look into the future, I see there

Nothing but utter failure and despair.

III.

But, what if I should fail ?-Are there not things
More worthy of my great endeavourings
Than this poor tinsel-glittering bauble-fame?
Friendship, and love, and holiness, and rest-
Are not these things more blessing and more blest?
And knowledge courted, not for what it brings,
But for its own dear sake? I know 'tis wise
To walk along the earth with downcast eyes,
Stifling our sky-ward yearnings. There are gems,
Earth-born, as bright as starry diadems:
Joy-giving love is common as the air;

And love's food, beauty, is strewn everywhere.
Love!-how light all things are, which meu desire,
Weighed against love!-fame lightest. I aspire
To win for my poor self a peot's crown,
Only because it would be passing sweet
To take it from my brows, and lay it down
Humbly at thy dear feet.

IV.

"T were a small tribute. What to thee I owe,
None but ourselves and our Creator know.
There was a youth, who, ever since his birth,
Had walked in perilous darkness o'er the earth,
Against the sharp stones dashing his bare feet,
Until, upon his way, he chanced to meet
A gentle saint, who, in her upraised hand,
Held a bright torch, which o'er the rugged land
Lightened his stumbling footsteps; and the youth
Was led into the saving paths of truth
By this sweet saint; and from a darker fate
Than death was rescued, ere it was too late.
What wonder, then, that the poor youth, as now
He treads his torch-illumined path, should vow
To dedicate his powers to her, and take
The staff into his hand for her dear sake,
And, pilgrim-like, to journey on beside
His gentle torch-bearer-his saint-like guide.
'Tis a sweet tale, and yet a tale of truth-

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. We have heard it said that very young people enjoy that work, because they do not suspect the allegory; they read the narrative as one of real life; but we never could do so, because the very names let us at once into the secret of the allegory. Faith, hope, and charity, are beautiful virtues; we can admire them in the abstract, and derive high gratification from practising and seeing them practised; but we cannot endure their personification. We mention this under the impression, that our taste, in this respect, is by no means uncommon, and when, therefore, we state that Doveton, though allegorical in its design, is a work which is calculated by its characters, incidents and descriptions, to interest deeply even those who have not penetration or patience enough to discover its hidden meaning, we shall not be suspected of being misled by any partiality for allegory in general.

Doveton is, as we have said, a physcological romance. All the characters in it represent qualities of the mind. In Gerard Doveton we trace the imaginative or poetical faculty; in John Smith, judgment, or the reasoning faculty; in Sir Reginald Euston, generosity; in Michael, Ella, and Lawrence Moore, the wisdom, beauty and freedom of nature, uncontaminated by art. In other characters, religion, innocent mirth, and domestic charity. With this key, the work should be read in order that the reader may be fully qualified to judge of its real merits. He must not forget to bear in mind also, the title, "DOVETON, OR THE Man of many Impulses." Gerard Doveton has been rightly described as a creature of impulse rather than reflection, for the action of the imagination is not governed by reflection.

Of the manner in which the author has carried his design into effect, we entertain a very high opinion. Some of the characters are admirably drawn, and Ella Moore, especially, is a beautiful creation of a poetic mind. We are not sure, however, that we should not have preferred that sweet personification of iunocence and domestic charity, Cousin Emily. It has been justly remarked that the interest of Doveton is less stirring and exciting than that of Jerningham. The author intended it to be so; and, although, in consequence, the former will be preferred by the mere novel reader, in whom the prevailing love of excitement is predominant, we have no doubt that to minds of purer taste, the quiet beauty of the latter, will not appeal in vain; while no man of the least discernment can question, we think, that Doveton is a work displaying infinitely greater depth of thought and power of development than Jerningham.

The great fault of the work is, we think, the design. The attempt to personify abstract qualities in the characters of a romance or novel, necessarily involves the danger of elevating them all above the standard of humanity. The personifications of lofty qualities cannot be expected to think and talk and act like any mortals of whom any reader can recal the resemblance, and hence the sympathy and interest the persons of a novel or romance ought to excite, are, to a certain extent, diminished. Of the extent to which Mr. Kaye has avoided this danger, our extracts will probably enable our readers to judge. In the mean time we must confess, that some of the characters and dialogues appear to us too exalted, although there are many scenes in the work equally natural and beautiful.

A singular feature of Doveton is a poetical dedication, in which we think the author has been particularly happy.

The thoughts of this poem are natural and beautiful, and they are embodied in poetry worthy of them. A young poet sighs for lofty genius, merely that he may dedicate its fruits to his beloved: he desponds of attaining it; sees nothing in the future but failure and despair; but consoles himself with the idea that there are things worthier of attainment than fame-that weighed against

youthful heart, and, we think, they are very naturally, forcibly and sweetly delineated in the following poem :

To MARY*

Oh! for a giant's strength to build a tower-
A cloud-surmounting tower of piled thought,
Laughing to scorn the vainly-boasted power

Of time, to shake the fabric I had wrought,
That I might write thy name upon its base,
With a proud look of triumph on my face.
But this poor, feeble, tottering thing of naught,
This crumbling heap of unabiding dust,
Is all unworthy of thee; and mistrust
Creeps into my desponding heart as, now,

With pale face, weary eyes, and throbbing brow,
I look upon the little I have done,

Until I almost think that thou, the one,
Whose praise were sweeter to me than all fame,
Will pity me, and turn aside with shame,
For thy poor friend's sad weakness.

What to me

Were a world's verdict, if condemned by thee?

II.

Oh! would that I could sing as Petrarch sung,
Pouring his soul out in a flood of rhyme,
Mighty as his great passion, which nor time,
Nor myriad-handed circumstance has flung
Into the limbo of forgotten things.

Oh! for such power, that thy dear name might be
Embalmed for ever in sweet poetry!

But I-what can I do ?-my feeble wings
Flutter, and droop after their flutterings,
Till my soul faints within me, and, whene'er
I look into the future, I see there

Nothing but utter failure and despair.

III.

But, what if I should fail ?-Are there not things
More worthy of my great endeavourings
Than this poor tinsel-glittering bauble-fame?
Friendship, and love, and holiness, and rest-
Are not these things more blessing and more blest?
And knowledge courted, not for what it brings,
But for its own dear sake? I know 'tis wise
To walk along the earth with downcast eyes,
Stifling our sky-ward yearnings. There are gems,
Earth-born, as bright as starry diadems:
Joy-giving love is common as the air;

And love's food, beauty, is strewn everywhere.
Love!-how light all things are, which men desire,
Weighed against love!-fame lightest. I aspire
To win for my poor self a peot's crown,
Only because it would be passing sweet
To take it from my brows, and lay it down
Humbly at thy dear feet.

IV.

'T were a small tribute. What to thee I owe,
None but ourselves and our Creator know.
There was a youth, who, ever since his birth,
Had walked in perilous darkness o'er the earth,
Against the sharp stones dashing his bare feet,
Until, upon his way, he chanced to meet
A gentle saint, who, in her upraised hand,
Held a bright torch, which o'er the rugged land
Lightened his stumbling footsteps; and the youth
Was led into the saving paths of truth
By this sweet saint; and from a darker fate
Than death was rescued, ere it was too late.
What wonder, then, that the poor youth, as now

He treads his torch-illumined path, should vow
To dedicate his powers to her, and take
The staff into his hand for her dear sake,
And, pilgrim-like, to journey on beside
His gentle torch-bearer-his saint-like guide.
'Tis a sweet tale, and yet a tale of truth-

« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »