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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of Charles Robert Maturin, by Niilo Idman
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: Charles Robert Maturin
-       His Life and Works
-
-Author: Niilo Idman
-
-Release Date: February 5, 2022 [eBook #67329]
-
-Language: English
-
-Produced by: Thomas Frost, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed
-             Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
-             produced from images made available by the HathiTrust
-             Digital Library.)
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN ***
-
-
-
-
-
-
-                    CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN
-
-                      HIS LIFE AND WORKS
-
-
-                             BY
-
-
-                         NIILO IDMAN
-
-                           -------
-
-   _To be presented, with the permission of the Philosophical
-  Faculty of the University of Helsingfors, for public criticism
-     in the hall of the Hist.-Philol. Section on May 12:th
-                    1923, at 12 o’clock._
-
-                           -------
-
-
-
-                       HELSINGFORS 1923
-                  HELSINGFORS CENTRALTRYCKERI
-
-
-
-
-Preface.
-
-
-The completion of this book has been retarded by circumstances
-unforeseen in the winter of 1914, when I collected most of its
-materials. I have not, since then, had any opportunity of visiting
-England, and have thus been unable to augment and verify these
-materials--which must account for what incompleteness and inaccuracy
-there may be found in the text as well as in the notes. For the
-same reason I have been compelled strictly to limit the range of my
-study, and to desist from all inquiry into Maturin’s influence on the
-romantic movement in France. Neither can my account of his connection
-with English literature of the latter part of the 19:th century lay
-any claim to completeness, being confined only to some of the most
-obvious instances. The fact, however, of this influence’s having been
-greater than is, perhaps, generally known, would seem to justify the
-publication of a study of Maturin’s own works exclusively. These,
-apart from the intrinsic merit of the best of them, possess, moreover,
-the interest of being extremely characteristic of, I think, a most
-fascinating period in the history of literature. It will possibly be
-remarked that those of them whose literary value is certainly not
-important, are, in my study, reviewed at rather unnecessary length; but
-as they have long ago disappeared, not only from the market but also
-from most libraries, the reader who may take an interest in some of
-the ideas which they reflect and which are so unfamiliar to our own
-times, has very few opportunities to become acquainted with the books
-themselves.
-
-During the course of my work I have received kind assistance from
-many quarters, which it is my agreeable duty here to acknowledge. For
-much valuable advice my gratitude is due to Mr. D. J. O’Donoghue, of
-University College, Dublin, who was the first to encourage me to set
-about a study of Maturin, and to Professor Yrjö Hirn, of Helsingfors,
-who has, with a never-failing interest, followed my work from its
-beginning. For unpublished biographical material I am under obligation
-to Mr. John Murray, for having permitted me to make use of Maturin’s
-letters to John Murray, the publisher; and to Miss Ella Hepworth
-Dixon, who has placed Maturin’s correspondence with Sir Charles and
-Lady Morgan at my disposal. I must also mention that Mr. More Adey
-has favoured me with the loan of such of Maturin’s works as I do not
-possess, without which kindness the completion of my study would have
-been utterly impossible. Lastly, it remains to offer my best thanks to
-Mr. S. Sydney Silverman for help rendered me in point of language, the
-book being written in what is to me an acquired tongue.
-
-  N. I.
-
-Helsingfors, _April 1923_.
-
-
-
-
-Contents.
-
-
-                                                                  Page
-
-  CHAPTER I
-
-  Romanticism; Maturin’s family and descent; childhood, college
-  course, marriage; curacy of Loughrea, curacy of St. Peter’s        1
-
-
-  CHAPTER II
-
-  Gothic Romance; _Montorio_; _The Wild Irish Boy_; _The Milesian
-  Chief_; _Bertram_ written, sent to Scott and Byron, accepted
-  to Drury Lane; _Waterloo_                                         14
-
-
-  CHAPTER III
-
-  _Bertram_; Maturin’s visit to London, personality and habits;
-  _Manuel_                                                         107
-
-
-  CHAPTER IV
-
-  _Women_; _Fredolfo_; _Sermons_; _Melmoth the Wanderer_           142
-
-
-  CHAPTER V
-
-  _The Universe_; changed mode of living, intercourse with the
-  Morgans; _Siege of Salerno_ and other unpublished productions;
-  _Five Sermons_; _The Albigenses_; last illness and death;
-  conclusion                                                       271
-
-  Notes                                                            312
-
-  Index                                                            323
-
-
-
-
-I.
-
-1780-1806.
-
-    Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
-    Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
-    I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength--
-
-  Poe.
-
-
-In the history of literature change means liberation. The intellectual
-aspect of a period having worn itself out, the forms which have
-supported it are felt to be a clog and a burden; and when these forms
-are dissolved, the channel of thought, from a natural sense of freedom,
-takes a course diametrically opposite. The transformation seldom takes
-place abruptly; it may even have been long prepared by pioneers more
-or less conscious of the advance of a new time with new ideals; but
-the greatest as well as the most characteristic productions of the
-victorious movement are not brought forth until the previous order of
-things has been completely overthrown, and sometimes there is but a
-short step from the zenith of a literary current to its decadence.
-
-Romanticism in England represented a reaction against that traditional
-18:th century, into which Cowper, and Bums, and Ossian had already
-brought elements new and resuscitating, and whose foundations had at
-a still earlier date been gently stirred by Thomson, Collins, and
-Gray. It was a reaction against a time when poetry, although of a
-polish unequalled afterwards, was confined to subjects upon which the
-expending of exalted emotions was impossible; when fiction chiefly
-comprised moralizing descriptions pertaining to everyday life; and
-when all sense of outward nature was excluded from both. In the
-English literature of the beginning of the 19:th century the terms
-romanticism and naturalism--in curious opposition to the subsequent
-use of the words--represented collateral currents, springing from the
-same source, and sometimes the terms were nearly synonymous. In their
-very essence both of these terms implied a greater amount of freedom.
-Return to nature was one of the leading catchwords of the time; and
-the intention of seeing nature not only visually, but also in its
-most intimate connections with human life, and as intervening in the
-destinies of man, was to contribute a new depth to thought and feeling,
-as well as to render the emotions more varied and more intense. The
-lays of by-gone ages and primitive peoples were studied with admiration
-and received as wisdom. This interest in nature, independent as it
-was of any limits of time and space, was followed by the revival of
-imagination, upon which faculty the romantic movement was largely
-based. In order to gain a freer scope for imagination romanticism
-took its literary models and ideas from the dim and mysterious middle
-ages rather than from the clear and well-regulated classical; in
-the contrast between the Gothic and the Antique the ‘barbarities’
-of the former receded to the background, according as its greater
-suitability to ‘the views of a genius and to the ends of poetry’[1]
-became apparent. But in this approach of the mind to nature there was
-an underlying sense of the incapacity of human conditions to impart
-happiness, and the flight of imagination to vague and unknown regions
-was prompted by the feeling that in reality there was no consolation.
-It was, consequently, not with unalloyed delight that the romantic
-mind turned to new and untilled fields. It is a characteristic of the
-movement that it begot a melancholy of its own, a nervous, restless
-kind of melancholy, connected with temporal rather than eternal
-matters, and foreign to its predecessors in the previous century; the
-difference from these is made apparent upon comparing the melancholy of
-_Childe Harold_ to that of the _Night Thoughts_. If it were possible
-to imagine the Renaissance with its gaiety turned into _Weltschmerz_,
-the result would be something like the romanticism of the early 19:th
-century.
-
-However, freedom held sway, if not in life, still in literature, and
-the English romanticism owed its masterpieces to originality, as the
-English classicism did to imitation. Another consequence of this
-freedom was a greater variety in the romantic literature. _Tintern
-Abbey_ and _The Ancient Mariner_ were both written about the same time;
-both are original and entirely different, and both would have been
-inconceivable in 1750.
-
-The liberation of the imaginative mind evidently had its perils. Among
-the romantic writers--even among those of rank--were men to whom
-freedom implied excess and whose originality was not always strong
-enough to supply the breakdown of rules and restrictions, and who,
-accordingly, have not escaped oblivion. One of these is Charles Robert
-Maturin, the subject of the following pages: a man of unmistakable
-genius, who was not without influence on some of his happier
-contemporaries; in whose works the main currents of the time are
-faithfully and variously reflected, and who occasionally gives forcible
-proofs of his creativeness in passages that point to the standards of
-much later periods.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The family of Maturin come from France. The ancestor, Gabriel Maturin,
-was a Huguenot priest to whom life in that country was made impossible
-and who, after various adventures, settled in Ireland towards the close
-of the 17:th century. Concerning this ancestor there was a family
-tradition, duly recorded in all the biographies of Charles Robert
-Maturin, with the statement that it had, from his childhood, made an
-indelible impression upon him and that he firmly believed it to be
-true; or with the suggestion that he had invented it himself in some
-romantic fit or other. The mystery connected with the birth of his
-ancestor is usually represented as the principal charm Maturin found in
-the story, yet if related in his own words[2] it is patent to all which
-point of the narrative is most strongly emphasized. Many of the most
-characteristic passages in Maturin’s writings can be explained by the
-fact that he was fond of imagining his own family to have been a victim
-of religious persecution. This is how he used to tell the legend:
-
- In the reign of Louis XIV the carriage of a catholic lady of rank
- was stopped by the driver discovering that a child was lying in the
- street. The lady brought him home, and, as he was never claimed,
- considered and treated him as her child: he was richly drest, but no
- trace was furnished, by himself or otherwise, that could lead to the
- discovery of his parents or connexions.
-
- As the lady was a devotee, she brought him up a strict catholic, and
- being puzzled for a name for him, she borrowed one from a religious
- community, _les Maturins_, of whom there is mention in the Jewish Spy,
- and who were then of sufficient importance to give their name to a
- street in Paris, _la Rue des Mathurins_.
-
- In spite of all the good lady’s pains, and maugre his _nom de
- caresse_, my ancestor was perverse enough to turn protestant, and
- became pastor to a hugonot congregation in Paris, where he sojourned,
- and begat two sons.
-
- While he was amusing himself in this manner, the king and _père_ La
- Chaise were amusing themselves with exterminating the protestants;
- and about the time of the revocation of the edict of Nantz, Maturin
- was shut up in the bastile, where he was left for twenty six years; I
- suppose to give him time to reflect on the controverted points, and
- make up his mind at leisure.
-
- With all these advantages he continued quite untractable: so that the
- catholics, finding the case desperate, gave him his liberty.
-
- There was no danger, however, of his abusing this indulgence: for,
- owing to the keeper forgetting accidentally to bring him fuel, during
- the winters of his confinement, and a few other _agremens_ of his
- situation, the poor man lost the use of his limbs, and was a cripple
- for life.
-
- He accompanied some of his former flock, who had been grievously
- scattered, to Ireland, and there unexpectedly found Madame M---- and
- his two sons, who had made their escape there _via_ Holland.
-
-The descendants of Gabriel Maturin remained in the service of the
-church for which he is alleged to have suffered. His son Pierre is
-mentioned in 1699[3] as ‘chapelin du regiment du Marquis de Pisar’
-at the French congregation of St. Patrick and St. Mary in Dublin;
-afterwards he became dean of Killala. One of Pierre Maturin’s sons,
-Gabriel James, held the deanery of Kildare and, after Swift, that of
-St. Patrick’s.[4] He died in 1746, leaving at least one son--William,
-the poet’s father--who renounced the clerical career and became an
-official in government service. After entering the Post Office he
-was appointed Clerc of the Munster Road. The re-organization of the
-Post Office by the Irish parliament[5] apparently made the situation
-lucrative, for during the two last decades of the century William
-Maturin was a wealthy and respected man in Dublin, and took active
-part in the public life of the town. He married Miss Fidelia Watson,
-who presented him with six children; of these Charles Robert was born
-in 1780.[6] William Maturin was a man of refinement and was interested
-in literature, so much so, that he is recorded[7] to have had some
-intentions, in early life, of devoting himself to that profession, but
-for the death of an illustrious personage to whose patronage he had
-looked forward. The time of literary protection, in the old sense,
-was, indeed, past and gone, and if his son also had been dependent on
-it, the name would have been lost to literature. Maturin senior was,
-however, a man in whose house literary inclinations were cherished and
-encouraged, and the youthful lyrics which his son poured forth at an
-early age, are said to have had a wide circulation among friends and
-relations, sometimes even finding their way into the local papers.
-In every respect the childhood of Charles Robert seems to have been
-bright and happy. He was, no doubt, an amiable child, though spoilt on
-account of his delicate health and looked up to for his cleverness.
-His favourite pastimes, as those of so many future dramatists, were
-juvenile theatricals, and in these he was allowed freely to indulge;
-again and again the drawing-room was turned into a stage, the wardrobes
-were robbed of what was thought fit, and an occasional piece from
-Charles Robert’s own pen was acted, or else some old play--Lee’s
-_Alexander_ for preference, where he always played the principal part
-with wild impetuosity, to the delight and wonder of his sisters and an
-admiring circle of companions.[8] The poets to whom his taste first
-drew him were the dramatists of the Restoration, a period which always
-interested him keenly. For Lee, Southerne, and Otway his partiality
-prevailed even in later years, and he never admitted them inferior to
-any but Shakespeare and the foremost Elizabethans. Once, when praising
-Otway’s _Venice Preserved_, he is said[9] to have added:
-
- I speak, perhaps, from an old feeling of attachment, but,
- nevertheless, from deep conviction. The earliest associations of my
- mind are with Pierre and Jaffier at the Rialto at midnight: I still
- fancy I hear the sullen moan of the waters below me, and that I am
- standing on that lofty bridge beside the glorious conspirators; I
- could surrender almost any early impressions in preference.
-
-In the field of fiction Maturin’s early impressions were equally
-powerful, but here his taste was fixed and decided by productions of
-his own time, such as saw the light in his growing years. The Gothic
-Romance, or school of terror, which is usually considered to have begun
-with Walpole’s _Castle of Otranto_ in 1764, had in the nineties an
-extraordinary flight. All the romances of Mrs Radcliffe, Lewis’s _Monk_
-and Godwin’s _St. Leon_, with a host of imitations, followed each
-other in rapid succession and actually became, for a short time, the
-rage of the public; and among the younger generation who listened to
-these sombre and mysterious story-tellers, one of the most enthusiastic
-listeners was the Irish boy who was, but too late, to become the
-greatest of them himself. Of the merits of the novel of terror Maturin
-afterwards made the following recognition:[10]
-
- As a medium of excitement or impression, it (terror) was certainly the
- most powerful that could be used by one human being on another, from
- the clown who dresses up a figure to frighten his fellow into idiotism
- or madness, to the romance-writer who rings bells by viewless hands,
- encrusts daggers with long-shed blood, conceals treacherous doors
- behind still more treacherous tapestry, or sends mad nuns or their
- apparitions to wander about the gardens of their convents.
-
-From this selfsame medium of excitement Maturin’s own works never
-became wholly free; and even when applying criticism to the writers
-that were the delight of his youth, he cannot but speak of them in a
-tone of admiration, strongly contrasted with the marked aversion with
-which he mentions Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett.[11]
-
-These, then, were the literary auspices under which Charles Robert
-Maturin grew up.--After attending the school of one Mr. Kerr, he
-entered Trinity College, as a Pensioner, in November 1795; some years
-later he obtained a scholarship, and finally a bachelor’s degree.
-His intentions regarding the profession of an actor were probably
-definitely abandoned by this time, and theology became the main
-subject of his studies. According to biographers, Maturin’s university
-career was successful and even brilliant, although a certain indolence
-and eccentricity was always noticeable in his habits. He acquired
-distinctions both as a classical scholar and an active member of the
-theological class, and in the once famous Historical Society he is
-also said to have distinguished himself by ‘rhetorical and poetical
-productions.’[12] The Historical Society, afterwards abolished by the
-government, had been founded the year previous to Maturin’s entrance
-at College, and was a fruit of the vivid intellectual activity ruling
-in every department during the short period of Irish independence. The
-time in which Maturin lived, it is important to note, was the most
-remarkable in the political history of Ireland. In 1782 Grattan had
-had the satisfaction of hailing Ireland as a nation; the parliament
-in College Green began its work of reforms with a joyous sense of
-reconciliation with England, and a general hope that it would last
-for ever. Dublin became, for a time, one of the liveliest capitals in
-Europe, and the meeting-place of the greatest wits and most eloquent
-men of the kingdom. The generation, however, which was born with the
-Irish parliament, had not reached their manhood ere calamities loomed
-ahead again. They saw the rebellion of ’98 with all its horrors; they
-also lived to see the Union and felt the oppressive calm that followed
-in its wake, interrupted only by the unfortunate insurrection of Emmet
-in 1803. The works of Maturin demonstrate sufficiently that he was
-an ardent Irish nationalist who resented the Union; but he was, by
-temperament, nothing of a politician, and none of the family seem to
-have been involved in any political intrigues. There was, however,
-another side of nationalism--closely connected with the romantic
-movement in all countries--which he eagerly embraced. It expressed
-itself in an interest in the folklore, antiquities and early history of
-Ireland, preferably seen in a slightly romantic colour. The _Historical
-Memoirs of the Irish Bards_ of Joseph Cooper Walker, which was long
-considered a standard work in its subject, appeared in 1786, giving
-rise to other investigations of the same kind. Among Irish novelists
-Maturin and Lady Morgan were those in whose (earlier) writings this
-sense of a glorious past first found expression, besides which their
-works also, for the first time in fiction, aimed at a conscious and
-artistic description of genuine Irish scenery. Maturin’s sense of
-nature was ever on the alert, and the beautiful Wicklow mountains were
-to him, as to so many other Irish writers of later times, a constant
-source of poetic inspiration.
-
-As for life and circumstances in general, towards the end of the 18th
-century, they were indeed ‘wild, wonderful, and savage,’ to use a
-critic’s words of Maturin’s _Women_ in its quality of an Irish story.
-Reality abounded in startling and extraordinary incidents, not seldom
-outdoing even the confessedly fertile imagination of the poets of
-Erin. The picture which Miss Edgeworth drew, in her immortal _Castle
-Rackrent_ (1800) of a typical Irish estate, other writers confirmed to
-be eminently faithful; life in the country, all around, was feudal,
-wild and reckless; elopements occurred frequently, and duels were
-daily bread among the gentry. The disposition of the lower classes was
-likewise all for the adventurous, so much so that the autobiography
-of a famous highwayman became one of the most popular schoolbooks,
-effects of which reading by no means failed to make an appearance.[13]
-In the capital the social contrasts presented themselves at their
-sharpest. Beside the refined, gay and brilliant Dublin there was
-another, where the sullen murmur of discontent was never hushed,
-and which was constantly hovering on the brink of rebellion. ‘There
-existed,’ says Carleton,[14] ‘in Dublin two distinct worlds, each as
-ignorant of the other--at least, in a particular point of view, and
-during certain portions of the day--as if they did not inhabit the
-same country.’ Fierce street-frays occasionally raged for whole days
-in public thoroughfares, and the students of Trinity College were said
-to be particularly prone to take part in these and other such-like
-amusements.--
-
-What other records there are left of the youthful years of Maturin
-are centred in the story of a courtship which ended in marriage at an
-early age. The object of his attachment was Miss Henrietta Kingsbury,
-like himself of an old and respected Protestant family. According to a
-tradition it was Miss Kingbury’s grandfather to whom Swift is supposed
-to have uttered his last words before the light of his powerful mind
-was darkened for ever. A brother of hers was archdeacon of Killala.
-Now biographers[15] generally maintain that Maturin married while
-still going through his college course, and decided in favour of the
-clerical profession _after_ his marriage, in hopes of being promoted
-through the interest of his wife’s relations; but this, at least
-partly, seems to be wrong. Maturin was not exactly a child at the time
-of his marriage--he was 23 years old--; he had most probably finished
-his college course and had certainly taken holy orders, being already
-in enjoyment of the title Reverend, as may be seen from his marriage
-license at the Public Record Office in Dublin[16].
-
-The union proved happy. Though the maintenance of a growing family
-early compelled Maturin to strenuous work, his literary occupations
-being thus influenced by pecuniary considerations, it at the same
-time gave him full compensation for his labours. His wife was a woman
-of beauty and talents--she was one of the best singers in Dublin, a
-pupil of Madame Catalani--and the conjugal harmony is said never to
-have been broken. In many of his works Maturin speaks of a happy home
-with nothing short of devotion, and in one of his sermons he calls
-domestic felicity ‘the best, the only that deserves the name, the sole
-flower that has been borne unwithered from paradise.’ Yet it was, no
-doubt, well for the domestic felicity that Mrs Maturin _was_ a woman
-of elegance and possessed talents admired in society; for her husband
-was not always content with a quiet home-life but would, from time to
-time, emerge from it to be a lion of reception-rooms and to play the
-part of a dandy and a _grand seigneur_. His was a complicated nature,
-and there was--though certainly much exaggerated by tradition--another
-side of his character, vain, pleasure-loving and extravagant, which
-broke out, as will be seen, with singular force after his only great
-success in life.--As for Maturin’s choice of profession, it must
-be considered a failure. Not that he lacked qualifications for his
-calling: he was naturally religious, and distinguished himself as a
-very eloquent preacher, nor was he ever accused of neglect in the
-discharge of his duties; but the ‘worldly’ side of his character was
-too strong not to bring about conflicts. The union of clergyman and
-author was, after the classical examples of Swift and Sterne, probably
-not in itself an abomination in the eyes of the British public. Yet the
-apparent incompatibility of the two in Maturin’s case was continually
-emphasized by hostile critics, and his eccentric habits, his connection
-with the theatre and his excessive fondness for dancing was more than
-the average mind could ever understand in one of his profession; to
-judge from certain utterances[17] Maturin was, at least in the most
-rigorous-minded circles, actually considered more or less insane.--
-
-What induced Maturin to choose a profession in the earliest years of
-the century was, besides his intention of marrying, the declining state
-of his father’s affairs. About the time of the Union the work of the
-postal establishment appears to have fallen into a decay, which sadly
-affected the Clerks of the Roads, who were paid in proportion to the
-frequency and quantity of their sendings. As early as 1802 Mr. William
-Maturin is found writing[18] to the secretary of the Irish Post Office
-to complain of the distressing diminution of his income. After drawing
-a comparison with the extent of his sendings in previous years, he
-continues:
-
- Under these embarrassing Circumstances, already deprived of the
- principal part of my subsistence, and with the melancholy prospect of
- the rapid failure of the residue, I earnestly supplicate you, Sir, to
- lay this application before the Post Masters General, whose humanity
- I trust will not permit an old and faithful servant, to be reduced,
- without any fault on his part, from a state of humble competence, to
- wear out the short remains of his Life in penury and distress.
-
- Yet this must be the case, if Government do not graciously interpose,
- by granting not only some Compensation for past losses, but some
- provision against those exigencies which are encreasing every hour,
- and threaten the total extinction of the emoluments of a Clerc of the
- Road-Emoluments, which after a service of 40 years, are almost all the
- provision left us.
-
-This application was forwarded with the secretary’s recommendations,
-but whether it had any effect is uncertain. At all events it is clear
-that the family was not quite abruptly plunged from affluence into
-poverty at the final dismissal of Maturin senior from his situation--of
-which more later on--and that his son had long before been obliged to
-work hard both as a curate and an author. His first appointment was
-the curacy of Loughrea, to which he attended some time between 1804
-and 1806.[19] The sojourn of Maturin in Loughrea was, upon the whole,
-felt as a kind of exile; wretched place as a small Irish country-town
-at that time must have appeared to all, it was intolerable to a man
-of literary interests and social habits. His dreariness was, however,
-pleasantly interrupted by his sojourn as a guest at Cloghan Castle,
-the seat of the family of O’Moore, who were supposed to be the lineal
-descendants of the old kings of Leix. In a note to _Melmoth the
-Wanderer_ Maturin says that he was an inmate of the castle for many
-months, and to his friends he used to speak with delight of ‘that
-ancient structure, and the Irish hospitality he there enjoyed and
-witnessed.’[20] For Maturin’s literary conceptions this visit was of
-importance. He saw now, for the first and only time in his life, a
-glimpse of the wild nature of Western Ireland; he actually inhabited,
-himself, one of those old castles the occurrence of which in the
-romantic productions of the period was a _conditio sine qua non_; and
-he came into contact with genuine types of Irish peasantry, such as he
-was afterwards to describe with an impartiality and a graphic realism
-unequalled in earlier Irish fiction.
-
-Through some exertion on the part of his relations, Maturin was before
-long removed to the curacy of St. Peter’s in Dublin, where he remained
-to the hour of his death. The parish was one of the most extensive
-in the town, and was said to contain ‘most of the wealth, rank, and
-talent of the metropolis.’[21] The salary of the curate, however,
-did not amount to more than 80-90 pounds per annum, and Maturin was,
-consequently, forced to eke out this slender income by other means.
-Alaric Watts says in his article that Maturin resided in his father’s
-house until the final economic ruin of that gentleman; according to
-other writers he established himself, immediately on his return to
-Dublin, in York Street,[22] where he set up a kind of boarding school
-and prepared young men for College. The task was rather congenial to
-him; he was always fond of the company of very young people, and at
-his well-known house, alternately the scene of luxury and poverty,
-he was wont to arrange private theatricals and other amusements with
-his pupils. York Street was then very different from what it is now,
-belonging to the fashionable Dublin, round Stephen’s Green.
-
-By this time, also, Maturin’s first romance was composed. He wrote for
-money, it is true; but he turned to this mode of gaining--or trying
-to gain--money, because literature represented his greatest interest
-in life. Few authors, in fact--whatever Maturin himself may say in
-the prefaces to his books--have felt themselves to be literary men so
-intensely as Maturin. If he had been a rich man, he would certainly
-have been an author all the same, as were Beckford and Lewis. As for
-his first book, it was conceived from his own innermost inclinations.
-_The Fatal Revenge; or, The Family of Montorio_ was written in the
-Radcliffe style, not because Maturin believed it to be the style
-best relished by the general public, but because he, at the time in
-question, relished it best himself.
-
-
-
-
-II.
-
-1807-1815.
-
-    For things we never mention,
-    For Art misunderstood--
-    For excellent intention
-    That did not turn to good....
-
-  Kipling.
-
-
-It was, however, not without secret apprehension Maturin went forth
-to realize his literary aspirations. The unfortunate conflict between
-his bent and his profession--as understood by the multitude--asserted
-itself at the very beginning of his career; ‘Maturin’s friends,’ as
-a biographer[23] puts it, ‘being a little evangelical, he could not
-risk offending or scandalizing them by appearing publicly as a writer
-of novels.’ He was, accordingly, compelled to choose a pseudonym,
-and lighted upon the rather unhappy one of Dennis Jasper Murphy. So,
-at least, it was judged afterwards by those who were interested in
-Maturin’s productions. A writer[24] describing a visit he paid to the
-novelist in the days when his fame was at its highest, says, with
-reference to this _nom de plume_:
-
- I remarked that his assumed name of Dennis Jasper Murphy, from its
- vulgar and _merely_ Irish sound, must have injured the character of
- ‘Montorio’ and his other romances. In this he seemed to agree with
- me, observing, that at the time he was inexperienced, and in some
- instances badly advised.
-
-That the author was an Irishman, and without any ‘literary friend or
-counsellor,’ is explicitly stated in the preface--the last-named
-circumstance remaining, for the future, a constant theme of lamentation
-for Maturin. No doubt there is an air of helplessness about the
-publication of _Montorio_. Being unable to dispose of the copyright,
-Maturin had no choice but to publish it at his own hazard; and the
-bookseller again, at _his_ hazard, thought it proper to embellish the
-title of the book by adding the words _The Fatal Revenge_, the name
-intended by the author being only _The Family of Montorio_. In the
-preface to _Women_ (1818) Maturin mentions this, admitting the addition
-to have been ‘a very bookselling appellation;’ but how bookselling
-it was is best seen by the fact that the book did not reach a second
-edition before 1824.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The Gothic Romance, the school of fiction founded upon ‘the passion of
-supernatural fear,’ was already in disrepute at the time _Montorio_
-came out. In the preface, therefore, Maturin presents an eloquent
-defence of this style of writing, which, though much abused by ‘vulgar
-and unhallowed hands,’ he still maintains to be most fit for artistic
-treatment:
-
- I question whether there be a source of emotion in the whole mental
- frame, so powerful or universal as the _fear arising from objects of
- invisible terror_. Perhaps there is no other that has been at some
- period or other of life, the predominant and indelible sensation
- of every mind, of every class, and under every circumstance. Love,
- supposed to be the most general of passions, has certainly been felt
- in its purity by very few, and by some not at all, even in its most
- indefinite and simple state.
-
- The same might be said, _a fortiori_, of other passions. But who is
- there that has never feared? Who is there that has not involuntarily
- remembered the gossip’s tale in solitude or in darkness? Who is there
- that has not sometimes shivered under an influence he would scarce
- acknowledge to himself? I might trace this passion to a high and
- obvious source.
-
-Here, in a few words, is expressed the peculiarity of the Gothic
-Romance.[25] Its soul is terror; terror, preferably, if not always,
-arising from a cause of supernatural import. It is often considered as
-a crude precursor of the magnificent revival of the English letters
-with the romanticism of the early 19:th century, nor can it be denied
-that in some instances the threads of the two currents are interwoven,
-and that certain details from the one are taken up and ennobled by
-the other. The Byronic hero, for example, who was to influence the
-poetry of Europe, has his prototype in the Gothic Romance. Yet in its
-essential nature this movement is different from all others, and,
-instead of coalescing with romanticism, it is developed apart from
-and alongside with it, Maturin’s _Melmoth_, which is unquestionably
-the greatest production of the actual Gothic Romance, appearing as
-late as 1820. According to this distinct character of its own, the
-present writer would be disposed considerably to restrict the range
-usually allotted to the Gothic Romance. Especially with regard to
-works in which the use of supernatural agency is eliminated, the
-limit has sometimes been fixed with obvious arbitrariness; if the
-occurrence only of startling incidents or violent and extraordinary
-characters[26] were to be the criterion in this respect, the Gothic
-Romance would include, not only a collection of rubbish, but a great
-many productions which English literature has cause to be proud of. It
-is the main and only purpose of the work which must be kept in view,
-and that, as in all Gothic romance, is to appeal to the reader’s sense
-of fear. The terrible and revolting elements are introduced entirely
-for their own sake--not, for instance, to lend force to the total
-impression, or give depth to the study of character; ghastly crimes,
-torture, and painful situations form the very aim of the book, that
-for which it was written. It is evident that this kind of composition
-was not likely to attain any artistic excellence. A good example of it
-is Shelley’s youthful story of _Zastrozzi_ (1810), probably one of the
-most worthless things ever fabricated by a great poet in a moment of
-misdirected energy. A book like John Moore’s _Zeluco_ (1786?), on the
-other hand, can hardly be classed among the productions of the Gothic
-Romance, although it is habitually mentioned together with them; it is
-a dispassionate, rather didactic display of a very vicious character,
-totally lacking those qualities that are calculated to make nervous
-readers afraid of going to bed.
-
-The occurrence, however, of really or seemingly supernatural elements,
-is the chief characteristic of the Gothic Romance. These elements are
-always treated seriously; they form the part on which the reader’s
-attention is meant to be centred, the fearful sensations created by
-these means being, again, what the writer aims at--as expressed in
-Maturin’s preface quoted above. Another vital point there alluded to
-is that the ‘passion of supernatural fear’ is intended to come home
-to the reader by way of his own recollections of moments when he has
-involuntarily shivered in solitude or in darkness. In other words, the
-unearthly incidents about to be told are to take place among ordinary
-people, in environs more or less resembling real life. This, in fact,
-is admittedly a requisite to the Gothic Romance;[27] and, that being
-so, a tale like Beckford’s _Vathek_ (1781?) ought to be excluded from
-the _Schauerromantik_, the meaning of this word being limited to the
-definite literary movement now in question. In _Vathek_ the course of
-action is, from the beginning, raised to the realm of a fairy tale from
-the _Arabian Nights_; here, consequently, the supernatural becomes
-‘natural,’ never being startling or unexpected in its mere capacity of
-supernaturalness, nor in any way connected with experiences which the
-reader might be familiar with.
-
-The denomination ‘Gothic story’ was invented and introduced by Horace
-Walpole, who furnished his _Castle of Otranto_ with this sub-title. The
-wonders themselves, in this romance, are crude and primitive in the
-extreme, such as statues found bleeding, and portraits walking out of
-their frames. The _Castle of Otranto_ was, however, greatly admired
-by Scott,[28] who points out that in this crudity lies a deliberate
-artistic purpose of re-calling the ideas of the distant times, when the
-things related would have been ‘received as matter of great credulity.’
-In its attempt at time-colouring the _Castle of Otranto_ really stands
-alone among the Gothic romances where, as a rule, personages of any
-time or country speak the language and express the ideas of 18:th
-century England. In the present age, indeed, the success of this effort
-seems very indifferent, and the tedious horrors of Walpole proved too
-much even for his direct imitators. Clara Reeve, in her _Champion of
-Virtue_ (1777), afterwards called _The Old English Baron_, which she
-candidly confesses to have been inspired by Walpole, prudently keeps
-aloof from his copious use of supernatural elements. Yet the childish
-character of all these inventions could not long satisfy the public
-taste for horror, which grew very intense in the last decade of the
-century. Originality was soon sacrificed to the demands of power and
-suspense; _The Monk_ (1795) of Matthew Gregory Lewis, which is the
-best known--and probably the worst written--of all the more famous
-productions of the school of terror, consists, for the most part, of
-plagiarisms from foreign sources. Only his manner of handling his
-readers’ nerves without gloves was, at that time, a novelty in English
-fiction. The unearthly elements in _The Monk_ comprise popular legends
-of ghosts that find no rest in their graves, and one of the principal
-personages is a female demon sent forth by the devil himself to corrupt
-the morals of the monk Ambrosio. Compared to the nursery-bogeys of
-Walpole and Clara Reeve the preternatural world in _The Monk_ is, of
-course, much more imposing in itself, although the author’s treatment
-of his subject-matter is exceedingly blunt and coarse. With regard to
-the occurrence also of situations physically revolting and disgusting,
-the school of terror celebrates one of its doubtful triumphs in the
-romance of Lewis.
-
-About the same time, however, the movement took another course in a
-gentler direction, with the appearance of Mrs Ann Radcliffe within the
-province of imagination. She refrains altogether from representing
-anything actually supernatural; whatever is made to appear so
-throughout the tale, is finally explained as proceeding from some
-natural cause. This innovation in the mode of composition by no means
-marks an improvement from the artistic point of view. In a story
-written in the Radcliffe style a certain want of dignity is constantly
-felt, the reader being, to use the words of Scott,[29] ‘cheated into a
-sympathy’ with horrors shown, at last, to be connected with very petty
-and trivial circumstances, while the ‘explanation’ tendered is often as
-improbable as would be an appeal to supernatural forces. Nevertheless
-there still remains a sort of halo about the work of Mrs Radcliffe.
-She was indeed a far cleverer writer than either Walpole or Lewis,
-possessing, in a considerable degree, the rare art of suggestion, so
-important in novels of suspense. Another innovation introduced by Mrs
-Radcliffe into the Gothic Romance is an intense, romantic feeling for
-natural scenery. In her tales a moonlit landscape is as indispensable
-as a half-ruinous castle, and to the dreamy, sentimental atmosphere
-which prevails throughout her works, her enormous popularity was,
-no doubt, partly due. It was under her influence Maturin started
-his career as a novelist; _Montorio_ is, as far as its construction
-is concerned, composed in the typical Radcliffe style. That he was
-entirely in sympathy with his subject is already seen from the preface,
-and the warmth with which he speaks of Mrs Radcliffe even twelve years
-later,[30] clearly demonstrates that he must have been, in his youth,
-one of her most ardent admirers, and thoroughly acquainted with her
-works and all their peculiarities. The following extract from Maturin’s
-article deserves to be quoted all the more so because of its being one
-of the ablest and most beautiful characterizations of the once famous
-authoress ever written:
-
- -- -- -- her romances are irresistibly and dangerously delightful;
- fitted to inspire a mind devoted to them with a species of melancholy
- madness. The very light under which she paints every object, has
- something fatally indulgent to such an aberration of mind in its early
- and innocent, but mournful stage: her castles and her abbeys, her
- mountains and her valleys, are always tinged with the last rays of the
- setting sun, or the first glimpses of the rising moon; her music is
- made to murmur along a stream, whose dim waves reflect the gleam of
- “the star that bids the shepherd fold”; the spires of her turrets are
- always silvered by moonlight, and the recesses of her forests are only
- disclosed by flashes of the palest lightning; a _twilight shade_ is
- spread over her views of the moral, as well as of the natural world:
- her heroines are “soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair”; they have
- no struggles of energy, no bursts of passion--they are born to tremble
- and to weep;--their love, from its very commencement, has a tinge of
- despair, and their susceptibility of nature (which seems always their
- strongest feeling) has all the character of a religious resignation
- of its charms to the solemn duty of extracting melancholy from its
- scenes; they hang on the parting beauties of an evening landscape,
- and their tears fall in solemn unison with the dews of heaven; they
- are revived only by the toll of a sepulchral bell, and wander among
- the graves of their departed friends, as if the intercourse of human
- existence were suspended, and the living were to seek not only
- recollection, but society, among the dead. The works of this writer
- lead us for ever to the tomb; but the wand which she bore was gifted
- only to call up the milder and unalarming spirits: we listen to her
- charms as we would to the incantations of a benevolent enchanter,
- whose “quaint apparitions” may soften and solemnize, but neither
- terrify nor hurt us. Her spirits were those who
-
-    By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make
-    Whereof the ewe bites not, and those whose pastime
-    Is to make midnight mushrooms, who rejoice
-    To hear the solemn curfew--
-
- and “weak masters though they be”, their melody hovers round us as
- sweet as the air-borne songs of Ariel, and when we wake from the
- trance into which they have plunged us, “we cry to dream again”--
-
-In spite of similarity in construction it will be seen that the general
-atmosphere of _Montorio_ differs greatly from the feminine gentleness
-of Mrs Radcliffe--as much as it does from the crude straightforwardness
-of Lewis; and it speaks much for Maturin’s originality that he at once
-succeeded in preserving a tone so distinctly his own among patterns so
-highly admired.--
-
-Lastly, a third class of the novel of terror is that in which the
-marvellous or seemingly supernatural phenomenon is represented
-as a result of scientific or quasi-scientific occupations, and,
-consequently, within the limits of possibility. Instead of receiving
-a ‘natural’ explanation à la Mrs Radcliffe, the reader is referred
-to the effects of mesmerism, hypnotism, or some other suggestive and
-incompletely known branch of natural science. This class, of which
-Edgar Allan Poe was to become the most brilliant representative--and
-in which the elements strictly _Gothic_ are often dispensed with--was
-the latest developed of the three. At the time _Montorio_ was written,
-it had been touched upon in some of the tales of the American Charles
-Brockden Brown (1771-1810) which, however, it is very uncertain
-whether Maturin was acquainted with. Closely related to novels of this
-class are the so-called Rosicrucian stories, which deal with alchemic
-pursuits; the most celebrated of these, the _St. Leon_ of William
-Godwin, to which Maturin’s _Melmoth the Wanderer_ is largely indebted,
-appeared in 1799.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The plot in _Montorio_ is sufficiently intricate to necessitate a
-commencement of the analysis from the end and to reveal the mystery at
-once.
-
-The ‘fatal revenge’ is perpetrated by Orazio, count of Montorio, upon
-his brother, who has, in a diabolical manner, caused the death of his
-(Orazio’s) wife and the ruin of all his family. Orazio and his younger
-brother are, some twenty years before the commencement of the story,
-the only surviving representatives of a house which for centuries
-has been one of the most illustrious in the kingdom of Naples. Orazio
-is of a brave and enthusiastic disposition, and warmly attached to
-his unworthy brother; the latter is incapable of holding any of the
-commissions procured for him by Orazio, and finally marries a woman
-whose family are on a decidedly hostile footing towards his brother. At
-the same time Orazio himself marries a beautiful and distinguished lady
-called Erminia di Amaldi, whom, with his usual impetuosity, he drags
-to the altar almost by main force. Very soon it becomes obvious to him
-that his love is not reciprocated, and all the goodness and gentleness
-of his wife cannot conceal the fact that she feels profoundly unhappy.
-Now Orazio is reconciled to his brother and invites him to the castle
-of Muralto, the family residence. The brother, coveting the title
-and estates of Montorio, determines to avail himself of the apparent
-depression of Erminia, whom he hates, being a rejected suitor of hers,
-while his wife, who is equally depraved, eagerly abets him in his
-intentions. He conceives a plan of exciting the jealousy of Orazio,
-which, considering his vehement nature, he rightly conjectures will
-be of fatal consequence. The plan is easily executed. It is generally
-known that a young officer of the name of Verdoni has been in love with
-Erminia before her marriage; and with the assistance of a rascally
-servant dismissed by Verdoni and taken up by the younger Montorio,
-the suspicions of Orazio are awakened and successfully kept alive by
-means of continual hints and allusions. Letters written by his wife to
-Verdoni are thrown into his way, and at last it is even proved that
-Erminia is in the habit of meeting Verdoni at the house of a peasant,
-where there is a little child who is the object of the tender care of
-both. Orazio’s rage knows no bounds. Verdoni is treacherously assaulted
-and brought to Muralto, where Orazio lets him be murdered before the
-eyes of Erminia; which horrible sight puts an end to her life also.
-Well-nigh deranged with sorrow and fear, Orazio leaves the country and
-finds a solitary refuge on a small isle in the Grecian archipelago,
-which is believed to be haunted and is never visited by the people of
-the neighbouring islands. Here his ‘propensities and habits cease to be
-those of humanity,’ and his bodily strength and perseverance likewise
-grow almost superhuman. His tranquillity is unexpectedly disturbed by a
-boat landing on the shore, with two men in it, whom he understands to
-speak Italian. From a part of their conversation which he overhears,
-he gathers that they are assassins sent out by the present count of
-Montorio, who cannot feel at ease while his brother is alive. In the
-night he is attacked by the men but easily dispatches both of them.
-By the corpse of one he finds some letters containing an account of
-the tragedy at Muralto, which clearly demonstrates the innocence of
-Erminia. It appears that she had been attached to Verdoni from her
-earliest youth. Her father being opposed to their union, they were
-married privately, and the following year Erminia was delivered of a
-daughter at the house of a relative. At the same time reports were
-spread of Verdoni’s death while on an expedition, and in the meantime
-Erminia’s father had compelled her to accept Orazio. When Verdoni had
-returned, Erminia was the unhappy but faithful wife of another.--Such
-are the tidings Orazio learns in his solitude, and to them are added
-those of the death of all his children. He lingers long in a state
-of stupefaction, but at length his energies are roused and inflamed
-into their former fury, whereupon a thirst for revenge is the only
-feeling which fills his soul, night and day. The revenge is to fall
-upon the whole family of his guilty brother, whose children, according
-to Orazio’s idea of combining justice with vengeance, are to be made
-the punishers of their father. Before, however, starting to put his
-purpose into effect, Orazio undertakes an extensive journey to the East
-where he becomes an adept in secret and magical studies, and during
-which his mental and physical abilities are developed to the highest
-perfection. Thence he returns to Italy and enters a convent under the
-name of father Schemoli. As he knows how to give himself an air of
-particular sanctity, he is soon called to the castle Muralto, to be
-the confessor of count Montorio, who has, by this time, become a rigid
-devotee.--
-
-The story begins with a description of the family residing at
-the ancient castle. The gloomy retirement in which the count and
-countess pass their days is in no wise brightened by the presence
-of the confessor who is their only companion. Their eldest son,
-Ippolito, lives at Naples, as the admired and brilliant leader of
-the pleasures and dissipations of its _jeunesse dorée_, while the
-younger, Annibal, who is of a timid, melancholy, and suspicious
-disposition, is an inhabitant of Muralto. The members of the family
-have, from time immemorial, been noted for their love of magic and
-the preternatural. It is subsequently upon this inclination which the
-young men, otherwise so different, have in common, that the monk bases
-his scheme of inducing them to destroy their father. The story is one
-of a continuous, unrelenting process of strong mental suggestion,
-operating through its victims’ readiness to believe in supernatural
-agency. The plot goes forward alternately at the castle and at Naples;
-the adventures of Annibal are told by himself in letters to his
-brother. Muralto is furnished with everything required for a scene of
-‘Gothic incidents.’ There is an old, uninhabited wing of the castle,
-with a cemetery-chapel partly in ruins, and no end of secret doors,
-intricate passages, and subterranean vaults. It is the delight of
-Annibal to ramble about in these desolate places; he has heard that
-a mystery is connected with the sudden and tragical end of the late
-possessor of the castle, whose fate greatly excites his curiosity.
-He attaches himself to an old servant who apparently knows more than
-he dares disclose. Much against his will the old man is persuaded to
-accompany Annibal on his nocturnal visits to the deserted part of
-the building--nocturnal, because the count is suspected to be very
-unfavourably disposed towards this kind of occupation. With difficulty
-they open the long-shut door to the apartments used by count Orazio.
-A portrait of the countess Erminia makes a profound impression upon
-Annibal, who feels assured that the original is still in the land of
-the living; he makes a copy of the picture, which he always carries
-about him. These excursions are exactly what Schemoli would wish, it
-being very easy for him, with his familiarity with all the recesses of
-the building, to awaken superstitious fear in the visitants. At times
-they see a human figure issuing, as it were, directly out of the wall;
-they hear mysterious steps and observe strange lights moving around
-them. Blood is detected on the floors, and in a cavity of the wall a
-skeleton is discovered. Once the old man disappears, for a while, as if
-swallowed up by the tombs. Shortly afterwards he dies, without being
-able to reveal what he has seen among the dead; he merely repeats that
-‘the house of Montario must fall!’ Attended by a nephew of the old
-man, called Filippo, who now becomes his companion, Annibal continues
-to explore the ruins, until one night they are surprised by the count
-and Schemoli. The count, in a fury which betrays him to be conscious
-of a crime, has Annibal imprisoned in a lonely chamber in the castle,
-where, for some time to come, he beholds no face but that of the monk.
-At this stage Schemoli deems it fit to commence his work. He never
-speaks to the prisoner, or heeds his queries, by day; but every night
-at twelve he emerges from his castle of silence and sallies forth
-to Annibal’s room, where he serves up a fantastical story which he
-pretends to be allowed to relate at that hour only. He tells that he is
-the spirit of the dead body discovered by Annibal in the chapel. His
-life has been wild and sinful, and he has suffered a violent death.
-The body Annibal now sees before him is one two thousand years old,
-re-animated to become the abode of his spirit, until his real body is
-properly interred and vengeance wreaked upon his murderer. This task
-an implacable fate has destined to be executed by Annibal; and he is
-made to understand--although it is never distinctly uttered--that the
-criminal he must punish is his father. Annibal repudiates the idea with
-indignation, but Schemoli calmly repeats that his fate is inevitable,
-and that he is compelled to pursue Annibal everywhere until the deed
-is done. The mind of Annibal is already beginning to give way under
-the regular pressure of Schemoli, when these midnightly visits are
-suddenly interrupted. Annibal has, for some time, been permitted to
-enjoy the society of Filippo.--The count had promised to send Filippo
-to another of his estates, while the ruffian who was to be his guide
-had received a secret commission to murder him on the way. After a
-marvellous escape, however, Filippo had boldly returned to the castle
-and offered himself to act as a spy upon Annibal.--As he is really
-devoted to Annibal, he has the difficult task of operating as a double
-spy; but in this he succeeds so well as to find out that his master
-is to be poisoned by the monk. Through the dexterous management of
-Filippo, the draught prepared for Annibal is swallowed by Schemoli
-himself, after which the prisoners make their escape from the castle.
-Annibal determines to proceed to Naples to his brother, but on arriving
-there he learns that Ippolito has just left the town in a state of
-desperation.--
-
-Interesting as are Annibal’s letters to his brother, Ippolito pays them
-but little attention, being wholly absorbed by business of his own.
-He has run across a stranger who exercises a mysterious, irresistible
-ascendancy over his mind. This stranger, otherwise father Schemoli,
-introduces himself to Ippolito in a manner calculated to excite, by
-degrees, his interest and curiosity; speaking, at first, but little at
-a time and then disappearing. Ippolito is usually called to meet him by
-letters which he finds in his room, none of his servants being able to
-explain how they get there. Soon it is generally observed that Ippolito
-is in the habit of spending his nights at some unknown place whence he
-always returns with a pale and haggard appearance; and when at times he
-takes part in his former amusements, he does so with the wild despair
-of one who wishes to escape his own thoughts. His young page, Cyprian,
-who takes tender care of him, endeavours, by every means, to keep him
-at home; sometimes he reads a diary to him, partly in verse and partly
-in prose, written by a nun and dedicated to some one she is hopelessly
-attached to. The gentle influence of Cyprian, however, is no match
-for the miraculous power of Schemoli. When midnight arrives, Ippolito
-departs. Once he has invited a company of friends to his house, but at
-the usual hour a gigantic figure, with his face concealed in a mask,
-appears among them, beckoning to Ippolito, who submissively follows
-him. Their destination is a subterranean vault, whither Ippolito
-is always conducted blindfold, and the purpose of these excursions
-is to impress upon him that he is ordered, by fate, to commit an
-extraordinary deed. Just as in the case of Annibal, the monk enjoins
-upon Ippolito that he himself labours under the same fate, and that his
-is no voluntary service; and the credulous mind of Ippolito soon proves
-susceptible to the imposture. One night he is informed that ‘the hour
-is come.’ He is again conducted to the vaults where he is received by
-several figures fantastically attired; after a multitude of mysterious
-rites and ceremonies he is shown, by a pantomimic display, that he is
-destined to commit a murder against his will, and also who is to be his
-victim. Like Annibal he is seized with violent indignation, but the
-serenity of Schemoli remains unperturbed. In great despair Ippolito
-leaves Naples at the very time Annibal arrives there from Muralto.
-
-Ippolito roams about in the neighbourhood of Naples, without any
-definite object in view. His journey, however, soon becomes very
-painful. It appears that rumour has travelled ahead of him and spread
-news of his magical pursuits and his supposed alliance with the devil.
-Everywhere he is received with maledictions and threatened with the
-Inquisition; and, worst of all, he seems to be followed by the dreaded
-figure of his persecutor. Once he passes a night in a large, deserted
-building, where strange voices and footsteps induce him to descend
-into a subterranean locality of vast dimensions. There he is joined
-by Schemoli, who reminds him of the uselessness of trying to avoid
-his fate. He then leaves Ippolito to wander about in darkness, until
-he discerns two figures advancing before him in the dim light of a
-lantern. One of them is Schemoli, and the other a monk who carries the
-lifeless form of a young female. After a while the former is seen to
-depart, and the monk, with apparent hesitation, prepares to plunge a
-dagger into the breast of the lady; frightened by Ippolito he releases
-her and makes his escape. Ippolito seizes the lady and, following
-the course taken by the monk, emerges at last into the garden of a
-cloister. In fresh air the lady revives and learns with joy the name
-of her preserver. She informs him that she has been forcibly separated
-from his brother Annibal, and implores him to save her. There is a
-river flowing through the garden; seeing a boat Ippolito springs into
-it, but before he has time to assist her to follow him, the river is
-disturbed by an earthquake, and the boat is borne along with great
-rapidity. After a perilous course Ippolito gets safely ashore, and
-his ramblings begin again. Yet the suspicions entertained against
-him are gaining strength every moment, and at last he is imprisoned
-by the members of the Inquisition. He is repeatedly examined, but
-nothing worse happens to him so far as the Holy Office is concerned.
-Schemoli, however, regularly visits him in his cell. Ippolito’s power
-of resistance has nearly vanished, when he is once more released
-by another earthquake, which rends asunder the prison-tower of the
-Inquisition. With the few surviving inhabitants of the town he embarks
-for Sicily, but the bark is wrecked and Ippolito drifts ashore where
-he is received by Schemoli. Now he passively yields to the will of his
-persecutor, who conducts him first to Naples and then to the castle of
-Muralto.--
-
-Annibal, not finding his brother at Naples, betakes himself to Puzzoli,
-to seek protection with a relative of his mother, a distinguished
-ecclesiastic, who lives at enmity with his father. On his way he
-arrives at a small town by a river which, just then, threatens the
-inhabitants with an inundation; the nuns of an Ursuline convent are
-arranging a solemn procession to induce the saint to prevent the
-impending calamity. In that procession Annibal detects the original
-of the picture which he still cherishes as his dearest treasure. In
-ecstasies he rushes to the lady, beginning to address her--to the
-strong resentment of the nuns--when the flood suddenly comes on with
-terrible force. Annibal is separated from the object of his rapture,
-but, in the general confusion at last finds her and succeeds in saving
-her from the water. She is taken back to the convent, but Annibal
-contrives clandestinely to meet her. It appears that she is a novice
-called Ildefonsa, and is forced to take the veil much against her
-inclinations. Annibal now writes to his relative to request him to
-interfere on behalf of Ildefonsa. His effort is crowned with success
-in so far as a letter really arrives from the bishop of the diocese,
-ordering the removal of Ildefonsa from the convent; but shortly before
-this Annibal has seen the well-known figure of Schemoli glide past
-him, and from that moment he is plunged into desperate gloom which
-nothing is able to dispel. Nor is he mistaken in his forebodings of
-evil. The messenger bringing the bishop’s letter is sent back with the
-intelligence that Ildefonsa is dead. Assisted by his faithful Filippo,
-however, Annibal finds out that this is not the case; accordingly, at
-the funeral procession, he steps forward accusing the abbess of having
-arranged a mock funeral, after immuring Ildefonsa in the dungeons of
-the convent. The abbess allows him to remove the pall, and, to his
-astonishment, he sees the lifeless form of Ildefonsa. The indignation
-of the public is now directed against Annibal; he is even imprisoned
-on account of his extraordinary conduct. Ildefonsa, however, who is
-not dead but only rendered insensible by a strong opiate, is conveyed
-to the vaults where Ippolito accidentally saves her from the hands of
-her enemies. The earthquake which separates Ildefonsa from Ippolito,
-reunites her with Annibal, whose prison is crushed to pieces. After
-some time spent in close retirement they venture to set out for
-Puzzoli. Their guide proves to be bribed by Schemoli, and they are
-attacked by his attendants, whereupon Annibal is severely wounded. When
-he comes to his senses he finds himself in the power of his persecutor.
-By this time he is also a broken man, and bereft of all further power
-of resistance he consents to all the propositions of Schemoli. He only
-expresses a wish that there might be another human being in the same
-condition as himself--and Schemoli has no reason to conceal that there
-is one: his brother Ippolito. Annibal follows Schemoli to Muralto,
-where he unexpectedly finds Ildefonsa lying on her death-bed. He has
-no opportunity, however, to inquire into her fate, for the fatal night
-draws on apace. That same night the count Montorio is, more than ever,
-beset by pangs of conscience. He dare not be left alone for a moment,
-although his wife is quite unable to soothe him. At last he summons
-the confessor to give him absolution, and now, for the first time,
-confesses to him that he has tried to palliate his crime by rearing
-the children of his unhappy brother as his own: Ippolito and Annibal
-are the sons of his brother Orazio.... The confessor rushes out to
-the youths, but is powerless to utter one articulate sound. Nor would
-it be of any avail; in a trance-like condition they enter the count’s
-apartment, and their swords meet in his body.--
-
-At the moment of the young men’s arrest, Orazio surrenders himself
-to justice, protesting that he alone is guilty. He asks permission
-to compose a written account of what has happened, and in this he
-reveals his identity, relates the story of his early misfortunes, and
-explains the method adopted by him to carry out his vengeance, which is
-fatally visited upon himself, his own children becoming murderers at
-his instigation.--As for Ildefonsa, she is the unacknowledged daughter
-of Erminia and Verdoni, and the very picture of her mother. Montorio
-destines her for a convent to get rid of her; when she is brought to
-the castle by Schemoli’s attendants, we are told that Montorio, ‘on
-beholding her, felt a long extinguished passion for her mother revive.
-To gratify a romantic illusion of posthumous passion she was arrayed
-in fantastic splendour by the count, and to appease fear and jealousy,
-was poisoned by his wife.’--Ippolito is, in his prison, visited by his
-former page, who turns out to be a woman called Rosolia di Valozzi.
-After seeing him once, in the days of his splendour, an irresistible
-passion had made her quit her convent and enter his service; the diary
-she used to read to him referred to herself and her attachment to
-Ippolito. Now her health is undermined, and she expires shortly after
-her secret is revealed.
-
-Ippolito and Annibal are finally released, but banished from the
-country for ever. Orazio is condemned to death; but at the last
-interview with his sons he bursts ‘one of the larger vessels’ and
-dies, rejoicing that ‘the last of the Montorios has not perished on a
-scaffold.’
-
-In a short introduction to _Montorio_ it is narrated how two young
-officers enter the French service at the siege of Barcelona 1697, and
-distinguish themselves as much by their reckless intrepidity as by
-their melancholy aloofness from their comrades. When the city is taken
-both of them perish; and an Italian officer, who is the only person
-acquainted with their history, relates all that follows.--
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-It would not be possible to give an account of all the windings of
-this intricate production, which is said[31] to contain ‘sufficient
-sparkle and movement for half a dozen ordinary romances.’ An extract
-from another critic[32] likewise goes to show--besides the fact that
-_Montorio_ had its admirers--that it is not such a very easy matter to
-trace even the bare outlines of Maturin’s first story:
-
- In the “House (sic) of Montorio” there is a vast exuberance of all the
- impulses of humanity,--the young passions, fantasies and aspirations,
- dancing and eddying like the waters of a gushing fountain, and
- sparkling in the coloured light of romance. Plot, sentiment,
- character, and description, in an abundance that seems to mock the
- anxious effort of ordinary genius, and to perplex the youthful author
- with his own riches, mark the entire of this extraordinary production.
-
-Yet all these riches, unfortunately, rest on an unsubstantial
-foundation. The Radcliffe style of composition requires, in fact,
-the prudence and moderation practised by its originator, in order to
-preserve anything like an artistic balance. It follows from the very
-nature of a story of this kind, that the more the scope of action
-is enlarged, the more unsatisfactory is the inevitable explanation,
-and the greater the disappointment felt at the implausibility of the
-solution. In _Montorio_ the disproportion between cause and effect is
-nothing less than prodigious; and such elements as would actually be
-grand and imposing in the plan itself, are, in the course of execution,
-sadly affected by the air of charlatanism inseparable from a plot
-constructed in the Radcliffe manner. It would be different, and far
-more satisfactory, if the brothers were, for instance, represented as
-acting under a kind of hypnotic influence. As it is, the scheme of
-Orazio is, essentially, carried out by means of talking sheer nonsense
-to two full-grown people; and facilitated by accidents and singular
-coincidences which are as incredible as would be the appearance of
-all the legions of the supernatural world. The wonderful talents of
-Orazio, above all his capacity of swiftly covering great distances,
-become almost unnecessary, considering the never-ending maze of
-secret passages and subterranean recesses at his disposal; there
-are no two apartments, far or near, unconnected by these means of
-escape, if need be, and the strangest thing of all is that Orazio,
-after an absence of twenty years, still is the only person perfectly
-acquainted with them, wherever they are. For him there is no more
-difficulty in smuggling letters to Ippolito’s room at Naples, than in
-suddenly turning up in the prison-cell of the Inquisition. Among other
-extraordinary circumstances contributing to the success of Orazio’s
-enterprise, the occurrence of two earthquakes with the same issue, the
-liberation of a person from his prison by crushing its walls, is the
-most unfortunate. This repetition of an event which, even if introduced
-singly, makes unusual claims upon the reader’s credulity, seriously
-cools his excitement even at the first perusal. As for any recurrent
-enjoyment, it has very appropriately been pointed out by Scott,[33]
-that a composer of Radcliffe romances cannot expect his productions to
-be relished twice or oftener. When everything mysterious and suggestive
-is carefully explained, there is nothing left to excite curiosity or
-keep the mind in suspense a second time, as is often the case with
-powerfully told supernatural incidents which receive no explanation
-whatever. It is almost intolerable to re-read _Montorio_, from
-beginning to end, in spite of the many impressive passages it contains.
-However, as it is unavoidable in a story constructed in accordance with
-the principles of _Montorio_, that the elaborate fabric collapses at
-the final revelation of the ‘truth’ and the placing side by side of
-causes and effects, it must still be considered as a success in its
-kind if this does not happen too soon; and in _Montorio_ the reader
-is, until the explanation of Orazio, really kept believing that the
-incidents related are of a preternatural character. Hence the ‘passion
-of supernatural fear,’ though capable of being inspired only once,
-is as genuine as that which any Gothic story is likely to create. As
-far as the purely terrific element is concerned, it has justly been
-observed[34] that ‘_Montorio_ surpasses all the excellences of Ann
-Radcliffe and Godwin combined.’ An atmosphere of intense suspense
-is brought about by the parallel development of two actions, always
-broken off at the most interesting point, and the vigour, vivacity, and
-youthful freshness of the style also leaves far behind all that which
-had been produced, up to 1807, within the Gothic Romance.
-
-Of the two actions the adventures going on at Muralto form the happier
-one, the tricks of Orazio being, in this instance, far more probable.
-In the gloomy surroundings where the very air is filled with surmises
-of some mysterious and horrible secret, it is not unnatural that
-Orazio should succeed in appealing to the superstitious tendencies
-of the melancholy-minded Annibal, nor is it astonishing that he is
-thoroughly acquainted with all the localities of his own castle. The
-fearful expectations with which Annibal looks forward to his nightly
-excursions, are cleverly transferred to the reader:
-
- The hour is approaching--a few moments more, and the castle bell
- will toll. The hour that I have longed for, I almost begin now to
- wish more distant. I almost dread to hear the steps of Michelo....
- Hark! the bell tolls--the old turret seems to rock its echo; and the
- silence that succeeds, how deep, how stilly!--would I could hear an
- owl scream across me! Ha! ’twas the lightning that gleamed across me.
- I will go to the casement; the roar of the elements will be welcome
- at such a moment as this.... The night is dark and unruly--the wind
- bursts in strong and fitful blasts against the casement. The clouds
- are hurried along in scattering masses. There is a murmur from the
- forests below, that in a lighter hour I could trust fancy to listen
- to; but, in my present mood, I dare not follow her wanderings. Would
- my old guide were come! I feel that any state of fear is supportable,
- accompanied by the sight or sound of a human being.... Was that shriek
- fancy?--again, again--impossible! Hark! there is a tumult in the
- castle--lights and voices beneath the turret.... What is it they tell
- me?
-
-Every night some new discovery is made, ingeniously calculated to
-increase his curiosity, and the marvellous occurrences become more
-and more startling, until the climax is reached in the night-scene
-where Orazio suddenly drags the old servant after him into the vault,
-and there addresses him ‘in the hollow voice of death.’ The mind of
-his victim being thus sufficiently prepared for his purpose, Orazio
-rouses the count, and Annibal is conveyed to his lonely prison. The
-tale which Orazio here unfolds to him is one of the boldest flights
-of ‘terrific’ imagination: a description of the abode of unblessed
-spirits, where he has been condemned to linger before entering the
-ancient body kept unconsumed amid magical flames--in which shape his
-doom then is involved into Annibal’s. A comparison of this fantasia to
-the mummery by which Ippolito is informed of his fate is of interest
-as a proof of the injustice Maturin did to his own talents in applying
-them to the Radcliffe style of composition. With Ippolito the means
-resorted to are as follows. Orazio takes into his service a number
-of professional impostors who, in the subterranean vaults into which
-Ippolito is conducted, act the part of beings of another world. Masks,
-modelled in wax, are procured of Ippolito and the count, so that, in
-the figure which suggests to him the idea of a murderer, Ippolito
-recognizes himself. Then he is induced to plunge his poniard into the
-breast of another waxen figure whose face, when disclosed, reveals the
-features of his father. Now all this, when subsequently explained,
-appears extremely cheap; but even the account of the performance itself
-has none of the unearthly power of the tale told to Annibal. That tale
-is the only passage in the book in which Maturin gives rein to his
-imagination and which has the enduring merit of being subjected to no
-trivial explanation, certain to destroy every impression. The reader
-is also much more disposed to accept as a fact that Annibal believes
-what is only told to him, than that Ippolito is convinced of what he
-is made actually to experience. The plot laid at Muralto is, moreover,
-interspersed with scenes powerful in effect, relating to the state of
-the conscience-stricken count Montorio. That he has committed some
-formidable offence is clear from the very first, though it is, of
-course, merely mentioned allusively. The characters of the count and
-his wife--who are never haunted but by their own thoughts--are those
-most vividly depicted. Montorio is totally broken down by fear and
-repentance, and clings anxiously to the offices of religion; his nights
-are passed in raving under the pressure of hideous dreams, represented
-with great zest and spirit. The countess, on the other hand, is as
-strong as he is weak, and outwardly as calm and proud as he is restless
-and dejected. Without uttering a complaint she undergoes a penance
-of her own invention, wearing a sharp iron belt around her waist.
-This contrast between her self-restraint and his cowardly despair
-is, upon the whole, skilfully effected. Otherwise characterization,
-in _Montorio_, yields place to adventure, for under the exceptional
-circumstances in which the principal personages find themselves, they
-act by necessity rather than by choice. Yet the difference said to
-exist between Ippolito and Annibal also clearly asserts itself when
-their wanderings begin. Annibal, who has the deeper mind of the two,
-is fully persuaded that his persecutor is a preternatural being; and
-thus, though he is apparently more composed, his calmness is more
-dangerous than the impetuosity of Ippolito, and he is far nearer to
-surrendering himself. Ippolito does not debate whether the powers by
-which he is beset be human or superhuman; following his first impulse
-he goes on to treat them with ‘sallies of rage and convulsions of
-resistance.’ From this difference in their characters, by which their
-subsequent adventures are fixed, it follows that those of Annibal
-are, even henceforth, more satisfactory from an artistic point of
-view. His encounters with Orazio are simple and natural, there being
-no further need of any extraordinary tricks for his bewilderment. The
-draught emptied by the confessor at Muralto he firmly believes to be
-poison, while it is only a strong opiate, from the effects of which
-Orazio easily recovers. Consequently it is sufficient for Annibal to
-see Orazio glide past him in the garden of the convent, in order to
-disperse the last shadow of doubt as to his superhuman character; and
-when he again falls into the hands of Orazio after being separated
-from Ildefonsa, he could not reasonably be expected to offer any
-further resistance. Ippolito, on the other hand, before his strength
-is exhausted, continues to be hurried through subterranean passages
-without end and marvellous experiences defying all natural explanation
-of any kind.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The productions of the Gothic Romance, owing to its limited range
-and peculiar character, naturally present obvious similarities among
-themselves. The fundamental principle of them all is an appeal to
-the same source of emotion;--from their very appellation we may
-deduce a common background to most of them, and the motifs with which
-the ‘terrific’ imagination loves to occupy itself are always less
-remarkable for variety than for suitability to imitation, according to
-the special genius of each successive writer. In _Montorio_ there is
-as ample proof of Maturin’s indebtedness to his predecessors within
-the school of terror, as of his unquestionable originality. The idea
-of a supernatural imposture of intricate apparatus and vast dimensions
-Maturin might have received from _Der Geisterseher_ (1789) of Schiller,
-of which a translation was much read and relished at that time in
-England. In Schiller’s story a mysterious Armenian possesses the same
-surprising familiarity with other people’s concerns, and the same
-exaggerated facility of appearing when and where he chooses, as Orazio.
-There is also a Sicilian necromancer, a ghost-seer by profession, who
-gives a minute description of the tricks he and his compeers are in
-the habit of practising while trading upon people’s credulity, which
-affords a parallel to the performances of the hirelings employed by
-Orazio at Naples. Complications like these are, at all events, foreign
-to the novels of Mrs Radcliffe, of which especially _The Italian_
-(1797) is often called to mind by _Montorio_. In this romance the
-principal plotter and schemer is a monk called Schedoni, and he, as
-regards external appearance at least, is distinctly a precursor of
-Orazio, _alias_ father Schemoli.[35] They have the same large, gaunt
-figure, hollow voice and unearthly appearance in general, and both
-enjoy a reputation of uncommon sanctity, very little deserved by
-either. However, Schedoni has, in his former life, been a villain
-of an ordinary kind, who possesses none of the grandeur of spirit
-by which Orazio is distinguished, nor are his machinations pursued
-on a scale at all comparable to that invented by Maturin’s hero.
-The simpler adventures of Annibal, on the other hand, are typically
-Radcliffeian: in _The Italian_, too, mysterious footsteps allure
-inquisitive young men to dangerous places, ghastly voices disturb the
-stillness of ruinous chapels, and nocturnal flights are undertaken
-through sombre forests. Yet this is not the only point of contact
-between the two romances. A general characteristic shared by Gothic
-stories with very few exceptions, was the placing of the scene in
-the Mediterranean countries, in this case in the South of Italy.
-Besides the romantic charm those regions always suggest to a northern
-imagination, they possessed the special merit of admitting the
-introduction of the Inquisition with all its horrors, and affording
-an opportunity of penetrating the walls of a convent. To Maturin,
-with his strong anti-catholic tendencies, the theme of ecclesiastical
-cruelty was doubly welcome, and in his treatment of the subject there
-is always a tone of genuine indignation, distinct from all aims of
-a literary character. The absolute power of the Holy Office and the
-abuses of monastical authority were, in a forcible manner, illustrated
-already in Lewis’s _Monk_, nor were these attractions withstood by
-Mrs Radcliffe. The passages in _The Italian_, relative to the prison
-of the Inquisition at Rome, are among the greatest triumphs of her
-method of arousing the reader’s anxiety only to be soothed again. The
-hero is several times brought to the utmost point of being submitted
-to torture; at one time he is already fastened to the rack, but
-the procedure is always suspended. The examinations of other less
-fortunate prisoners are suggested only by feeble groans and expressive
-allusions, still by these scanty means a most gruesome atmosphere is
-created. Maturin, in _Montorio_, follows _The Italian_ in so far as
-bodily torture is not resorted to--it would, indeed, be very much out
-of place, the plan of Orazio tending to subdue Ippolito by working
-upon his mental faculties. Maturin even, contrary to Mrs Radcliffe,
-represents the chief inquisitor as a man of some humanity; but at the
-same time he takes care to give a powerful picture of the demoralizing
-influence a superstitious religion exercises upon the people. The
-report of Ippolito’s heretical inclinations spreads like wild-fire, and
-wherever he arrives he is viewed with hatred and abhorrence. In vain he
-approaches man or woman; all refuse to listen to his protestations, to
-which the sole answers are curses and maledictions. Here, evidently, a
-literary impulse outside the actual school of terror asserts itself.
-Ippolito’s situation is as desperate and as passionately depicted as
-Caleb’s in Godwin’s _Caleb Williams_ (1794), when he is accused of
-robbery by Falkland and appearances are strongly against him; he is
-regarded as the ‘opprobrium of the human species’ and is allowed no
-opportunity to defend himself, nobody deigning to lend an ear to his
-demonstrations. Caleb and Ippolito are both, at last, driven to seek
-the mercy of an old man of mild and venerable aspect, and both, alike,
-are sadly disappointed. In Godwin the old man calls the unfortunate
-youth ‘a monster with whom the earth groans,’ and deplores that he has
-ever seen him or uttered a single word to him; in Maturin he laments
-at having lived too long being thus forced to behold Ippolito, and
-declares that his grey hairs are defiled by the appeal Ippolito makes
-to them. This pathetic description of the involuntary isolation of a
-man among his fellow-beings, this heart-rending agony of his upon
-seeing the ties broken that unite him to his species, is born of the
-spirit of a time in which feeling was raised to the seat of honour.
-A strong sense of loneliness, of some sort or other, is an essential
-feature of the romantic literature of the period, and will often be
-seen to recur in Maturin’s writings. Here, under the influence of
-Godwin, it is expressed in its most painful aspect. _Caleb Williams_ is
-a protest against the ‘despotism by which man becomes the destroyer of
-man;’ while Godwin directs his attacks against wrongs in the existing
-state of social institutions, Maturin traces the source of evil in
-misapplied religious ideas. The result, however, is the same, and Caleb
-might well have uttered the words in which Ippolito sums up the state
-he is reduced to:
-
- Then I am outlawed of nature. I am divested of the rights of being.
- Every ear is deaf, and every heart is iron to me. Wherever I tread the
- sole of my foot dries the streams of humanity.--
-
-An incident, in _Montorio_, of monastic oppression, is represented by
-the episode of Ildefonsa. A young lady held in a convent against her
-will was a special favourite with the novelists of terror; the episode
-in question is, no doubt, suggested by the history of Agnes de Medina
-in _The Monk_. For the liberation of Agnes, also, an appeal is made
-to high ecclesiastical authorities, whereupon the tyrannical abbess
-compels her to swallow an opiate which plunges her into a death-like
-state, arranges a mock funeral and has Agnes conveyed to the hideous
-dungeons of the convent. In _The Italian_, too, the heroine is placed
-in a convent where she feels but ill at ease under the government of
-an unkind prioress; however, she succeeds in escaping with her lover.
-Mention is also made of a stone chamber ‘within the deepest recesses of
-the convent’ where disobedient nuns have sometimes been confined--but
-thither the gentle authoress forbears to conduct her readers.
-
-Yet another episode in _Montorio_ is inspired by ‘the powerful and
-wicked romance of the Monk,’ which was, in Maturin’s opinion,[36]
-‘the most extraordinary production’ of the time of its appearance. It
-has been told that Annibal’s servant, Filippo, incurs the displeasure
-of the count for assisting at the investigations of his master, and
-is sent away from Muralto. His guide conducts him into a large house
-where they are expected by a party of bandits. Filippo is ushered
-into a room on the upper floor and there finds out that he is to be
-despatched during the night, yet effects a hair-breadth escape by
-a passage below the apartment. The episode, though of considerable
-length, is completely detached from the main plot and introduced solely
-for the sake of delineating Filippo’s sensations when threatened with
-horrible and immediate death. Lewis relates, with the same laudable
-purpose, how Don Raymond and some other travellers pass a night at the
-house of a man who turns out to be the leader of a gang of robbers,
-and how they, too, succeed in eluding the danger. Differently as the
-adventures are made up, still one conspicuous detail in _Montorio_
-comes very near direct plagiarism. In the first as well as in the
-second story the victim is made aware of his danger by the hostess of
-the house, who, though of a surly aspect, appears to disapprove of
-the impending proceedings. The robber’s wife, in a whisper, warns Don
-Raymond to look at the sheets of his bed, which are stained with blood;
-Filippo is called by the hag who manages the household of the bandits,
-to examine a particular corner of his room which he, also, finds to be
-blood-stained. Otherwise the episode in _Montorio_ is certainly much
-more exciting than the one in _The Monk_.
-
-Aside from these instances of immediate influence from some of the most
-admired productions of the Gothic Romance, _Montorio_ exhibits many
-minor traits characteristic of the school in general. Among these is
-the committing, either consciously or unconsciously, of great wrongs
-against near relations. The happiness of Orazio is destroyed by his
-brother, and Orazio himself unwittingly ruins the life of his sons. Of
-secondary characters, both attendants of Annibal at Muralto are very
-typical of a genuine Gothic story: the old and decrepit domestic who,
-in a provokingly imperfect way, attempts to satisfy the curiosity of
-the hero, and the young and ready-witted fellow, who stoutly follows
-him in his breakneck adventures. Yet in one vital point _Montorio_
-occupies an almost exceptional place within the Gothic Romance, namely,
-with regard to the highly tragical issue of all its incidents. In
-spite of its blood-curdling qualities, the novel of terror by no means
-excludes a happy end for the hero and the heroine; the reader may be
-made to wander about in charnel-houses for ever so long, but finally
-he is led to a nuptial chamber as infallibly as in other stories that
-have boasted of a wide and merited popularity. This rule was, rashly
-enough, disregarded by Maturin; when Helene Richter[37] says that
-‘alle Schauerromane haben ein glückliches Ende, und würde es auch an
-den Haaren herbeigezogen,’ she evidently forgets _Montorio_. Maturin
-adhered faithfully to the programme he had fixed for his romance--to
-found it upon the passion of the supernatural fear alone, not troubling
-himself about the traditional compensation for the horrors. There
-is, in fact, no heroine in the book; it was not without cause that
-_Montorio_, as Maturin states in the preface to his next work, was
-pronounced to be ‘deficient in female interest.’ Ildefonsa is there to
-fill but a short episode, and is, moreover, discovered to be Annibal’s
-sister. As a type she is modelled according to the innocent and
-persecuted young ladies in Mrs Radcliffe’s stories, being in no wise
-remarkable among the female characters Maturin has depicted. Still
-less likely is Rosolia to satisfy the demands for a heroine. Matters
-never develop to an understanding between her and Ippolito; her sex
-is not even revealed before it would be too late to invent a happy
-solution. Rosolia is introduced into the story, in the development
-of which she takes no part, merely in order to intersperse it with
-her lyrical effusions. A character like this is not uncommon in the
-Gothic Romance. It may be mentioned that Don Raymond, in _The Monk_,
-also has a page who composes ballads which he, like Rosolia, subjects
-to the benevolent judgment of his master. The diary Rosolia presents
-to Ippolito is rather unsubstantial in matter, but some of the prose
-passages are exquisitely graceful and truly Maturineian in style.--
-
-There is, however, within the compass of _Montorio_, one complete
-and consummate story where female interest is also attended to.
-Orazio’s account of his early misfortunes--immediately preceding the
-disheartening explanation of the details of his revenge--admittedly
-contains the best parts of the book.[38] The progress of the violent
-action is admirably concentrated, and the rapidity and poignancy of
-the style is powerfully indicative of the anguish felt by the writer.
-The character of Orazio, before he becomes the superhuman being known
-as father Schemoli, is illustrated with a few vigorous strokes. The
-motif itself--a tragedy ensuing from the groundless suspicions of a
-jealous husband--is not original. Mangan[39] points out that the idea
-had been utilized by Edward Young in _The Revenge_ (1721), though, he
-adds, ‘Maturin has contrived to invest it with a new and overpowering
-interest.’ In Young’s tragedy the revenge is taken by a Moor called
-Zanga upon his master, a distinguished Spaniard, who has wronged him.
-Zanga helps him first to marry the lady he loves, and then ingeniously
-awakens his jealousy by means of forged letters and pictures deposited
-in suitable places. The lady, upon finding herself suspected, commits
-suicide, and her husband, when undeceived, follows her example. The
-plot of Orazio’s narrative certainly bears similarity to _The Revenge_,
-and it is not impossible that Maturin may have received an impulse
-from Young, although it seems somewhat far-fetched to refer to this
-comparatively little known play, as long as _Othello_ remains the great
-prototype of a tragedy of his kind. In this respect, at least, Maturin
-shows originality, that he allows Orazio to remain alive and only
-after a long interval be informed of his fatal mistake. Fantastic as
-is Orazio’s situation on the islet, it required unusual imaginative
-power to treat it so as to render it credible; however, Maturin was
-equal to the task. Here are to be found the most splendid proofs of
-his prose-style--compared to which the metrical pieces scattered
-through the work are of very great inferiority--showing to what degree
-of excellence it was capable of rising even at that early period. It
-is most pathetically described how the innocent victims of Orazio’s
-rashness are never out of his mind--how they seem to threaten him
-when nightly tempests are roaring around him and how, at moments of
-fortuitous tranquillity, he endeavours to imagine them in a state of
-glory:
-
- The dreams of the night are easily dissolved, and strange shapes
- are sometimes seen to shimmer through the twilight of a cavern; but
- I have met them at noon on the bare sunny shore. I have seen them
- on the distant wave when its bed was smooth and bright as jasper;
- the curtained mist that hung on mole and breaker, and mingled with
- the sheeted spanglings of the surf floated back from them, did not
- throw a fringe of its shadowy mantling on their forms. I could not
- be deceived. Sometimes the light was glorious beyond imagination.
- Towards sunset I would sometimes see a small white cloud, and watch
- its approach; it would fix on a point of the rock that rose beside my
- cave; as twilight thickened it would unfold, its centre disclosing a
- floating throne of pearl, and its skirts expanding into wings of iris
- and aurelia that upbore it. By moonlight the pomp grew richer, and
- the vision became exceeding glorious. Myriads of lucent shapes were
- visible in that unclouded shower of light which fell from the moon on
- the summit of the rock; myriads swam on its opal waves, wafted in a
- fine web of filmy radiancy, canopied with a lily’s cup, and inebriate
- with liquid light. Among them sat the shadows of the lovers, sparkling
- with spheral light, and throned in the majesty of vision, but pale
- with the traces of mortality. There sat the lovers in sad and shadowy
- state together; so greatly unfortunate, so fatal, passing fond.
- Sometimes when stretched on my cold, lone bed, I have heard her voice
- warbling on the wind touches of sweet, sad music, such as I have heard
- her sing when she thought herself alone and unheard. I have risen
- and followed it, and heard it floating on the waters; I listened,
- and would have given worlds to weep. On a sudden the sounds would
- change to the most mournful and wailing cries, and Erminia, pale and
- convulsed as I saw her last, would pass before me, pointing to a gory
- shape that the waves would throw at my feet. Then they would plunge
- together into the waters, and where far off the moon shed a wan and
- cloudy light on the mid wave, I would see their visages rise dim and
- sad, and hear their cry die along the waste of waters.--
-
-There are, in the prefaces to Maturin’s both second and third work,
-hints that his first romance had been subjected to unfavourable
-criticism on the part of the reviewers. In the leading periodicals of
-the time, however, no such are to be found. The only article upon the
-book, that of Scott in the _Quarterly Review_, did not appear until
-three years after the publication of _Montorio_. It is not quite so
-panegyrical as maintained by some of Maturin’s biographers, although
-the conspicuous talent of the rising novelist is readily admitted.
-Severely condemning the Radcliffe manner as little better than humbug,
-the reviewer speaks of Mr. Murphy’s adherence to it with disapproval
-and regret:
-
- -- -- -- Amid these flat imitations of the Castle of Udolpho we
- lighted unexpectedly upon the work which is the subject of the
- present article, and, in defiance of the very bad taste in which it
- is composed, we found ourselves insensibly involved in the perusal,
- and at times impressed with no common degree of respect for the
- powers of the author. We have at no time more earnestly desired to
- extend our voice to a bewildered traveller, than towards this young
- man, whose taste is so inferior to his powers of imagination and
- expression, that we never saw a more remarkable instance of genius
- degraded by the labour in which it is employed. -- -- -- He possesses
- a strong and vigorous fancy, with great command of language. He has
- indeed regulated his incidents upon those of others, and therefore
- added to the imperfections which we have pointed out, the want of
- originality. But his feeling and conception of character are his own,
- and from these we judge of his powers. In truth we rose from his
- strange chaotic novel romance as from a confused and feverish dream,
- unrefreshed, and unamused, yet strongly impressed by many of the ideas
- which had been so vaguely and wildly presented to our imagination.
-
-This article was to become of the greatest consequence to Maturin’s
-literary career, and will be returned to further on.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The _Family of Montorio_ brought to its author nothing more substantial
-than fame in his nearest environs, for, notwithstanding the pseudonym,
-it was universally attributed to Maturin.[40] His income thus remained
-as scanty as ever, whilst his family kept on increasing; his son
-William Basil, afterwards a well-known member of the Irish Church, was
-born in July 1807. Nonetheless Maturin resolved to try his luck once
-more and produced, in 1808, a romance titled _The Wild Irish Boy_. This
-time his task was executed under circumstances peculiarly embarrassing;
-harassed by clamouring duties in every direction, Maturin was often
-forced to ‘borrow from the hours of night to complete his story.’[41]
-The book was intended, more directly than most of his productions, to
-bring in some remuneration and by every means to attract the attention
-of the reading public. Its very title was chosen with a view to
-exciting curiosity, suggesting a counterpart to Lady Morgan’s (then
-Miss Owenson’s) story of _The Wild Irish Girl_, which had appeared the
-previous year and proved an eminent success. Another attempt in the
-same direction was a lengthy dedication to Lord Moira[42]--written in
-very bad taste and containing the hopeful assurance that the work in
-hand would now determine whether the author possesses talent or no;
-for, if he does, the book cannot fail to secure his lordship’s notice.
-At the same time Maturin was fully aware that his talent was here
-by no means displayed to its advantage. _Montorio_ was written in a
-spirit which he felt to be his special power; _The Wild Irish Boy_ was
-calculated to please all--except the author himself. That the audience
-appealed to was not the most cultivated part of the public is rather
-candidly alluded to in the preface. Maturin states that his head is
-full of his country, but that he can perforce not give vent to his
-thoughts, being compelled to resort to other material, better relished
-by the public:
-
- The fashionable materials for novel-writing I know to be, a lounge in
- Bond-street, a phaeton-tour in the Park, a masquerade with appropriate
- scenery, and a birth-day or birth-night, with dresses and decorations,
- accurately copied from the newspapers.
-
- He who writes with an hope of being read, must write something like
- this. I say must, because this species of writing, not exacting a
- sacrifice of principles, but of taste, the public have reasonably a
- right to dictate in. He who would prostitute his morals, is a monster,
- he who sacrifices his inclinations and habits of writing, is--an
- author.
-
- At the same time, it is desirable to look forward to the time, when
- independence, acquired without any sacrifice of integrity, will enable
- a man to consult only himself in the choice and mode of his subject.
- He who is capable of writing a good novel, ought to feel that he was
- born for a higher purpose than writing novels.
-
-From the last sentence it has, naturally enough, been inferred that
-Maturin entertained but a mean opinion of novel-writing. Yet his
-prefaces cannot be taken literally. The tone of apology which, more or
-less, pervades nearly all of them, is much akin to the passing humility
-following close upon the heels of intoxication; and as prefaces are
-always composed after the conclusion of the respective works, these
-were written in moments of weariness attendant upon great mental
-exertion and extravagant sallies of imagination. Maturin was not
-lacking in literary ambition, nor did his poetical vein ever flow more
-richly than during his short period of, not exactly independence, but
-something like tolerable circumstances. His unfavourable judgment of
-novel-writing, in the present case, was probably due to the fact that
-he was not himself pleased with _The Wild Irish Boy_.
-
-This, of course, is no excuse for the book, which indeed shows inferior
-work to a degree truly astonishing. Were it not for certain episodes
-where genuine power is displayed, and for the fact that the book was
-entirely a work of imagination, without any hidden aims of personal
-import--it would not fall very short of that species of composition,
-the producers of which Maturin once characterized[43] as ‘infamous
-and ephemeral scribblers, who pander for the public lust after
-anecdote that vilify the great, debase the illustrious, and expose the
-unfortunate, under the titles of a Winter, a Month, or six Weeks at
-the metropolis or some place of public resort.’ _The Wild Irish Boy_
-is brimful of august personages, lords and ladies, represented in a
-most unfavourable light, distorted and exaggerated by the feverish
-imagination of one who knew nothing of his subject. The fashionable
-world is condemned as sinful and utterly demoralizing, high life
-consists but of high vices, described and investigated from every side;
-while the kind of pure, old-fashioned, religious, home-like existence
-that is recommended as its contrast, is not found interesting enough to
-be illustrated otherwise than by very imperfect glimpses. Extravagant
-as the tone is, it becomes perfectly absurd when the moralist comes
-into conflict with the patriot. The author appears to have feared
-that the feelings of the public whose taste he is trying to gratify,
-might be offended by too much abuse of the British aristocracy--the
-pride of the nation!--and occasionally the tendency bursts into quite
-an opposite direction. The young fool of a hero--whose autobiography
-the book represents--has been painting the whole lot in the blackest
-of dyes, indulging in the grossest of dissipations and capable of the
-most contemptible baseness; yet once, seeing them all collected at a
-royal birth-day, he hits upon comparing them to the ‘courtiers’ of
-Napoleon--whom he has never beheld--with the result that he is ‘elated
-with confidence, with exultation, with pride,’ and feels satisfied
-that the English upper ten yet ‘loved their king, and worshipped their
-God,’ and, with many vices, ‘yet were the first on earth in national
-virtues.’ The sense of national superiority in the English public is
-flattered by a sweeping condemnation of everything foreign--it is
-clear that the glorification of _Ireland_ must consequently be rather
-loose and rhapsodical--; especially are all Frenchmen and -women
-represented as monsters of malignity and immorality, and Voltaire and
-Rousseau mentioned with Puritan abhorrence. It was in vogue at that
-time to introduce into a ‘fashionable’ novel discussions about the
-leading writers of the day, and this duty is also carefully fulfilled.
-These passages are to be considered among the most interesting in the
-book, although they have no bearing upon the story proper. Among wicked
-writers who corrupt both taste and morals are Goethe (_Werther_),
-Godwin, and Mary Wollstonecraft. Miss Edgeworth, on the other hand, is
-enthusiastically lauded as the author of _Belinda_. It is curious to
-see Maturin here defy the mental parents of his own production, and
-make ineffectual efforts to free himself from that which has, even in
-the present work, too strong a hold upon him: without Rousseau and
-_Werther_ the opening chapters of _The Wild Irish Boy_, containing
-a series of letters from a young lady attached to the hero in a
-thoroughly romantic fashion, would never have been written; whereas
-there is not a single page for which Miss Edgeworth would have been
-willing to take the responsibility. As for Godwin, he was of all the
-writers of the age the one who exercised the strongest influence upon
-Maturin’s work.--The purity of the manners and descriptions of Southey
-is gratefully admitted, while the literary qualities of his epics are
-subjected to vigorous criticism, very uncommon at the time, but agreed
-to by the judgment of posterity. The _Anacreon_ of Moore, as might be
-expected, does not escape censure. The following passage is an example
-of the nonsensical style which prevails in the book; it is uttered by a
-boy of eighteen, who has just been cured of a desperate passion for his
-own mother-in-law:
-
- I speak of him (Moore) with real sorrow: he might have done much, he
- has done nothing, but what I hope he will yet wish undone. -- -- --
- for the attempt to communicate what he must have felt the injuries
- of himself, for the attempt to add seduction to pleasure, and teach
- impurity a new system of sentimental logic, to add an impulse to the
- lapse of vitious feeling, and modulate the _death dance_ of vice with
- the harmony of a lyre strung by heaven; for this--there is, there can
- be no excuse, even at the bar of literature; and if he carries the
- cause to an higher court, I doubt still more tremblingly his acquittal
- there.--
-
-But the story, involved as it is, remains to be told. The book opens
-with a letter to one Miss Elmaide St. Clair from an old maiden aunt,
-who, possessing some knowledge of her niece’s character and the
-pernicious tendencies of the age, warns her against false sensibility
-and fancies too romantic. Then follow the letters of Elmaide
-herself, who at once informs her correspondent (not the aunt) that
-the admonitory epistle was received too late: she is already, and
-irrevocably, in the fetters of a romantic attachment to the hero, a
-young man, almost a boy, whose wild and dissipated habits the whole of
-Dublin is talking of. She is fully persuaded of the hopelessness of
-her case, understanding that he suffers himself to be led into such a
-mode of life in order to forget an unfortunate love-story of his own,
-the subject of which is a woman living at present somewhere in Western
-Ireland. That woman is widely celebrated for
-
- fashionable folly and vice, without an equal or rival, till her reign
- was extended over subjects of a second generation, whose beauty
- triumphed over nature, and whose wit is unimpaired by time, whose sons
- have entered into public life, whose daughters have married, whose
- grand children form a numerous family already, and whose beauty is
- still as distant from decline as from competition.
-
-The retirement of Lady Montrevor--such is her name--has taken place
-under extraordinary circumstances. Her husband, a statesman of much
-influence, has illegally held the title and fortunes of the earldom
-of Westhampton for thirty years; at last the legitimate heir, long
-pursued and oppressed by the usurper, has made his appearance and laid
-claim to his own. To the usurper naught else remained but the title
-of Montrevor and his Irish estates, whither his lady, who was wholly
-ignorant of the story, has accompanied him. Here the hero of the tale
-has met her and subsequently become fatally infatuated; he has then
-been sent to Dublin in the company of a relation who introduces to him
-that class of pleasure which now forms the torture of Miss St. Clair.
-Her correspondence ends with the intelligence that he has unexpectedly
-set out for the West.
-
-Now the hero, whose name is Ormsby Bethel, rises to speak. It appears
-that he has returned to the neighbourhood of Dublin and lives somewhere
-on the coast. Miss St. Clair, happening to move near the place, hits
-upon the expedient of leaving anonymous letters addressed to him, in
-a recess amongst the rocks where he is in the habit of strolling. In
-these she requests him to tell her all about his life. He complies and
-places letters for her in the same recess.
-
-This is mentioned in letters from the parties concerned, but at this
-point the story itself commences: an autobiography of the hero, written
-to an un-named friend, which he begins by the narrative he has written
-to Miss St. Clair.
-
-His birth and childhood are involved in a deep mystery. Born in France,
-he has faint reminiscences of having been hurried from place to place,
-until, at the age of seven, he is taken to London and committed to
-the care of an old and wealthy couple. Here he also visits a school,
-where he enters into friendship with a boy called Hammond, who
-subsequently plays a certain part in his story. One day he hears his
-father mentioned and after this knows no rest; his health declines,
-and he is sent to a parson in Cumberland, where he pursues his studies
-and improves both in mind and body. His stay here is interrupted by a
-message from his father, who announces his desire that Ormsby is to set
-out for Ireland and forthwith to graduate at the University of Dublin;
-from his father’s letter Ormsby learns that he is illegitimate. After
-having spent some time in the Irish capital, he is summoned to join the
-family in the West. He travels there with his father’s confidential
-servant, a Frenchman, from whose very impious conversation he gathers
-that his father is a worn-out libertine. Mr. Bethel is, indeed, a
-wretched invalid, who is constantly tormented by the memories of
-pleasures he has lost the power to enjoy, and who regards his son with
-feelings of envy because of his youth and strength. The rest of the
-family consists of his daughter Sybilla, a gentle and pure-minded girl,
-and her gouvernante, a Miss Perceval, an atheist and admirer of French
-writers; one episode occurring in the family life is that Miss Perceval
-tries to prevent Sybilla from reading the Bible, and would even be on
-a fair way to succeed but for the intervention of Ormsby. Among his
-neighbours he finds his school-fellow Hammond, whose father, an old
-drunkard, owns an estate in the vicinity. The most remarkable person
-there, however, is an elder brother of Mr. Bethel, called De Lacy. He
-leads a life in the style of an ancient Irish chieftain, but, unlike
-most ‘Milesians’ he is rich, and Ormsby at once becomes his favourite
-and heir-apparent.--Upon this the Montrevors put in their appearance,
-and turn all the country upside down with their splendid fêtes and
-assemblies. Ormsby has been interested in the brilliant and unhappy
-Lady Montrevor even before he has seen her, and when he actually meets
-her he is perfectly overwhelmed by her attractions. Her husband, for
-his part, only expects to be called back to England as soon as his
-recent scandal has been forgotten and his talents and influence are
-required again. Meanwhile he employs his time in canvassing votes
-for his son, and pretends, to that end, to be intent upon proposing
-all sorts of reforms and improvements for Ireland. There is no love
-lost between him and his lady, who, in opposition to his suavity and
-courteousness, treats her neighbours with capricious ridicule. Among
-their younger children there is Miss Athanasia Montolieu, whose French
-gouvernante is doing her utmost to corrupt the soul of her charge with
-the literature of her country.--The whirl of pleasures comes soon to
-a tragical end as far as the Bethel family is concerned. One night
-Miss Perceval insists on following Ormsby and his sister to a grand
-entertainment given by Lord Montrevor in some public place. Ormsby
-is sitting with Lady Montrevor and her daughter, when a gentleman
-approaches and requests the ladies to allow him to escort them away
-from the place, the house being unfit for them, as there is a woman
-present who is the mistress of Mr. Bethel; she is recognized by the
-speaker himself and another gentleman, with whom she has formerly been
-on intimate terms. A violent scene ensues, and the fête is broken
-up. The following morning Ormsby receives a visit from a relative
-who confirms his worst doubts, namely, that Miss Perceval is not
-only the mistress of his father, but is also Ormsby’s and Sybilla’s
-mother. He declares that a duel seems inevitable, but that Ormsby is
-disgraced for ever if he takes part in it; the consequences must fall
-upon his father, whose age and feeble health may, perhaps, excuse him
-from sending a challenge. Ormsby is convinced of the justness of his
-argument and keeps away the whole day, but on returning he sees the
-thoughtlessness of his conduct. His father, greatly astonished at his
-absence, _has_ been engaged in a duel, burst a blood-vessel, and now
-lies dying. His uncle, the old Milesian, who is also convinced that
-Ormsby has refused to fight a duel, has disowned him and forbidden
-him his presence. Miss Perceval has taken refuge in the house of
-the adversary in the recent duel, her former acquaintance. Upon
-Ormsby falls the painful duty of taking her off by main force, but,
-incorrigible as she is, she flees and takes with her the greater part
-of Sybilla’s money. Fortunately, Sybilla has been secretly married
-to Hammond, but as his father, too, leads a life which the son must
-blush for, he cannot take her to his home; he succeeds, however, in
-procuring her a refuge elsewhere. Ormsby, standing now alone in the
-world, resolves to leave the country, yet an unexpected event changes
-his plans.--In a solitary tower in the neighbourhood lives a mysterious
-person who never speaks to or visits any one except the poor, whose
-misery he endeavours to relieve. The night Ormsby prepares to depart
-he is stopped by the stranger and exhorted to save his uncle. His
-striking manner induces Ormsby to yield to his exhortations; he hastens
-to the castle of the Milesian and arrives just in time to save the
-old man from the hands of a murderer. Upon this a reconciliation
-takes place. Ormsby is again acknowledged as the heir of his uncle,
-and the castle becomes his home. His hopeless attachment to Lady
-Montrevor, however, makes him profoundly unhappy, and at length his
-uncle sends him to Dublin in company with the relative who gave him
-the ill-fated advice about the duel. In Dublin his life is what the
-letters of Miss St. Clair, in the beginning of the story, indicate
-with so much pain. His disappearance, the mention of which puts an end
-to her correspondence, is caused by the news that his uncle has been
-arrested for Ormsby’s debts. Ill as he is, he sets off on his journey
-in a delirious condition, is once more forgiven by the old man and sent
-back near the capital where, as has been told, he begins to write down
-his recollections to his unknown correspondent, Miss St. Clair.--In a
-letter to his uncle Ormsby confesses that the cause of his dejection
-may be traced to Montrevor-House, in answer to which the old man
-summons him back, informing him that he has ‘worked wonders’ in his
-favour. Though unable to understand the meaning hidden in his uncle’s
-message, Ormsby sets out for the castle of Montrevor and, on arriving
-there is, first of all, greeted by the Milesian who draws forward Miss
-Athanasia Montolieu and places her hand in Ormsby’s. It occurs to
-Ormsby that this, in fact, was the only rational way of interpreting
-his letter, but now it is too late for any explanation. He is married
-that very night; Lord Montrevor, whose star has re-risen in England,
-entertains the intention of immediately returning there with all his
-family. Shortly afterwards the old Milesian dies, leaving Ormsby in
-possession of a large fortune.--The rest of the story is mainly a
-fulfilment of what was promised in the preface. The company is divided
-between Bond-street and fashionable entertainments, most of which are
-held within the family-circle. Lord and Lady Montrevor have several
-daughters, one of whom has, strangely enough, married the present Earl
-of Westhampton--an uneducated man of blunt manners--whom her father has
-treated so infamously. The principal amusement at these entertainments,
-aside from questionable gallantries, are cards, at which they attempt
-to rob and even cheat each other. Ormsby before long gambles away every
-shilling of his property as well as of that of his wife, and once
-more he comes face to face with ruin. A depraved woman of fashion,
-Lady Delphina Orberry, the greatest enemy of Lady Montrevor, falls
-violently in love with him. Ormsby, who fortunately has become amorous
-of his own wife, is insensible to attentions of this character, yet
-Lady Orberry contrives to become his sole creditor, thus to get him,
-economically at least, at her mercy. Lady Montrevor, at this time,
-contemplates a retirement from the world altogether. She has met a man
-who has loved her in her youth, before she was a woman of fashion, and
-whom she wantonly rejected; now they discover their feelings to be
-unchanged. The situation, however, becomes acute in the extreme, when
-Lord Montrevor, who hates his wife, determines to prosecute Ormsby for
-adultery with her, and appearances are against them. Lady Montrevor
-attempts to commit suicide; Ormsby bursts into her room, and tears the
-laudanum from her, upon which, it is said, ‘all recollection forsakes
-him.’ When he regains his self-possession, all complications are
-quickly and wonderfully unravelled. Lady Delphina Orberry takes poison
-and dies, confessing to Ormsby that she had a daughter who was educated
-in Ireland in separation from her mother; she gives him some letters
-whence it appears that her name was Elmaide St. Clair. Lord Montrevor
-falls in a duel, his wife becoming thus free to unite herself with the
-lover of her youth. The _dramatis personæ_ once more retire to Ireland,
-for Lady Montrevor’s lover turns out to be the identical inhabitant of
-the solitary tower, and, still more strange, the father of Ormsby,
-a third brother of De Lacy and Mr. Bethel. Miss Perceval had been
-his mistress shortly before she became Mr. Bethel’s, and Ormsby was
-believed to be the son of the latter. Ormsby’s affairs are forthwith
-cleared up. It appears that the often-mentioned relative, who has been
-his agent, has secretly hated him because of the frustration of his
-hopes of becoming De Lacy’s heir himself, and thus he has been trying
-to rob Ormsby of his property and, moreover, to seduce his wife; but
-so far from succeeding in his designs, he has, at last, shot himself.
-Athanasia now presents Ormsby with a child, and the book ends with this
-paradoxical sentence: ‘Let those who cannot feel my felicity, attempt
-to describe it.’--
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-From the short _précis_ above it ought to be evident that the story
-is diffuse and clumsily constructed; that it contains certain good
-suggestions that are not made the most of, and cleverly built-up
-situations which lead to platitudes or are forcibly and implausibly
-dissolved. The cause of this, no doubt, may be traced to the manifold
-and contradictory considerations Maturin imagined himself to be bound
-to observe while writing his second book. The autobiography does not
-attach itself quite naturally to the correspondence that precedes it,
-and the intrigue, when it once commences, is continually interrupted
-by discussions and episodes. From the latter, however, is to be sought
-what interest the book is capable of arousing. The correspondence of
-Miss St. Clair is, in itself, an instance worthy of note. It has been
-admired by a critic[44] for ‘its method of pure suggestion of character
-without incident;’ and the character revealed is that of a heroine
-typically romantic.[45] Her love is soft and dreaming, made to live on
-sighs and tears, too platonic and ethereal even for the vicinity of its
-object:
-
- But he has seen me, and has felt, as if he looked on vacancy; and it
- is better, much better so. I can hardly bear his sight, I could not
- bear his voice speaking to me; his rich and angel tones would madden
- me; no, I cannot woo him. I will hide myself in the solitude of pride
- and despair. Perhaps when he treads on my grave, he may pause, he may
- ask--Oh! let him not, let him not; shall I not rest in a grave?
-
-This self-denying feeling, it is seen, has reached a degree where every
-positive aspiration ends. The writer is herself aware that she leaves
-far behind her the sentimental novels she has read:
-
- They never loved who wished to be near what they loved. Werther talks
- of dancing with Charlotte, of holding her in his arms; what feelings
- men have! Such a time is with me, a time of fear and blindness. I love
- to be so far from him, that it is requisite for me to watch and devise
- how I may catch a glance or a tone from him. I would not be nearer if
- I might; a glance, a tone is enough, is too much for me.
-
-The story of Elmaide St. Clair is given as a warning example of
-overwrought sensibility and its fatal consequences, and it might
-be supposed that this quality in her is, therefore, deliberately
-exaggerated. Yet that part of the book, most of all, impresses the
-reader with the genuineness of its conception; it is written with
-obvious inspiration, and there is absolutely nothing of parody about
-the style. It is one of the few instances where the author seems
-to be in perfect sympathy with his subject, and he actually excels
-in the very kind of composition he at the same time pretends to
-condemn.--Another of the better episodes is neither romantic nor
-‘fashionable,’ but foreshadows Maturin’s best attainments in realistic
-description of ordinary life of a certain kind. Whether it was an
-individual trait of Maturin, or whether it belongs to the Irish
-temperament--few English writers have displayed so intense a horror
-of a narrow, monotonous existence without any sort of excitement or
-interest. In _The Wild Irish Boy_, in _Women_, in _Melmoth_, this
-aversion is expressed more and more powerfully each time. In the
-present work this feeling is given an outlet in the case of the old
-couple in London, with whom Ormsby is placed while a child. They have
-retired from business in order to pass the remainder of their days
-in quietness; but instead of enjoying an agreeable rest, they are
-seized by an intolerable tedium, and by and by their life, as it were,
-develops into a stagnant pool:
-
- The morning was passed by Mr. Sampson in examining books of obsolete
- accounts, which he had brought with him from the city “against a rainy
- day,” as he said in totting up sums, whose numbers he could by that
- time tell blindfold, and when he had found the amount, yawning and
- beginning again; sometimes he strolled about the house, examined locks
- that did not want repairing, shook his head at the weather-glass, and
- projected a removal of the clock from behind the parlour door, where
- its ticking made him melancholy after dinner. His wife retired to her
- room, examined the contents of old drawers, discovered that things
- grew yellow by lying by, and resolved to expose them to the sun some
- day in the following week; at a certain hour she visited the kitchen,
- watched the intrusion of strange cats, and detected the turnspit in
- his many contrivances to escape from duty, by which she boasted,
- dinner was prevented from being five minutes later than the time. They
- dined early without appetite, and retired early without drowsiness;
- sometimes a walk was proposed, on the appearance of a fine morning,
- but then the weather-glass was examined, till the time for walking had
- passed away; and looking wistfully at each other, they sunk into their
- easy chairs, and counted how many minutes till dinner.
-
-The great bulk of the book, as has been said, aspires to treat of
-modern life in higher circles, of which Maturin, at the time, knew
-little or nothing. The descriptions, consequently, lack all atmosphere
-of reality, nor does the characterization augment the value of the
-whole. The worst of it all is that the hero is so uninteresting, and
-does not in the least fulfil the expectations roused by the effusions
-of Elmaide St. Clair. A very self-exulting tone is generally not in
-keeping with an autobiographical form, yet Ormsby Bethel does nothing
-to suppress the eulogies lavishly bestowed on him by well-meaning
-people, eulogies which he certainly does not deserve. He calls himself
-wild, but wildness is merely an embellishing name for weakness;
-there is nothing in him of real, refreshing wildness, or youthful
-recklessness; he is always in an unnatural state of exaltation,
-either of virtue or repentance. A preacher of morals and defender of
-religion as he aspires to be in a society that cares for neither, he
-displays, when emergency arises, no more strength of mind than his
-neighbours. What is it but a deplorable weakness in a man to publish
-about himself the letters of Elmaide St. Clair on the pretence that
-they treat of a period of his life of which he ‘could not speak in the
-first person?’ It is very doubtful whether Ormsby Bethel ever became
-popular among the public of circulating libraries. That the reader
-cannot feel sympathy for the hero is, of course, in itself no fault in
-a book, but in this case it is only too evident that it is the author’s
-intention he should.--The wholly imaginary character of Lady Montrevor
-is too superlative and violently exaggerated, and her wonderful
-accomplishments, of mind and body, are endlessly repeated in a most
-extravagant language. Her daughter Athanasia is more interesting; she
-is one of those delicate and ethereal beings Maturin always succeeded
-in designing, and of which there are no two quite alike. Athanasia is,
-like Byron’s Aurora,
-
-    --a fair and fairy one,
-    Of the best class, and better than her class[46]--
-
-and, like her, she is also in possession of a portion of common sense
-and strength of mind, being eventually cured of the malady under
-which Elmaide St. Clair breaks down. At first, indeed, her case seems
-desperate. She is grown up into an ‘early, and exquisite, and dangerous
-maturity;’ she has been educated ‘without example but of vice and
-folly,’ and left to form her ideas from improper literature, until she
-is ‘dying to be the heroine of a mad and wicked tale of a Rousseau,
-of a Goethe, of a Wolstonecraft.’ And to become such a heroine she
-imagines it necessary for her to have both a husband and a lover.
-Therefore she encourages the attentions of the relative of her husband,
-who otherwise is quite indifferent to her. Yet at the bottom of her
-heart there is a yearning for fidelity, honourable love and quiet
-happiness, and when difficulties are gathering around her husband,
-this yearning grows stronger and stronger. At last she understands
-that the duties of life differ greatly from those of romance, and in
-a candid and touching letter--which her husband reads while she is
-sleeping!--she renounces the relative for ever. Now this argumentation
-would be very well if the aforesaid writers actually _did_ maintain
-the views ascribed to them; but it is unquestionably a very childish
-way of understanding them to long for a forbidden attachment even in
-case you happen to be united to the man you love. Considering that
-Athanasia has grown up in an environment so corrupt as Maturin tries
-to depict it, it is certainly too far-fetched to throw the blame upon
-Julie and Charlotte. Yet it is never explicitly stated that Athanasia
-has misconceived what she has read; the opinions pass as those of the
-author. This curious anti-romantic freak of Maturin, whatever its
-cause, was not of long duration: eight years later accusations of the
-same kind were brought against himself, in connection with his tragedy
-of _Bertram_.--Among the secondary characters in the book that of Lady
-Delphina Orberry has been pointed out[47] as representing ‘a type of
-woman rare in English fiction.’ She is introduced as a rival of Lady
-Montrevor and is her contrast in every respect; her weapons against
-that lady’s dazzling brilliancy and sparkling wit are ‘soft, seducing
-manners,’ a ‘timid silence,’ and ‘melting whispers.’ Behind, however,
-this unterrifying exterior there is a mind totally depraved, whereas
-the heart of Lady Montrevor is discovered to have remained uncorrupted,
-in spite of her position in society. Undoubtedly how Lady Orberry
-clings to Ormsby like something too soft for him to shake off, gently
-but irresistingly involving her fate with his, is well described, and
-how she understands to excite his compassion by representing herself as
-unjustly suspected of that which she most wishes, in her relation to
-him. But the end, again, is forced and unnatural; it is only because
-the hero _must_ be got out of his difficulties that she takes poison,
-confesses all her crimes to him, and gives him the letters of her
-unhappy daughter.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Notwithstanding all that can be said against _The Wild Irish Boy_,
-it is of considerable interest in Maturin’s earlier production,
-when regarded as a kind of preparatory study to _Women_, one of his
-masterpieces. Many of the characters and situations present obvious
-similarities, and it will, therefore, be necessary later on to refer
-to the present work. A few words are still required to define its
-character as an Irish novel, one of the first where elements typically
-Irish are brought forward.
-
-Anything finished or complete these Irish ingredients do not form; that
-Maturin longed to speak of his country but felt himself prevented by
-other considerations has already been pointed out. Of the attempts to
-treat of Ireland, her past and present, only some diffuse discussions
-remain here and there, without being naturally introduced into the
-story. The first idea of Ireland is introduced in a surprising and
-poetical way. During his solitary wanderings in the mountains of
-Cumberland, in his earliest youth, Ormsby sometimes amuses himself by
-imagining a people whose destinies he is to lead and whose sovereign
-and benefactor he is to become:
-
- I -- -- -- imagined them possessed of the most shining qualities that
- can enter into the human character, glowing with untaught affections,
- and luxuriant with uncultivated virtue; but proud, irritable,
- impetuous, indolent and superstitious; conscious of claims they knew
- not how to support, burning with excellencies, which, because they
- wanted regulation, wanted both dignity and utility; and disgraced
- by crimes which the moment after their commission they lamented, as
- a man laments the involuntary outrages of drunkenness. I imagined a
- people that seemed to stretch out its helpless hands, like the infant
- Moses from the ark, and promise its preserver to bless and dignify the
- species.
-
-These fancies he discloses to the good parson, his tutor, who
-immediately answers that he has ‘accurately described the Irish
-nation.’ Shortly afterwards Ormsby is sent to Ireland. He might now be
-expected to come into some contact with the people of his dreams, but
-this material is, unfortunately, allowed to run to waste. His first
-stay in Dublin is occupied by a tedious discourse upon the University,
-and by a description of a Calvinistic set among the students, who
-endeavour to draw Ormsby into their circle. In Maturin’s days these
-passages possibly might have excited some local interest, yet to a
-modern reader they form a most unexhilarating digression, from the like
-of which all other works of Maturin are exempt. Ormsby’s second sojourn
-at Dublin, that which he otherwise avoids speaking of in the first
-person, contains a lengthy comparison between the Irish and English
-character. This is somewhat more to the point; but even at that time,
-when but little had been written about the former, observations of this
-kind were hardly original:
-
- The Irish are more ardent lovers, the English better husbands. The
- Irishman is more exhilarating in society, the Englishman’s comforts
- are more domestic. One is formed to give more delight, the other more
- tranquil and rational happiness to life. The Irishman approaches you
- with facility and attaches himself to you with ardor; the Englishman
- it is difficult to conciliate as an acquaintance, and more difficult
- to obtain for a friend, but once obtained, the prize is beyond all
- labor.
-
-Now and then the political state of Ireland is mentioned: ‘her
-depressed trade, her neglected populace, her renegade nobility, her
-dissipated, and careless, and unnational gentry’--but almost always in
-the form of a discourse, apart from the story. Events and personages
-throwing light upon the state of Ireland and her national character,
-are not allowed to speak for themselves; when the discourse is
-finished, the reader again finds himself in the drawing-room of Lady
-Montrevor. In a few instances only the descriptions present a glimpse
-of Irish life freed from comment. There is a dinner-party at the
-house of the elder Hammond, of a riotous and disorderly character,
-the account of which, a note informs us, is taken from real life. The
-other is an instance of so-called ‘paddyism,’ unique in the production
-of Maturin who, unlike most older Irish novelists, was not at all fond
-of depicting the lower classes with sympathetic humour. The night the
-Montrevors arrive at their castle, the tenantry are gathered to receive
-them, having shortened the tedium of waiting by indulging in a drop of
-whiskey, with the result that the approaching family are hailed with an
-Irish cry that frightens their horses and endangers their very lives.
-Their intentions were all the best, as is explained by an old man:
-
- But as we were all tenants to this great new lord, and old followers
- to the family, though they never lived among us, why we all loved him
- as we did our eyes, though we never set them upon his face till last
- night. So we thought it would be but right to go out and give him
- a shout of joy, when he was coming to his own house, that he never
- was in before; and we all set out, and we were early enough to see
- him, for the devil a bit of him was there, and so says I to them,
- there’s no good at all in waiting to see a man in the dark, and we
- are perished standing here in the bog, with nothing to warm us but
- the rain and wind; and so let us step into Paddy Donnellan’s that is
- within a step of the gate, and take a drop of whiskey, and when we
- hear the carriage wheel, we’ll all come out as fresh as daisies, and
- give him an Irish cry that he never heard from them English spalpeens
- in his life.
-
-This is one of the preludes to the innumerable scenes of Irish
-boisterousness and characteristic blunders, found in the pages of later
-writers, Carleton, Lover, Lever, and others.
-
-The ancient glory of Ireland is touched upon in the figure of the
-old Milesian.[48] The type had been introduced into fiction by Miss
-Owenson; her story of _The Wild Irish Girl_ is the first patriotic
-Irish novel of a predominantly romantic colouring, and essentially
-influenced, as will be seen, Maturin’s third book. It is an immature
-and extravagant, but not undelightful tale of an Irish chieftain, the
-prince of Inismore, whose ancestors, in the Cromwellian wars, lost
-nearly all their estates to an English soldier, the same estates still
-being in possession of the English soldier’s descendants. The present
-prince of Inismore lives in solitary retirement with his chaplain and
-his daughter, a beautiful, gifted and accomplished young lady, whose
-only ‘wildness’ is her naturalness of manners and purity of heart. The
-head of the English family has made several attempts at reconciliation,
-his advances having always been proudly rejected. Nevertheless both he
-and his son visit the prince without revealing their identity, at the
-same time also concealing their respective visits from each other; both
-succeed in securing the friendship of the old man, and both fall in
-love with his daughter. A tragedy is avoided by the father voluntarily
-retiring and leaving to his son the girl and all his Irish estates.
-This intrigue, however, is merely a setting for the real tendency
-of the story, which is to make Ireland known. The colloquies held
-at Castle Inismore form the principal part of the book; they treat
-exclusively of the past of Ireland and are furnished with notes and
-quotations from Walker, Ware, Young, and other historians, all tending
-to prove the oriental descent and great antiquity of the Milesian
-race, its attachment to poetry and music, as well as its other noble
-qualities and high standard of civilization at a very early period.
-
-In spite of its promising title, Maturin’s second book contains no
-loans from _The Wild Irish Girl_ except the venerable Milesian with his
-inevitable _chapelain de maison_, and even this figure has undergone a
-change. De Lacy is a rich man who has travelled much in foreign parts
-and is, in every way, more modern and less romantic than the prince of
-Inismore. The latter always appears in a dress ‘strictly conformable to
-the ancient costume of the Irish nobles;’ De Lacy wears ‘the English
-habit of fifty years ago,’ with only an Irish cloak to remind one of
-his nationality. But their notions of their race and their country
-are the same, De Lacy also assuring us that ‘he who shakes my belief
-in the antiquity of my country, must first shake my belief in the
-beatitude of the immaculate Virgin Mary.’
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-_The Wild Irish Boy_ appears to have met with the very fate Maturin
-had hoped to avoid by trying to please all: it attracted but little
-attention, or, if the statement of a writer[49] is to be relied upon,
-that the book was ‘admired, talked of, praised,’ the attention probably
-was confined to the literary circles of Dublin. In dedicating his
-third book to the ‘Quarterly Reviewers’ Maturin says that they had
-been pleased to notice his romance of _Montorio_, but there are no
-indications of his second book having been subject to public review.
-As a means of brightening the economic outlook of its author, _The
-Wild Irish Boy_ failed completely; it was, like _Montorio_, published
-at his own risk, and the success was not distinct enough to induce any
-publisher to purchase the copyright. Discouraged from an immediate
-renewal of the attempt, Maturin, for four years to come, devoted his
-leisure hours exclusively to some less precarious occupation, which,
-in all probability, consisted in the enlargement of and still closer
-attention to his boarding-school. What support he might hitherto have
-had from his father now also ceased, for about 1810 Maturin senior was
-dismissed from his situation. One biographer,[50] alluding to this
-deplorable event, says that Charles Robert was ‘roused to poetry by
-disappointment,’ which would antedate the event in question by about
-5 years. There seems, however, to be more reason to believe Alaric
-Watts, who, writing in 1819, states that William Maturin was dismissed
-after a service of 47 years, adding the following particulars: ‘The
-day of his dismissal he was pennyless: it is singular, that though the
-commissioners of inquiry, who sat repeatedly on the business pronounced
-this unfortunate gentleman wholly innocent of the charge (of fraud)
-brought against him, he has been suffered to linger for nine years
-since, without redress, without relief, and without notice.’ Whether
-this be correct or not, there is no further intelligence about Mr.
-William Maturin; but in any case his last years must have cast a gloom
-over all the family, and exercised a further pressure upon the toiling
-life of his son.----
-
-In 1810 appeared Scott’s critique on _Montorio_, ending with this
-passage:
-
- If the author -- -- -- be indeed, as he describes himself, young and
- inexperienced, without literary friend or counsellor, we earnestly
- exhort him to seek one on whose taste and judgment he may rely. He
- is now, like an untutored colt, wasting his best vigour in irregular
- efforts without either grace or object; but there is much of these
- volumes which promises a career that may at some future time astonish
- the public.
-
-As Maturin had, somehow or other, come to know who this friendly
-reviewer was, he availed himself of the opportunity to write to Scott
-and solicit him to become his literary friend and counsellor. This
-gave rise to an intimate, lifelong correspondence, during the course
-of which Scott faithfully assisted the poor Irishman with good advice
-and, sometimes, even in a more substantial way. His epistolary intimacy
-with the great novelist Maturin always counted among his greatest
-distinctions, and although the two men never met, their friendship
-continued warm and sincere until Maturin’s death.[51]
-
-There are no more details available with regard to Maturin’s life at
-that period, but he was undoubtedly successful in his vocation as a
-teacher, for when he again turned to literature, he did so in rather a
-hopeful state of mind. His biographer[52] says that when Maturin was
-writing _The Milesian Chief_--which was published in the beginning of
-1812--his genius was ‘elastic and ardent, his knowledge of composition
-improved with the errors of his former works before him, and an
-increasing desire to do something worthy of fame: he was at the age
-and under the circumstances that are calculated to improve and correct
-the taste.’ Colburn paid 80 pounds for the copyright, which was the
-first success of this kind Maturin had ever experienced; and full
-of confidence he finishes his preface--in which he does not care to
-enlarge upon his second book--:
-
- In my first work I attempted to explore the ground forbidden to man;
- the sources of visionary terror; the “formless and the void”: in my
- present I have tried the equally obscure recesses of the human heart.
- If I fail in both, I shall--write again.
-
-The preface is in the form of a dedication to the Quarterly Reviewers,
-whom Maturin accuses of writing reviews merely to make a display of
-their own cleverness and neglecting to speak of the works they are to
-judge:
-
- Seriously I read the Reviews for information, and information I could
- get none--about myself. All I learned was that I was a bad writer, but
- why, or how, or in what manner I was to become better, they graciously
- left to myself.
-
-The tone is throughout very different from that of the preface to _The
-Wild Irish Boy_; herein speaks the artist to whom a literary reputation
-is by no means indifferent. Here also is found the much-quoted sentence
-where Maturin defines his characteristic powers:
-
- If I possess any talent, it is that of darkening the gloomy, and of
- deepening the sad; of painting life in extremes, and representing
- those struggles of passion when the soul trembles on the verge of the
- unlawful and the unhallowed.
-
-Of the work now at hand Maturin adds:
-
- In the following pages I have tried to apply these powers to the
- scenes of actual life: and I have chosen my own country for the scene,
- because I believe it the only country on earth, where, from the
- strange existing opposition of religion, politics, and manners, the
- extremes of refinement and barbarism are united, and the most wild
- and incredible situations of romantic story are hourly passing before
- modern eyes.
-
-All this material is, very likely, not attended to in _The Milesian
-Chief_, yet it is certainly by far the noblest of Maturin’s three
-earlier romances.--
-
-The Milesian Chief is Connal O’Morven, a young man of an ancient and
-formerly potent Irish family, now reduced to extreme poverty. Their
-castle and estates have been sold to an Englishman, Lord Montclare,
-and Connal lives with his aged and insane grandfather in a ruined
-watch-tower, subsisting chiefly on memories of bygone glory. The
-old man, in his frantic rage against England, conceives a plan of
-insurrection, for the liberation of Ireland; and Connal, young and
-inexperienced as he is, engages himself to be the leader of it. In the
-meantime Miss Armida Fitzalban, the daughter of Lord Montclare, whose
-beauty and talents have struck all Europe with amazement, arrives at
-the castle, and a violent passion flames up between her and Connal.
-Fully comprehending the impossibility of success in his enterprise,
-Connal is determined to dissolve the conspiracy, but the treacherous
-conduct of Armida’s unsuccessful lover, an English officer called
-Wandesford, who happens to get wind of the plan, compels him to take
-up arms. Armida renounces everything and follows Connal and his band
-to a remote island on the Atlantic coast. The government troops,
-however, track them even there, and as the cause of the rebels is
-hopeless, Armida is conducted back to her home. Becoming now a prey to
-the machinations of an unnatural mother, she ends her days by taking
-poison; Connal surrenders himself to the government and is sentenced to
-death.
-
-By the side of this love-story there is another, equally unhappy, but
-bizarre rather than gloomy, curious rather than grand: of Connal’s
-younger brother Desmond, and Armida’s younger sister Ines. The
-last-named, for family reasons, is, by her mother, given out as a
-boy; and being very young and innocent she never suspects her sex but
-imagines herself to love Desmond as brother loves brother. At last
-the secret is revealed and they are married for a short time, but
-subsequently Ines is also implicated in the schemes of her mother, and
-dies of a broken heart in a state of insanity.
-
-The destinies of these four people form the contents of the book. It
-is a record of human passions which are incalculable from the external
-basis upon which the incidents take place, and the interest is absorbed
-by the sufferings and inner conflicts of a few figures powerfully
-domineering at the expense of the _milieu_. This is, indeed, the case
-with all Maturin’s Irish stories; a dissection of the social state of
-Ireland, with a comprehensive view of the different classes, something
-in the style of Gerald Griffin’s well-known tale of _The Collegians_
-(1828), it would hardly have been within his capacity to create.
-In _The Milesian Chief_ the political state of the country and the
-insurrection, instead of being the main subject of the story, form but
-a background to the personal tragedy of Connal O’Morven, which becomes
-only the more poignant as he fights for a cause in which he does not
-believe. He is the first to comprehend that it is ‘impossible for
-Ireland to subsist as an independent country,’ and the masses he has
-at his disposal are in no way calculated to heighten his confidence.
-The Milesian spirit so highly admired Maturin finds only in a few
-surviving descendants of the noblest families; his ideas of the people
-are tinged with the somewhat aristocratic notion which makes one of
-the distinctions between the typical 19th century romanticism and its
-pioneers in the preceding one. In some of his sermons Maturin clearly
-expresses his opinions on this point:
-
- It is an absurd and mischievous prejudice that supposes the existence
- of vice confined to the higher classes of life, and virtue (as they
- call it) the everlasting inhabitant of a cottage--it is a prejudice
- originating in utter ignorance of life, cherished by the silly
- illusions of pastoral poetry, and inflamed by the wild and wicked
- ravings of political enthusiasts, without any reason in nature and in
- life.
-
-This, it must be added, Maturin does not find to be entirely the fault
-of the people:
-
- The root of the wretchedness of the lower orders of this country is in
- their depravity, and the root of their depravity is for the most part
- in their ignorance; they are wicked because they are uncultivated, and
- they are uncultivated because they have been shamefully, abominably
- neglected; more neglected than the people of any civilized country
- under heaven.
-
-But much ‘sinned against’ as the lower classes are, in the opinion
-of the clergyman, to the romantic they remain unattractive; and
-here is the basis of the fact that the Irish peasantry occupies,
-upon the whole, so inconspicuous a place in Maturin’s production,
-and never--except in the opening chapters of _Melmoth_--gives him
-the inspiration to his most interesting work. On the other hand his
-treatment of the subject is never undignified; if he has not created
-anything like the dark and impressive pictures of Irish rebels and
-outlaws found, say, in the pages of John Banim, neither does he give
-way to the popular habit of representing the Irish peasant as a cross
-between a fool and a jester, which idea was so keenly resented in the
-Irish literary circles in the fifties.[53]
-
-Yet _The Milesian Chief_ must be considered, in a way, a national
-tale, and it is even extremely characteristic as such; the plot, in
-its roughest outlines, is the identical one used by Irish novelists
-up to this day with a persistence which cannot escape any student
-of Anglo-Irish literature. These rough outlines are as follows. A
-person of eminence arrives in Ireland; he (or she) possesses every
-qualification for a rich and interesting life, yet nothing noteworthy
-has ever happened to him, and he is full of spleen until, once there,
-he is dragged into a whirl of undreamt-of adventures; his former
-habits, prejudices and ways of thinking suddenly give way to an
-all-absorbing passion, which irresistibly hurries him towards bliss
-or destruction, as the case may be. In the predilection of Irish
-novelists for an intrigue of this description there is something more
-than a natural partiality to a theme which aptly lends itself to
-literary aims; it is the revenge of a subdued and oppressed country
-upon her masters. In the field of fiction the conquered becomes the
-conqueror, and the first come in as the last. Connal O’Morven, unreal
-and idealized though he be, is the embodiment of all that is great and
-proud in the Milesian spirit, which spirit here subjugates the most
-brilliant representative of the happier race. This, again, does not
-hinder Armida’s infatuation from being quite individual in character,
-limited only to the person of Connal. His princely ancestry of which
-he is so proud, the ancient glory of Ireland, her poetry and music,
-are all indifferent to her, and Irish scenery, in all its grandeur,
-only makes her sigh for the sunny regions she has quitted. As Connal
-is persuaded that he could never be happy out of Ireland, their love
-is born under most unpromising auspices, and its tragic issue is
-necessitated by the circumstance of their having nothing in common.--
-
-Armida and Connal--and Wandesford, too--are all nearly related. This
-fact is made no mystery of, but plainly communicated to Armida by her
-father, on their way to Ireland. At the time of the ruin of the Irish
-family, and upon the estates forthwith becoming the property of Lord
-Montclare, his sister has married Mr. Randal O’Morven, son of the old
-Milesian. The latter has never forgiven his son, any more than Lord
-Montclare has forgiven his sister; but shortly before her death Mrs
-O’Morven has written to her brother and disclosed the extreme misery
-of their condition. Lord Montclare has, consequently, appointed her
-husband to be his land-steward, and offered her sons commissions in
-the army. The younger, Desmond, has accepted the offer, while Connal
-prefers to starve with his grandfather.
-
-The family has, it is true, been shrouded in a real mystery, but this
-also is shortly afterwards revealed by Lord Montclare, when lying
-at death’s door to which he is brought by the unexpected arrival in
-Ireland of the rest of the family, whose existence Armida has been
-wholly ignorant of. Her father has, long ago, contracted a marriage,
-having in view the sole purpose of excluding the O’Morvens from
-the property, by begetting a son. Armida, however, is the only
-child remaining alive, whereupon Lord Montclare, exasperated by his
-misfortunes, confines his wife in an obscure place and spreads the
-report of her death; this is done with the assistance of an Italian
-monk called Morosini, who subsequently turns out to be in the service
-of two masters. Before Lord Montclare has time to form another
-connection, his lady is delivered of a son. Under the circumstances
-he cannot acknowledge his heir without acknowledging his imposture,
-and threatened and persecuted by Morosini he flees from land to land,
-too feeble in courage to reveal the secret. Wandesford--who is the
-son of his younger sister--is the only person acquainted with the
-actual facts of the case, and therefore Lord Montclare eagerly presses
-Armida to accept his proposal. At last he is determined to give the
-matter publicity in Ireland, for the consolatory reason that in this
-country ‘the judgment of his character was indifferent to him from his
-contempt for its inhabitants.’ Before, however, he has accomplished his
-purpose, his death is caused by the sudden arrival of his family, who
-make their appearance at Castle Montclare, attended by Morosini and
-Desmond O’Morven. Desmond has come from Italy by the same boat as Lady
-Montclare, and has had an opportunity of saving her son from drowning,
-after which a very tender friendship has sprung up between the two.--
-
-The commencement of the story in Ireland is preceded by two prologues,
-representing ‘Armida in Italy’ and ‘Armida in England.’ The first
-describes a banquet given by Lord Montclare at Naples, where Wandesford
-also makes his appearance. Armida has, for the occasion, arranged
-some tableaux in which her manifold accomplishments are dazzlingly
-displayed. In one of these the scene
-
- represented the garden of an oriental palace: the sides filled with
- flowers, whose lofty and luxuriant clusters seemed to rise above the
- height of the apartment, and whose deep and sunny hues were softened
- by the magic diffusion of the lights; and the perspective terminated
- in an arch, beyond which was caught a view of the ruins of Persepolis.
- -- -- -- Armida advanced on the stage alone: she was in the oriental
- dress, and she had an instrument in her hand resembling the lute.
- Wandesford gazed with astonishment: the pale, slight, simply clad
- girl he had lately seen was transformed into the most brilliant
- female in the world. The colour which applause brought to her cheek
- mantled richly through the tinge of rouge she had put on to conceal
- the effects of her exertions. -- -- The torrent of sound that she
- now poured forth, the height to which she soared, the rapidity with
- which she traversed intervals that connected the widest extremes
- of human voice, the precision with which she marked their minutest
- subdivisions, and, above all, the ease of attitude and expression
- which she preserved amid her exertions, like a skilful charioteer, who
- commands and enjoys the flight of his coursers, whilst their speed
- terrifies the spectators, filled the Italians with a sensation which
- applause could neither express nor exhaust.
-
-There is, it will be observed, no stint of powerful attributes, the
-marvels of Armida leading directly back to Lady Montrevor in _The Wild
-Irish Boy_. Yet the descriptions here _are_ somewhat softened, and
-the style is free from the extravagances of Maturin’s second book;
-Armida, somehow, seems more fit for a heroine of this extraordinary
-kind. Her cousin Wandesford, though a cold and selfish character, is
-so enraptured by her performance that he declares himself on the spot.
-Armida decidedly rejects his attentions, and on the following morning
-when he calls on her again, he is informed that Lord Montclare and
-his daughter have departed from Italy without any intentions of ever
-returning.
-
-The second prologue represents Armida in London society, of which
-Maturin draws an amusing and curious picture. Here she is incapable of
-creating any sensation:
-
- But what was the astonishment, the horror, of the beautiful,
- intelligent, and ambitious foreigner, on her first introduction to
- fashionable life in London: lost amid a crowd where beauty could not
- be distinguished; stunned by a buz of nothings, where mind could not
- be displayed; elbowed by rouged, naked, dashing dowagers; suffered to
- stand unnoticed or eyed through a glass by yawning, lounging bucks
- of ton; sinking amid the crowd, to be permitted to help herself to
- refreshments, or to want them; to be without conversation, though a
- mistress of half the dead and living languages, from her ignorance of
- fashionable jargon; to walk down a set with a partner who appeared to
- be debating whether it would not be high ton to drop asleep during
- the exercise--what a reception for a woman who had seen at her feet
- Italy and France contending to scatter the laurels of fame and the
- roses of pleasure.
-
-Wandesford reappears, and Armida, in her desolation, receives his
-attentions with something akin to gratitude. He renews his proposal,
-which is eagerly embraced by Lord Montclare. Harassed on all sides
-Armida at last complies and gives Wandesford her word; upon this she is
-hurried off to Ireland, where Wandesford is shortly to follow them.--
-
-These two chapters are a clever preliminary to the thrilling adventures
-Armida is going forth to meet, besides giving a good idea of her
-character and circumstances. In spite of her brilliant position in
-society she feels lonely and unhappy in her restless life, where in
-everything she is subjected to the caprices of her father. Her only
-pleasure is the gratification of her pride through the admiration she
-excites with her talents; but in England her pride also gets a severe
-blow. She feels utterly humiliated and is, as it were, prepared to
-meet what she will be forced to surrender to. In a state of dejection
-she accepts the proposal of Wandesford, who is less than indifferent
-to her, nor is her future brightened by her father’s determination
-to set out for Ireland, which determination she cannot imagine to be
-anything but a fit of his incurable melancholy. She shudders to think
-of the country she is taken to, and travels on almost in apathy. Much
-‘fury’--of which there is quite enough already--is spared by her not
-entering the scene of action immediately from the highest pinnacles of
-glory and triumph; and the deeper and truer side of her character is
-naturally developed in sorrow and desolation, which her father’s death
-increases to the uttermost. Her new-found relations cannot compensate
-for the loss. Lady Montclare, though always wearing a mask of unvarying
-suavity, inspires not the least confidence in her daughter, and her
-young son, Endymion, is so closely watched by her and Morosini, that
-it is impossible for Armida to approach him. Thus she is inevitably
-drawn to Connal O’Morven, who comes like an incarnation of his wild
-country, grand and solitary, distinct from anything she has ever
-seen or dreamt of, while at the same time the boundless devotion he
-offers her recalls by-gone, brighter days to her mind. Being thus
-mentally prepared for their fate, they are thrown together by external
-events with rather unnecessary violence: in the first dawn of their
-acquaintance Connal finds an opportunity of saving Armida’s life--at
-the risk of his own--three different times. Upon her first arrival to
-the castle her horses are terrified and rear staggering backwards on
-to the rock, and she would be lost did not Connal rush to the scene of
-imminent danger and snatch her from the carriage. The following day she
-walks out to the shore and sits down on a rock. Lost in meditations
-she fails to observe the tide coming on before it has cut off her
-return; again she would perish but for Connal, who happens to be close
-at hand. And a few days later, when Wandesford, too, has arrived,
-he and Armida and Connal visit a small islet to look at some Celtic
-antiquities. In the meantime a dreadful storm breaks out, and only
-by exerting his superhuman strength to the utmost Connal succeeds in
-rowing them back sufficiently near the shore to be rescued when the
-boat capsizes. In all this, however, there is a kind of inner veracity
-which saves any of the passages from becoming merely melodramatic. The
-delineation especially of Armida, who is not (like Connal) raised above
-human weaknesses, is skilfully represented, and the descriptions of
-her mental struggles are both psychologically, as well as poetically,
-true. In Ireland everything is so different from what she is accustomed
-to, and her relation particularly to Connal is so uncomfortable, that
-all her experience of the great world is unable to guide her upon her
-first encounters with him. When Connal rescues her from the waves of
-the tide, Armida, in her confusion, offers him her purse. The manner in
-which this ill-chosen retribution is rejected she imagines to imply
-contempt of her person. This is a possibility that has never before
-entered her mind; and though it makes her shed tears of resentment, she
-is unable to answer with the same feeling by dismissing him from her
-recollection; in order to rid herself from thoughts of Connal, she sits
-down to--write to Wandesford.
-
-Wandesford himself arrives before he is expected, and is received by
-Lady Montclare with joyful attention, but with very marked indifference
-by Armida. She has contracted the habit of frequently strolling on the
-shore, attended by a newly-acquired friend, Rosine St. Austin. Here she
-meets Connal, and their acquaintance is quickly developed. He sings
-Irish songs to her and is, on the whole, quite at his ease, taking no
-pains to conceal his admiration for her, as he fully comprehends from
-first that his love is hopeless. But Armida, too, is in love, though
-her feeling, to begin with, asserts itself as a desire to dazzle him
-by the display of her accomplishments, for which purpose she invites
-him to the castle; or as what she imagines to be hatred, when he
-refuses, being disinclined to enter, as a stranger, the abode of his
-forefathers. He comes, however, and appears to be the only person
-capable of understanding Armida and appreciating her talents according
-to their merits. Their intimacy grows stronger every moment. Then
-follows the excursion to the islet, to which much piquancy is added by
-the presence of Wandesford, who is well aware that he has acquired a
-formidable rival; the storm under which Connal is exerting his strength
-to save Armida and at the same time his enemy, is very dramatically
-depicted. Being at last beyond all danger, Connal, wildly happy to have
-Armida in his arms and pressed to his heart, insists on carrying her so
-all the way to the castle:
-
- Her wet hair had fallen back from her cheek: he touched it with
- his lips: she sighed: his hyacinth breath, warm with life and
- passion, passing over her cheek was balmy to her returning senses:
- she seemed to see him in a dream. Her arm that hung on his shoulder
- now half-extended itself, and sunk again; the soft fingers, with a
- tremulous motion, touched his neck: he felt every nerve in his body
- shiver: the anguish of passion increased with its hopeless fondness:
- he held her to his breast in sweet and bitter ecstacy; he felt her too
- precious to be possessed, or to be resigned; he felt that he could
- clasp her to his heart with desperate love, and then spring with her
- from the rock he was climbing.
-
-Half-conscious as she is, the attitude touches a latent chord in
-Armida’s bosom, which makes her understand her own feelings; that same
-night her passion becomes clear to her. Yet there is still another
-experience in store for her, as novel as it is startling: the suspicion
-of a rival. The next time she goes to the shore, Connal appears in the
-door of a solitary hut which he, with some embarrassment, confesses
-that he often visits. Approaching it, Armida sees through the open door
-a beautiful woman with an infant in her lap. After this episode all
-the pangs of jealousy are roused to life, and sometimes take a very
-frenetic mode of expression. An explanation, however, is soon given
-by the woman herself, who accosts Armida and Rosine on one of their
-walks and tells them the story of her life. The father of her child
-is Wandesford, by whom she has been seduced during one of his former
-stays in Ireland, whereupon he has taken her with him to England and
-there abandoned her; under much suffering she has returned to Ireland,
-and would have perished but for the assistance of Connal, who is the
-only one that has taken pity on her fate. She is, and has always been,
-desperately in love with Connal, but as she understands that he adores
-Armida, she wishes to clear his character before her. Armida is calmed,
-and when she next meets Connal she is triumphant and impossible to
-resist. He is forced to throw himself at her feet, but remembers the
-conspiracy he is engaged in, and darkly hints that they must part for
-ever.--
-
-The progress of Armida’s mind to the point of an all-absorbing passion
-is described with a consistency and a flexibility that gives the first
-remarkable proof of Maturin’s deep insight into feminine psychology.
-The characterization of Connal is much more _schablonenmässig_: he
-simply possesses every mental and bodily perfection. Nevertheless
-there are some good observations upon his character, which tend to
-naturalness rather than to eulogy. His inexperience of life and
-society, an effect of his solitary existence in which he has thought
-more than he has seen, is distinctly presented. Thus his high-sounding
-theories are sometimes dispersed by Armida’s charms and his own
-feelings. Once she asks him to come to a fête given by a lady in the
-neighbourhood. He first refuses to visit a house where, he says, his
-grandfather has been insulted; and when Armida resents his disobedience
-he assures her that ‘to a Milesian the sacrifice of his life is trivial
-to the sacrifice of his pride.’ All the same he makes his appearance
-at the feast, the description of which is one of the finest things in
-the book. Armida has been, all the evening, in a state of weariness
-and absent-mindedness that greatly enrages Wandesford. Through his
-carelessness a part of her drapery is torn in a dance, and she retires
-to repair it in the room of Lady Gabriella, the granddaughter of
-their hostess. Here she is joined by Connal, who has been wandering
-round the gardens in hope of catching a glimpse of her. Hitherto they
-have met mostly under circumstances endangering their lives, or else
-amid wildness and desolation; but now they are brought together in
-surroundings inviting them to happiness and joy. Armida confesses
-to Connal that his feelings are reciprocated, and they succeed in
-becoming oblivious to all but the present moment. Their interview being
-interrupted she asks him to accompany her, and he instantly obeys:
-
- But what a different figure entered the ball-room from that which
- had quitted it--glowing, brilliant, her features sparkling with the
- tremulous, with the gem-like lustre of hope and passion; her form
- almost too bright and light for any element but air to support or
- to convey; her very vestments seemed to undergo a change like the
- Cameleon from the air she respired; and her whole figure realized
- the fable of the statue converted into woman by the charm of love.
- No longer shrinking into obscurity, she accepted the trembling hand
- that Connal offered, and when they joined the set, they scarce seemed
- beings of the same species with those who surrounded them.
-
- When the dance began, all the other performers paused almost
- involuntarily. Envy was stifled by resistless admiration, and even
- applause by wonder. The perfection of their figures, the ease,
- lightness, and enjouement of their movements, the exquisite modulation
- of their attitudes, that seemed to form a kind of visible music,
- gave to the spectators the idea of two descended genii mixing in the
- festivity. The light movements of Connal scarce disturbed a ringlet
- of the glossy hair that fell on his white neck: and as Armida’s
- nymph-like form glided among the dancers, it appeared like a star
- sometimes passing through the clouds, sometimes sparkling as it
- emerged from them: all gazed with delight, but the anxious Rosine (who
- could as little account for Connal’s appearance as for Armida’s sudden
- re-animation) and the disappointed Gabriella.
-
- The pressure of company towards the door announced the approach of
- supper, and Connal, ignorant of the modern custom of the young,
- hurrying down to secure the best accommodations, waited with the
- reverence of other days, till every female had quitted the apartment.
- The supper-room was completely filled when he entered, but Lady
- Gabriella eagerly displacing those near her, offered him a seat next
- herself, but Connal slightly bowing, placed himself at the back of
- Armida’s chair, and intoxicated with his situation, forgot alike the
- luxuries of the feast and the gaze of strangers.
-
- Never had they appeared to each other so resistless: that
- rose-coloured light which a brilliant entertainment diffuses on every
- object was more congenial to the voluptuous splendour of Armida’s
- beauty than the gloom of rocks, or the paleness of moonlight: and
- Armida, who amidst all her passion revolted from the chill and stern
- character of Connal, his apathy of life, and his contempt of luxury,
- now amid scenes that renewed her former existence saw him all she
- wished, and like the sun-flower expanded in his unclouded rays.
-
-This, indeed, is the only time the sun shines upon them. The fête does
-not pass off without ominous collisions between Connal and Wandesford,
-and Lady Montclare, anxious for many reasons, hastens to take leave
-of the party. Having arrived home Armida again goes to meet Connal
-on the rocks. He dare not speak of the conspiration, but gives her
-to understand that he is compelled to leave Ireland to seek his
-sustenance. Armida, with tears, implores him to take her with him. All
-her pride is vanished; henceforth she is only a woman who loves. A hope
-springs to life in Connal, but this night the fatal event takes place
-which frustrates all his chances--it is told by Connal to Armida long
-afterwards, but may, for the sake of elucidation, be mentioned now.
-Inspired by Armida’s love Connal determines to dissolve the conspiracy.
-He seeks out his men, who are assembled in a cave, adjures them to
-surrender themselves to the mercy of the government and make him their
-hostage, if need be. They listen with conviction, when Wandesford, who
-has traced Connal’s footsteps from the castle, suddenly appears in
-their midst. The men are on the point of killing him, but Connal saves
-his life and appeals to him to intercede for them with the government,
-which Wandesford promises on his word of honour to do.--When Armida,
-however, on the following morning solemnly rejects him--on account of
-the story of the woman in the hut--Wandesford breaks his word without
-a scruple. He disappears for some days to prepare for his plan. This
-interval is filled by a very romantic description of an old Irish
-harper, who has remained faithful to the house of O’Morven. Connal
-takes Armida to see him, but he terrifies them both with prophecies
-of death and woe. And the following night, when they are together
-on the heath, the tower where Connal lives with his grandfather, is
-suddenly seen bursting into flames and besieged by soldiers, who are
-sent to suppress the intended rebellion. From this moment Connal is
-forced to appear in the character of a leader of rebels. He succeeds
-in retiring with his band into an inaccessible place in the mountains,
-whence reports of his miraculous valour soon reach Castle Montclare.
-Armida, having never taken any interest in Irish politics, has great
-difficulty in grasping what has happened. All the same she would be
-ready to follow Connal under any circumstances, but one day the news
-is spread that he has enticed Lady Gabriella to accompany him into his
-retreat. In reality this warm-blooded young lady, who has taken a fancy
-to the interesting Milesian, has followed him of her own accord, and
-Connal immediately restores her to her grandmother. Armida, however,
-finds no reason to doubt the news, and thus once more becomes a prey to
-unfounded suspicions. Besides being repetition, this means of bringing
-the plot forward is not very brilliant; but the emotions of Armida
-are again admirably analyzed. This time there is no outburst of pride
-or indignation, only silent despair. She walks out on the darkening
-heath, followed by Rosine, and hurries onward without aim or purpose,
-until they sink down exhausted and presently recognize, without being
-seen, two figures passing by them: Connal, conducting Gabriella back
-to her home. Having now lost all interest in life, Armida re-engages
-herself to Wandesford. His treatment of her continues to be very
-unchivalrous, as she does not conceal that her heart cannot be his; it
-is, however, determined that they are to proceed to England directly
-and get married there, Armida still being attended by Rosine. Their
-journey is soon impeded by a snowstorm, and they fall into the hands of
-the rebels. Wandesford is dragged away, but Connal, who is under the
-impression that Armida is already married to him, once more saves his
-life, enabling him to proceed alone to the nearest town. Connal then
-undertakes to conduct Armida back to Castle Montclare; before long he
-understands that she is not the wife of Wandesford, and she, on her
-part, learns the truth about Gabriella. After scenes of great passion
-their final resolution is impressively told in a few words, sounding,
-as it were, like the bang of a heavy gate:
-
- The distracted Connal, kneeling before her, implored for a word, a
- look of life. “I can no longer see you,” said Armida, sinking from his
- arms to the ground; “and though I stretch out my hands, they wander
- about, without being able to reach you.”
-
- “God! this is too much for man. Armida! answer!--Will you be mine? I
- speak in despair; I have nothing to offer or to promise: will you be
- the companion of a rebel, in a desert, amid war, and want, and danger?”
-
- Armida, with an impulse like fate, threw herself into his arms. He
- clasped her to his heart. -- --
-
-There follows now a pause in the narrative, as Connal tells Armida the
-story of his life, his engagement in the rebellion, and the treachery
-of Wandesford. Upon this they are obliged to set out for the coast of
-the Atlantic, and at this period even Rosine is compelled to leave
-them. After a march through a country devastated by the ravages of
-famine and rape, enduring intolerable hardships and continual attacks
-from the troops of the government, they finally reach the isles,
-where a solitary hut with a bed of rushes becomes the dwelling of
-Armida for a long time to come. Ireland has taken her revenge; the
-proud and brilliant being at whose feet Europe has lain prostrate,
-is changed into a silent and self-sacrificing woman, deprived of all
-qualifications ever to re-assume her place in society. This trait is a
-remarkable one in the romantic fiction of the time, where the freshness
-and buoyancy of a heroine are usually not in the least affected by
-perilous adventures and privations ever so hard.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The story of Desmond and Endymion is more eccentric and presents a
-curious mixture of passion and fantastic gracefulness. It has already
-been said that Endymion, in reality, is a girl, though her mother,
-who covets the estates of Montclare, endeavours to conceal her sex.
-From the moment Desmond has clasped her to his heart, in saving her
-life, Endymion is absorbed by a feeling for him, the nature of which
-she does not comprehend. She plainly avows her love to Desmond, whom
-she imagines herself to regard in the light of an elder brother; he
-fully shares her sentiments, but, dreading their apparently unnatural
-tendency, tries, though without success, to avoid her presence:
-
- -- -- -- -- -- “Oh that sensation,” cried Endymion, “how often I
- feel it in your presence: at some moments, at the present, it almost
- deprives me of breath, of sense: it is a delight that makes me sick
- and giddy: the Italians before an earthquake, have a sensation for
- which there is no name; such is the sensation I feel in your presence,
- that I could throw myself into your arms and weep, if you would let
- me.”
-
- “Stop, stop,” said Desmond, “talk this language no more: if the sight
- of each other be thus intoxicating, thus ruinous, let us part, and see
- each other no more.”
-
- Endymion wept.
-
- “Oh torture me no more with this fantastic fondness,” said Desmond,
- “so unlike what we ought to feel for each other: this female
- fastidiousness I cannot bear. I wish to love you like a younger
- brother; you treat me with the caprice of a mistress. Endymion,
- I cannot endure this. Never did I feel before these wild, these
- maddening sensations. I know not what you have done with me; what
- strange influence you have obtained over me, but it is an influence
- that I must fly from to preserve my reason, my life.”
-
- “Oh! do not, do not talk of going,” said Endymion, ringing his hands
- in agony. “Am I so lost that I cannot love or be loved without being
- guilty: is my affection a crime, or a curse--why must I not love
- you? It is so sad, none can envy me; none shall ever see me.” She
- whispered, “If you will sometimes let me twine those bright ringlets
- on my fingers, or gaze on you, when your eye is averted from me, or
- touch your hand when it is unconsciously suspended near me--and is
- that too much; can you refuse me that?”
-
- “I can refuse you nothing, and therefore I must fly from you. I tried,
- but I cannot love you as a man: I know what it is to love a brother
- well; for Connal I would die, but for you, Endymion, I would live:
- live, in you, for you, in your sight: dream life away in voluptuous
- and frantic melancholy: the feelings that oppress, that soften, that
- sicken me, even now while I speak to you I cannot describe them; I
- must not feel them; no, not another moment. Oh! untwine those arms
- from me; you are making me wild; my blood burns like fire in my veins:
- do not believe these hot tears that drop on your hands: they are tears
- of hatred,--hatred of myself and you” -- -- --
-
-The appearance, in the literature of all times, of a young female in
-male attire is, as a rule, connected with the gay and humorous--it is
-enough to call to mind Shakespeare’s comedies--or else it is used
-as a pretty and sentimental expedient finally leading to a happy
-result, as in _Cymbeline_, in certain episodes in _Don Quixote_, in
-the _Monastery_ of Scott and the _Albigenses_ of Maturin. The figure
-is not often taken very seriously, and the disguise still more seldom
-leads to conflicts of a tragical import. Of famous literary characters
-of the last-mentioned description, Goethe’s Mignon is slightly recalled
-by Endymion,[54] while the peculiar circumstances appertaining to the
-concealment of Endymion’s sex render her case well-nigh exceptional in
-fiction. The topic is delicate enough and its treatment difficult to
-the extreme. The tone might easily get a tinge of the ridiculous, or
-even of the coarse, yet here it does neither; Maturin’s singular skill
-and delicacy in depicting those young, pale and ethereal beings that
-unite precocity and purity, timidity and passion, by no means denies
-itself in the creation of Endymion.--Desmond, as a character, is more
-successful than Connal, if only as being less faultless. He is brave
-and high-minded like his brother, but at the same time light-headed
-and choleric; he is said to have been ‘famous for rural gallantry,’
-and is not insensible to refined gallantry either. Shortly before
-the disastrous events narrated above take place, he learns the fact
-of Endymion’s being a woman from the old harper, who has overheard a
-conversation between Lady Montclare and the monk Morosini. About the
-same time he receives a note inviting him to a nightly _rendez-vous_.
-He takes it to come from Endymion, and, in spite of the serious
-admonitions of Connal, whom he makes his confidant, he goes to the
-meeting-place; but to his astonishment he finds that the writer of
-the billet is not Endymion, but her mother. Shocked and disgusted he
-leaves the castle, being thus absent when the rebellion breaks out. In
-the meantime he is thrown into the arms of Lady Gabriella. Having been
-rejected by Connal, she seeks consolation with the younger brother;
-Desmond, passionate and disappointed as he is, surrenders himself
-to her charms, and they disappear together for a long time.--In the
-meanwhile Connal leaves his island and undertakes an adventurous
-journey to Dublin, having heard that an eminent person there would
-be willing to intercede for him with the government. By accident he
-enters a theatre, where he sees his brother with Gabriella, and from
-a conversation near him he gathers that their life is considered
-to be a perfect scandal. He seeks out Desmond and persuades him to
-re-join his regiment, which is in the vicinity of Castle Montclare.
-The brothers part, Desmond being still entirely ignorant of Connal’s
-participation in the rebellion. Desmond travels back to the castle,
-where his position becomes very painful. Lady Montclare is about to
-contract a marriage with his father the agent, who is wholly unlike his
-sons. As for Endymion, she continues to be a victim of the shameful
-imposture and is, moreover, surrounded by dangers threatening both her
-life and her reason. Her love for Desmond is more conspicuous than
-ever; one night he finds her in the chapel where she is doing penance
-which Morosini has imposed on her for permitting her thoughts to
-dwell too much on Desmond. As the monk is often present during these
-penances, and she confesses that he talks to her in a way she does
-not understand, Desmond concludes that his motives for staying alone
-with the slightly-clad girl are not purely ecclesiastic. Indignant and
-despairing, but at a loss how to treat her, Desmond withdraws from
-the scene. The decisive moment, however, comes that very night; as in
-the case of Armida and Connal, it is told in a few simple sentences.
-Desmond is roused from his slumbers by hearing Endymion sobbing at his
-door and imploring him to open it. At last he yields to the entreaties:
-
- “Desmond!” she cried, starting at his altered looks, though she could
- not understand their expression, “Desmond! the wildness of your eyes
- terrifies me: I feel there is danger, though I cannot comprehend it.
- How your hand burns! how you tremble! Are you afraid?”
-
- “I am, I am,” said the panting Desmond.
-
- “And what is it we fear? I have seen you sit beside your brother; I
- have seen you lean on his arm; I have seen your hand locked in his.”
-
- “Yes, yes, you have, and would it were locked in his now, instead of
- yours.”
-
- “And why can you not caress me like a brother?”
-
- “Because a woman cannot be my brother,” said Desmond, distractedly.
-
- At these words Endymion started from his arms, and with a scream of
- horror flew towards her own apartment; and Desmond, terrified at the
- consequences of his own imprudence, pursuing her, kneeled at her door,
- and supplicated in his turn for admission in vain.
-
-Endymion’s horror does not arise from any immediate realization of
-what she has heard; though she has attained a standpoint at which a
-continuation of the imposture would destroy her reason, the vital
-truth regarding herself becomes clear to her but by degrees. But
-she recollects having heard her mother say to Morosini: ‘should she
-ever learn she is a woman, she must live no longer,’ and this she
-at once applies to herself. The next day she rushes to Desmond and
-wildly implores him to save her, as she is to be sent away under the
-protection of the monk. Desmond fortunately remembers a clergyman
-called St. Austin, uncle to Armida’s friend Rosine, to whom they
-succeed in flying. He unites them and procures for them a solitary
-retreat, where they spend some idyllic months in perfect felicity.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-On arriving at Dublin Connal learns that the eminent person in whom
-he has placed his hope is in Ireland no more. The only thing for him
-to do, under the circumstances, is to return to the island, where his
-presence indeed would be urgently necessary. He has confided Armida
-to the protection of a young man of the name of Brennan, who secretly
-hates him and, what is worse, cherishes a violent passion for Armida.
-He begins to harass her with his attentions, and they being met in
-a way that may be surmised, extends his hatred towards her as well,
-devising an exquisite mode of vengeance. He comes one night to the
-hut where Armida lives attended by a peasant woman, and requires her
-to accompany him, on the pretext that O’Morven has returned and wishes
-to see her. He then conducts her into a cavern where there really
-is an O’Morven: the old grandfather of Connal, who is now totally
-insane and appears to bear a particular malevolence against Armida.
-It is Brennan’s intention to have her murdered by the maniac, which
-undoubtedly would happen, did not Connal arrive at the very last
-moment. His journey thither has been much retarded by his being wounded
-by three men whom Brennan has sent out to waylay and assault him.
-Now, after a hideous fight, Brennan’s own life is ended. Yet Connal
-is wanted for more than one reason. The state of his band has, in his
-absence, grown utterly desperate; it is again seen how soberly and
-realistically Maturin conceived the business of the rebellion:
-
- The discipline that Connal had established was destroyed: instead
- of confining themselves to the islands, they had spread themselves
- along the shore, exercising every outrage and aggression on the
- inhabitants; and, from the indiscriminate admission of every vagabond
- and profligate into the ranks, their numbers had increased beyond all
- power of control, and the spirit of humanity and honour, that Connal
- had tried to inspire them with, was utterly extinguished.
-
-In proportion as this barbarization increases, the chances of any
-reconciliation with the government naturally diminish, and the final
-traces of Connal’s own enthusiasm for the cause disappear as well.
-Troops are now everywhere collected to march against him, and besides
-being daily beset by enemies, Connal is besieged by a terrible anxiety
-for the fate of Armida. One day a detachment of soldiers come over to
-the island. The officer at their head is wounded, and it is only with
-difficulty that Connal saves him from being killed by the rebels. He
-is taken care of, and to his horror Connal recognizes Desmond, who,
-to this moment, has been ignorant of the story of Armida and Connal.
-His own paradisiacal existence with Endymion--or Ines, as she is now
-called--has come to a sorrowful end. They have been traced to their
-retreat, and one night the door is burst open whereupon Morosini rushes
-in with two attendants. The monk pursues Ines as she flees out of the
-hut, while the attendants attempt to detain Desmond. He overpowers
-them, however, and follows in pursuit of his wife, whom he sees plunge
-herself into the river with the monk in hot haste after her. Some days
-later the body of Morosini is found, but no traces of Ines. Desmond,
-being now possessed of the sole desire to court death, joins his
-regiment, and Wandesford immediately takes care to command him to march
-against Connal.
-
-Though disapproving of the rebellion, Desmond resolves to fight and
-perish with Connal. Before the decisive battle he conducts Armida away
-and places her at the house of St. Austin, where Rosine still resides,
-and then returns to the island. The battle is fought, and, contrary to
-all expectation, both Connal and Desmond survive it. The former finds
-his way to a remote and solitary cave, where he hides himself with his
-dying grandfather. Desmond, weak and wounded, goes back to the castle.
-He is carefully nursed by Lady Montclare, whose husband has recently
-died and who now conceives a plan concerning Desmond. Her whole life
-has been a struggle to keep in her family the estates of Montclare, and
-her last resort turns out to be a marriage between Armida and Desmond.
-To that end she has her daughter brought to the castle and imposes on
-her the fraudulent statement that Connal is in the hands of Wandesford,
-and is to suffer death unless she consents to marry Desmond. Of Armida
-there is, by this time, left but a faded beauty and a ruined mind; but
-seeing that she is only required to persevere in her self-sacrifice
-for Connal, she easily consents. Nor does Desmond oppose himself;
-both are too weary and apathetic even to enquire for the reasons
-of Wandesford’s singular resolution. The report of their intended
-marriage reaches Connal. He meets Lady Montclare who, in fear of her
-life, solemnly declares that it is Armida’s will and that he is to
-hear it from her own lips. She arranges an interview between them, and
-Armida has strength enough to stand to her resolution, the reasons for
-which she promises to disclose to Connal immediately after her wedding.
-The night of this very interview, however, Connal is plunged into
-despair at seeing how innocent people are punished for having given
-him shelter, and thus he straightway betakes himself to Wandesford to
-deliver himself up. Still he is not to die yet; Wandesford, to whom
-the whole affair is one of personal hatred and vengeance, orders five
-hundred lashes to be administered to him, whereupon he is to be set
-free, in case he survives the scourging. He does survive it, and is
-able to keep his last appointment with Armida. The night of Armida’s
-wedding Connal is wandering near the castle, when Wandesford rides
-past him. Connal challenges him and shoots him through the heart,
-and he expires repenting his crimes.--In the meantime Armida, having
-fulfilled what she imagines her last duty towards Connal, takes her
-fate in her own hands. Her late father has been an expert in, and also
-initiated his daughter into, the interesting science of preparing
-poisons. Immediately before the ceremony is to commence she swallows a
-dose of poison that has the power of dismissing life, without pain, in
-eight and forty hours. The marriage, however, is destined never to be
-contracted; just as the priest is opening his book, a piercing shriek
-rings through the chapel, and Ines appears in their midst. She has been
-saved from the river by the agents of Lady Montclare, and, since then,
-been secretly imprisoned in the castle. Her reason is irrevocably lost:
-she does not even recognize Desmond. Sick of horrors Armida retires
-to her apartment, whither Rosine brings Connal at the appointed hour.
-Everything is now explained; the conversation is interrupted only by
-a party of soldiers breaking into the castle, in quest of Connal. He
-is conducted to take his trial for rebellion, by martial law, and the
-sentence is death. At the moment the soldiers fire, Desmond rushes to
-Connal and falls with him. Armida and Ines likewise find their death
-beside the corpses of their respective lovers. Rosine and her uncle are
-left to inter the dead; Lady Montclare, it is stated, buries her crimes
-and her remorse in a convent.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The end, it is clear, somewhat lowers the level of the book and
-disturbs the final effect. From the rather unnatural idea of marriage
-between Armida and Desmond and onwards in the ensuing events there is
-much that is strained and stilted in the story; the circumstance of
-Armida’s extraordinary poison is too trivial and absurd to make any
-serious impression. The closing scene is entirely melodramatic: the
-eight and forty hours come to an end exactly at the time of Connal’s
-execution, and Ines expires at the same moment for the simple reason
-that everybody else does. But, strange to say, the chief incident
-itself, causing this conventional winding up of a highly romantic
-story, strikes one with its painful realism. One of the most remarkable
-features in _The Milesian Chief_ is the mode of Connal’s death. In
-romances with tragical issue, of the time, the hero may die in a
-battle, he may die by accident, he may commit suicide or even be
-assassinated; but to let him first be flogged and then executed in
-consequence of the sentence of a court martial, is to excite terror
-and pity at the expence of the atmosphere of greatness and invincible
-superiority with which he is surrounded in the beginning of the tale.
-To reject everything conciliatory in the tragic, to bereave the death
-of a hero of every trait of sublimity and poetical splendour, to let
-his own person, as it were, be degraded by the ignominy he is exposed
-to, is certainly alien to the spirit and methods of the early 19:th
-century romanticism. The manner in which Scott allows the Master of
-Ravenswood to end his days is perfectly characteristic of the period,
-while the death of Connal O’Morven anticipates ideas much more modern.
-There is, in the end of Connal, something that brings to mind a very
-impressive Irish story of later date, the _Maelcho_ (1894) of Emily
-Lawless, treating of the Desmond wars (1579-81), where the romantic
-halo in which the hero is enveloped is torn into shreds by degrees,
-until he is, both mentally and physically broken, hanged obscurely, _en
-passant_, like any of the countless victims of those troubled times.--
-
-Of the principal personages in _The Milesian Chief_ Armida and Ines
-are the most remarkable as types of some novelty in the fiction of the
-time. The latter is not without parallels in Maturin’s own work, but
-her originality lies in the absence of all reflection or principle:
-she acts solely by instinct, never expending a thought upon the moral
-standard of her feelings, and guided only by the nature contrary to
-whose intentions she has been reared up. A young lady answering to
-the description of Armida is uncommon in all romantic literature.
-The Radcliffe heroine, as has been pointed out by a critic,[55] is
-but a slight variation of the one favoured by Richardson: weak and
-sentimental, only calculated to move pity, never doing anything for
-her lover, who gladly sacrifices his life for her. As for the heroines
-of Scott, many of them, no doubt, display activity and courage and
-accomplish wonders for others, yet none would, in all likelihood,
-take the step Armida does, were they in her position; none have the
-independence of mind and superiority of intellect which render her
-perfectly regardless of the opinion of the world. The pride and the
-accomplishments, the _grandezza_ and the accustomedness to obedience
-and admiration with which she is invested, usually distinguish females
-of a maturer age, like Lady Ashton in _The Bride of Lammermoor_ and
-Lady Montrevor in _The Wild Irish Boy_. But though Armida entirely
-lacks that girlish docility and inexperience which seems to require
-manly protection, Maturin has succeeded in making her young and
-natural, and it is described with great beauty and power how her
-stateliness melts away before an overwhelming passion, and how the
-burning heart of youth demands its due when opportunity arises.
-
-The characterization of Connal and Desmond, as has already been pointed
-out, is not equal to that of Armida and Ines. The best-drawn male
-character in the book is Wandesford, who is surprisingly real. He is
-a man of the world of the selfish and unfeeling kind, retaining some
-outward dignity by displaying a sort of conventional courage, that,
-‘stimulated by witnesses, or by military tumult, could rush on death:
-the courage of the senses rather than the mind.’ When the latter is
-required, as on the occasion of his being well-nigh drowned with
-Armida and Connal, he proves to be a coward at heart. He is incapable
-of generosity towards his enemy, and his bad qualities always grow
-worse when met by adversities; thus in his strife with Connal, whom
-he hates as a rival and dislikes as an Irishman, he continually sinks
-deeper into the quagmire of crime and dishonour, which process is quite
-plausible and recounted without exaggeration. The narrow, unimaginative
-side of his character is well illustrated by his discussion, especially
-with Armida, whose superiority he cannot avoid instinctively to feel:
-
- “The hearts of your whole sex,” said Wandesford, furiously, “are not
- worth the earth I tread: you have no heart: you have nothing but
- pride, caprice, and desire. While the first men in Europe were at your
- feet, you spurned them. My honourable addresses, the addresses of a
- man of the first family, fortune, and character were despised; but the
- moment you saw this Irishman, this heir of the poverty, and pride,
- and infamy of his country, you rushed into his arms, though he dashed
- you from them. Perhaps his figure awoke your classical taste, and you
- wished to transfer your study, like the statuary of old, from marble
- to flesh.”--
-
-In the case of certain other personages Maturin’s sovereign contempt
-for a secondary character comes to light. This is, indeed, one
-of the most conspicuous flaws of the book. All delineation, for
-instance, of the wonderful mind of Lady Montclare is omitted. She is
-perfectly stereotyped; it is only evident that her every thought runs
-upon keeping the estates of her husband, and that she is, to this
-end, ready to commit the most atrocious crimes with an ever-smiling
-countenance--but in the reality of her being it is impossible to
-believe. Another character of whom much might have been made is the
-elder O’Morven, Connal’s father, who has gratefully accepted the
-situation of land-steward to Lord Montclare. He might be all the more
-interesting as he is expressly said to represent the worst kind of
-Irish character, being intent upon ‘unfeeling, unworthy self-enjoyment,
-not destitute of affection, but wholly without dignity.’ He receives
-Armida and her father on their arrival at the castle, and his
-conversation is expressive enough:
-
- There he (Connal) has shut himself up in a hovel with that old fool my
- father, and all my hopes of him are destroyed; and it was not from my
- want of speaking to him either, for says I to him, as I said, ‘Why,
- Connal, where’s the use of your refusing his lordship’s kindness?
- Where did I get this good coat on my back, and a seat at his table
- (for your lordship promised I should not dine with the servants)?
- and where did your brother get his commission? Was it not from his
- lordship condescending to take us up, and forgetting our offence in
- being his relations?’ And says I, Do you think that poring over an old
- Irish manuscript, or wandering over these wild shores, listening to an
- old harp with hardly a string to it will put a potatoe in your mouth,
- or give a stone to repair those ruins you live in, or bring you back
- your land to you again?
-
-Upon this, however, he is all but dropped out of the plot; he is
-very seldom brought into contact with his sons, and, upon the whole,
-plays no part in the story. Towards the end it is told that he is
-married by Lady Montclare, and shortly afterwards dies, wearied by
-her ‘violence’--of which the reader is not favoured with one single
-instance.
-
-_The Milesian Chief_ could not be better characterized than
-Talfourd[56] does in his much-quoted phrase: ‘There is a bleak and
-misty grandeur about it which, in spite of its glaring defects,
-sustains for it an abiding place in the soul.’ The defects are
-glaring indeed. The composition, here as always the blind side of
-Maturin, is anything but flawless. The development of the intrigue
-is sometimes primitive, sometimes rough and rhapsodical. Repetition
-occurs frequently in the adventures--the saving of lives especially is
-an actual habit with the brothers O’Morven; Connal’s journey to Dublin
-is so long as to be a digression, and not particularly interesting;
-the end is forced and theatrical, and some of the characters are made
-nothing of. These faults were, at all times, counterpoised by plenty
-of good characterization and impressive narrative; but now, at a
-distance of a hundred years, they appear so unimportant just because
-the whole is wrapped up in that ‘bleak and misty grandeur.’ The absence
-of technical defects is, after all, but a negative merit which swiftly
-loses its charm, while the creations of a truly poetical imagination
-are never entirely defaced by the wear and tear of time. The romantic
-atmosphere about the best scenes in _The Milesian Chief_, in so far
-as such a thing can be defined, arises from a close affinity between
-the human emotions and the sombre scenery around, effected by the
-instrumentality of a suggestive, passionate, and musical style. In
-point of description _The Milesian Chief_ shows a great advance from
-Maturin’s earlier works; the nature of Western Ireland had, perhaps,
-never yet been depicted with a power and accuracy like this. Hence
-it is difficult to embrace the opinion of a critic[57] that in the
-description of scenery the influence of Mrs. Radcliffe is discernible.
-In _Montorio_ it was, and it is easy to perceive that neither was
-acquainted with the Mediterranean nature which they painted in such
-glowing colours. But here there is quite a different strain, Northern
-and familiar; or what is to be said, for instance, of this sonorous
-passage:
-
- The character of the scene was grandeur--dark, desolate, and stormy
- grandeur. The sea, troubled with rains and winds, dashed its grey
- waves along a line of rocky coast with a violence that seemed even
- in the absence of a storm to announce perpetual war and unexhausted
- winter. The dark clouds, though they moved rapidly along, never left
- the horizon clear, and seemed too thick for rains to melt or storms to
- disperse. The country near the shore, brown, stony and mountainous,
- looked as if the sun never shone on it, as if it lay for ever under
- the grey and watery sky: the shore itself, bold, high, and sweeping,
- had all the savage precipitateness, the naked solitude, the embattled
- rockiness, which nature seems to throw round her as a fortress, where
- she retires from the assaults of the elements, and the approach of man.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-It has been hinted before that _The Milesian Chief_ seems indebted to
-Miss Owenson’s _Wild Irish Girl_. The germ of the plot may have been
-taken from the latter: an Irish family of princely descent have sunk
-into poverty and lost their lands to an Englishman whom they regard
-as an usurper--the complications this circumstance leads to form
-the incidents in both tales. These, however, are quite differently
-developed. Miss Owenson’s story has the character of an idyll rather
-than a tragedy, being brought to a happy and harmonious end. Nor is
-there any communion between the principal personages. The venerable
-figure of the prince of Inismore Maturin had already borrowed in _The
-Wild Irish Boy_; here, presumably to avoid repetition, the burden of
-chieftaincy is placed upon younger shoulders, and the old Milesian,
-who is but once brought upon the scene of action, is represented as
-a complete ruin. Connal, then, as an Irishman, is a new type in the
-fiction of his country. Reminiscences of the antiquarian enthusiasm
-of Miss Owenson crop up in some of the conversations between Armida
-and Connal, where particularly the poetry and music of the ancient
-Irish is extensively discussed and warmly striven for.--The Radcliffe
-school--through the medium of _Montorio_--is slightly recalled only
-by the trio of Lord and Lady Montclare and Morosini. From Maturin’s
-first romance proceed the figures of the dark, melancholy-looking
-nobleman whose conscience is weighed down by an evil deed, and of the
-diabolical monk who is his confidant and tormentor at the same time.
-Yet Lord Montclare shows a development from the genuine Gothic Romance,
-represented by count Montorio. The latter has committed a bloody and
-terrible crime, the remembrance of which confines him within the walls
-of a gloomy castle, where he sits brooding over his deeds and starting
-at the slightest sound. The offence which Lord Montclare is guilty of
-is of a less violent kind and has the opposite effect of driving him
-restlessly from land to land. With him a step is taken towards the type
-of the Wanderer.
-
-A great many passages in _The Milesian Chief_ anticipate the manner of
-Scott rather than recall Mrs Radcliffe and Lewis. Very characteristic
-is the well-written episode where Brennan conducts Armida to the
-old O’Morven. The silent desolation of the night; Brennan’s sudden
-appearance in the hut and the alarm of the peasant woman, who in vain
-dissuades Armida from following him; his conversation on the way; the
-impotent rage of the maniac, and lastly the furious fight between
-Connal and Brennan: all this is horrifying, certainly, but in the same
-way horrible as are innumerable scenes in Scott. The difference, in
-this respect--apart from the question of the supernatural--between the
-school of Scott and the school of Radcliffe, is, that the thrilling,
-the exciting, is removed from the vaults of a castle and the dungeons
-of the Inquisition out into the open air under a Northern sky. But
-there is even a more obvious reason to mention Scott in connection
-with _The Milesian Chief_. Talfourd adds to his phrase quoted above:
-‘Yet never perhaps was there a more unequal production--alternately
-exhibiting the grossest plagiarism and the wildest originality.’
-From where the plagiarism is suggested, unless from _The Wild Irish
-Girl_, the present writer is unable to say; Maturin’s novel is, on
-the contrary, alleged to have been a subject for imitation for no
-less a man than Walter Scott himself. The resemblance of _The Bride
-of Lammermoor_ (1819) to _The Milesian Chief_ is, in fact, far more
-detailed than that of the latter to the story of Miss Owenson. Edgar
-Ravenswood, like Connal O’Morven, is the heir of a once powerful family
-whose dominions have passed into the possession of an Englishman. Like
-his Milesian counterpart he lives in an old tower in great poverty,
-profoundly discontented with the supposed oppressor. The new owners,
-in both cases, have a daughter, and the two heroes of the respective
-tales have occasion to begin their acquaintance with the fair ones
-by saving their lives. Both fall in love, and the love of both is
-reciprocated. Connal becomes the leader of a rebellion which his love
-to Armida would induce him to suppress; Ravenswood, too, is involved
-in a conspiracy against the government, from which his attachment to
-Lucy Ashton urges him to withdraw. Both love-stories finally end in a
-tragic way, the heroines being first, by fraud, brought to the point
-of union with another.--With all these likenesses, it is of interest
-to note how differently the two novelists work up the subject-matter
-they have in common. Maturin, as usual, is for the extreme, making
-the conditions of his hero desperate from the first, and the contrast
-between the two families as striking as possible. Connal lives in
-the remote and unknown West of Ireland, hated and despised by the
-new lord--relatives as they are--and supported only by a handful of
-peasants. All paths are practically closed to him; he is, as it were,
-predestined to his fate. In _The Bride of Lammermoor_, constructed
-with the temperate and easy skill of Scott, no such contrarieties are
-felt. Edgar Ravenswood is acknowledged and entertained by Sir William
-Ashton, he possesses powerful friends, and would, no doubt, advance far
-in the world but for his fatal love for Lucy. The course of events,
-here, runs smoother but is, at the same time, more varied and less
-easy to guess beforehand; compared with _The Milesian Chief_, the
-book seems to contain almost an infinite variety of characters and
-episodes. Ravenswood himself is rather a solitary figure in Scott,
-being destitute of the light-heartedness and sunny good-humour of his
-youthful heroes in general. Yet he has his faults, and in comparison
-with Connal, seems almost real. But if Scott was more successful with
-the male characters, Maturin was more so with the feminine. There is
-no denying that Armida is far more interesting than Lucy. The latter
-is, in fact, nothing but the weak and passive type from the preceding
-century, merely ennobled by the hand of Scott, and would never be
-able, like Armida, to support the central part of a story. That the
-emotional element in _The Milesian Chief_ outweighs the ruggedness of
-the construction and the poverty of the action may be ascribed to the
-skilful characterization of Armida; and a chapter like the twentieth
-in _The Bride of Lammermoor_ seems quite tame and colourless after the
-fiery love-scenes described by Maturin.
-
-To how high a degree the resemblance of the one romance to the other
-is a result of direct influence and intentional imitation, it would
-be purposeless to discuss. It may even be quite accidental, for in
-a country with the history of Scotland and Ireland, a theme like
-this must have been both natural and lent itself profitably to the
-novelist. That the outlines were furnished by actual life is made
-more than probable by their continued appearance in Irish literature.
-They are made use of, as late as 1845, in Charles Lever’s story of
-_The O’Donoghue_. During nine hundred years, the heads of this family
-have been kings of that part of Ireland where their castle stands.
-Towards the end of the 18:th century they fall into a state of decay
-and are compelled to part with their castle and their estates, which
-are sold to a wealthy English baronet who has a beautiful daughter.
-The old O’Donoghue, with his two sons, is reduced to the state almost
-of peasants. The elder of these sons is, like Connal O’Morven, a
-proud and impetuous character, whom a deep sense of his own and his
-country’s wrongs prompts to embrace the insurrection of ’98; the
-younger, a counterpart of Desmond, turns Protestant and enters Trinity
-College. Otherwise the tales of Maturin and Lever contain no elements
-in common--the elder O’Donoghue succeeds in escaping to France, the
-younger finally marries the baronet’s daughter--and thus imitation is
-entirely out of the question. But from an intended preface to _The
-O’Donoghue_, where Lever tells[58] how the story occurred to him while
-on a tour in the South of Ireland, it appears how conspicuous these
-impoverished descendants of noble families were in Irish society:
-
- Between the great families--the old houses of the land and the present
- race of proprietors--there lay a couple of generations of men who,
- with all the traditions and many of the pretensions of birth and
- fortune, had really become in ideas, modes of life, and habits, very
- little above the peasantry about them. They inhabited, it is true,
- the “great house,” and they were in name the owners of the soil,
- but, crippled by debt and overborne by mortgages, they subsisted in
- a shifty conflict with their creditors, rack-renting their miserable
- tenants to maintain it. Survivors of everything but pride of family,
- they stood there like stumps, blackened and charred, the last remnants
- of a burnt forest, their proportions attesting the noble growth that
- preceded them.
-
- What would the descendants of these men prove when, destitute of
- fortune and helpless, they were thrown upon a world that actually
- regarded them as blamable for the unhappy condition of Ireland? Would
- they stand by “their order” in so far as to adhere to the cause of
- the gentry? Or would they share the feelings of the peasant to whose
- lot they had been reduced, and charging on the Saxons the reverses of
- their fortune, stand forth as rebels to England?
-
-Now in the preface to _The Milesian Chief_ Maturin had promised to
-apply his powers to scenes of actual life. The actual life of the
-class of society he was choosing for his subject had, according to the
-sentence of Lever, also a sordid and prosaic side, nor could they all
-be regarded as martyrs for their country without any fault of their
-own. As Maturin’s peculiar powers were, above all, in ‘painting life
-in extremes,’ he described not so much what is, as what would be,
-under given circumstances, exceptional indeed, but not impossible; and
-even in so doing he was, as has been pointed out, most attracted by
-the phenomena in the ‘recesses of the human heart.’ Thus the promise
-of actual life, in the usual sense of the word, is but imperfectly
-fulfilled. Yet beneath the delineations of human passions of general
-applicability, there is, however, a perceptible glimpse of a certain
-aspect of unmistakable Irish life--in the absence of which Mangan[59]
-would hardly have called _The Milesian Chief_ the most intensely Irish
-story he knew of.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Of Maturin’s third book, any more than of his second, no contemporary
-reviews are extant, but its immediate success--at least where the
-author was known--seems to have been considerable. The writer in the
-_New Monthly Magazine_ 1827 tells us that the book ‘received encomiums
-from many of the leading critics,’ and that ‘several individuals,
-inspired perhaps by the highly-wrought and poetical feeling of “The
-Milesian,” composed sundry “complimentary verses” upon it.’ Yet a
-second edition never appeared, and that Maturin’s circumstances
-continued to be distressing, all biographers agree.[60] His delicacy in
-concealing himself behind a pseudonym was of no avail to him regarding
-his chances of religious preferment; according to the aforesaid writer
-these were completely destroyed by the publication of his novels. So
-far, however, from abandoning the Muses, Maturin turned his poetical
-inspiration in another direction, still more contradictory to his
-profession. He became a dramatist, probably encouraged by the success
-bestowed upon a new play of no very remarkable merit. In 1813 Richard
-Lalor Sheil, the celebrated Irish barrister, produced a tragedy called
-_Adelaide, or the Emigrants_, written for the highly talented Miss
-O’Neill, who, after many hardships in obscure provincial theatres, had
-been engaged at the Old Crow-Street Street Theatre in Dublin. The
-decided success of Sheil--who also had composed his play in order to
-defray some necessary expenses--incited Maturin to follow his example.
-He sat down to write a drama in good earnest, as in his juvenile years
-he had often done for amusement. Already in the latter part of the
-year he was able to send in his _Bertram_, but the management of the
-theatre, for some reason or other, thought it advisable to reject it.
-Nearly a year afterwards Maturin hit upon it among his manuscripts,
-and, on the advice of a friend, sent it over for the perusal of his
-literary correspondent Walter Scott. The kindness of Scott was never
-appealed to in vain; he read the play and warmly recommended it to
-John Kemble, as he relates[61] in a letter to Daniel Terry, dated Nov.
-10:th 1814, observing that _Bertram_ is ‘one of those things which
-will either succeed greatly, or be damned gloriously, for its merits
-are marked, deep, and striking, and its faults of a nature obnoxious
-to ridicule.’ With every allowance for Scott’s desire to help Maturin,
-it seems unquestionable that he was really impressed by the play.
-After a few critical remarks upon the last act, he concludes his
-letter to Terry: ‘With all this, which I should say had I written the
-thing myself, it is grand and powerful: the language most animated and
-poetical; and the characters sketched with a masterly enthusiasm.’
-
-Notwithstanding these eulogies Kemble refused the play, and its
-fate seemed as doubtful as ever. Fortunately for Maturin, however,
-the committee of management of the Drury Lane Theatre were, in the
-following year, wanting something new for their repertory. The members
-of that body were, in 1815, men of high literary aspirations; the
-procurement of plays devolved on Lord Byron, who states[62] that the
-number he was supplied with amounted to five hundred, not one of which
-he could think of accepting. His attempts to exact a new play from
-some of the foremost writers of the day remained without effect, but
-Scott, to whom he also addressed himself, faithfully referred him
-to Maturin. A correspondence ensued, in consequence of which, Byron
-says,[63] ‘Maturin sent his _Bertram_ and a letter _without_ his
-address, so that at first I could give him no answer. When I at last
-hit upon his residence, I sent him a favourable answer and something
-more substantial. His play succeeded; but I was at that time absent
-from England.’
-
-The answer must indeed have been a favourable one, for, to judge from a
-letter from John Murray[64] to Scott, dated Dec. 25:th 1815, _Bertram_
-created quite a sensation in the committee:
-
- I was with Lord Byron yesterday. He enquired after you, and bid
- me say how much he was indebted to your introduction of your poor
- Irish friend Maturin, who had sent him a tragedy, which Lord Byron
- received late in the evening, and read through without being able to
- stop. He was so delighted with it that he sent it immediately to his
- fellow-manager, the Hon. George Lamb, who, late as it came to him,
- could not go to bed without finishing it. The result is that they have
- laid it before the rest of the Committee; they, or rather Lord Byron,
- feels it his duty to the author to offer it himself to the managers of
- the Covent Garden. The poor fellow says in his letter that his hope of
- subsistence for his family for the next year rests upon what he can
- get for this play. I expressed a desire of doing something, and Lord
- Byron then confessed that he had sent him fifty guineas.
-
-In a letter to Moore, written from Venice in 1817, Byron again
-expresses[65] his satisfaction at having been able to promote the
-‘first and well-merited success’ of this ‘very clever fellow.’ There
-is no reason to doubt that Byron’s admiration was genuine. The high
-opinion he entertained of _Bertram_ may, of course, have been biassed
-by his regard for Scott, like that of Scott by motives of friendship;
-but there is that in Maturin’s tragedy which reflects the spirit of the
-time with peculiar distinctness; from many of its wild effusions speaks
-the very _Zeitgeist_ of romanticism, which was sure to find response
-with the best of the age as well as with the general public.
-
-Before the play could be finally accepted, the approval of Kean had
-to be obtained. Kean had spent the greater part of 1815 on a tour
-extended to Dublin, where he appeared at the Crow-Street Theatre as
-Richard II, Othello, and Hamlet. In the beginning of 1816 the great
-man returned to London, and _Bertram_ was submitted to his judgment.
-Kean did not share the enthusiasm of the committee; according to
-his biographer[66] he pronounced the play to be ‘all sound and fury
-signifying nothing,’ yet offering a welcome relief after the characters
-of Shakespeare. His principal reason, however, for undertaking to
-perform the part of the hero was the conviction that it would ‘serve
-to increase his reputation.’ After a few rehearsals he came to realize
-that the part of Bertram was but a secondary one; but there being, as
-he said, no Mrs. Siddons to eclipse him in the part of the heroine,
-he resolved to do his best to eclipse Miss Somerville. In this he
-succeeded so well that _Bertram_, by all accounts, really did much to
-increase his reputation as the leading tragedian of the time.--
-
-Between the production and first performance of _Bertram_ there was a
-lapse of more than two years, during which the monotony of Maturin’s
-existence was but seldom broken by occurrences worthy of notice. An
-instance of his poetical carelessness in practical matters is thus
-related in the _Irish Quarterly Review_ 1852:
-
- Whilst he was composing Bertram, and living amidst a confused sea of
- difficulties, a clergyman, high in the church, had called upon him in
- York-street for the purpose of making him an offer of preferment; he
- was requested to wait for a few minutes, and after the lapse of half
- an hour, Maturin entered, his hair in dishevelled masses, wrapped in
- a flowing morning gown, and bearing in one hand a pen, in the other a
- portion of the manuscript of Bertram, from which he was repeating some
- highly wrought sentence just completed; he threw himself on the sofa
- beside his starched visitor, who very soon retreated, leaving the poet
- to cultivate the muse, in poverty and at leisure.
-
-An anecdote like this, whether true or invented, affords, no doubt,
-a glimpse of Maturin as he really was, and has a deeply tragical as
-well as a comical side. It marks the perpetual conflict between what
-he was inclined to do and what he, in the opinion of the world, ought
-to have been doing; and when the fit of inspiration had subsided, the
-bitterness of seeing his family imperfectly provided for was always
-there. That Maturin repeatedly received assistance from liberal
-friends is seen from the correspondence of Byron, yet at the same
-time there are recorded certain actions of Maturin himself, which
-display uncommon generosity towards others, at least in one in his
-position. He was prevailed upon to become security for a relation, who
-subsequently had recourse to the act of insolvency, leaving Maturin
-burthened with a heavy debt for many years to come. This new disaster
-possibly caused him again to take up his rejected drama. The fact of
-Maturin’s being acceptable as security for a considerable sum, however,
-would go to show that his circumstances were not all times absolutely
-desperate--which also might be inferred from the story of an alleged
-literary production of his, connected with the latter part of 1815. A
-poetical competition had been announced by Trinity College in order to
-celebrate the Battle of Waterloo. Here, according to the _New Monthly
-Magazine_ 1827, Maturin easily carried off the prize with a poem which
-he, ‘in a most handsome manner,’ presented to a pupil of his called
-Shea[67] and declined all profit from the publication of it. The poem
-was printed in January 1816, when _Bertram_ already had been accepted
-to Drury Lane and Maturin, no doubt, was full of sanguine expectations.
-This Mr. Shea was a pupil of Maturin’s to whom he appears to have been
-greatly attached; one of his letters to Murray, dated July 6:th 1816,
-ends with the following plea for him:
-
- Like all Irishmen, I reserve the most important part of my letter for
- the last. Mr. Shea, my pupil, of whom you have heard me talk so highly
- and justly while in London, has produced a poem on the marriage of the
- princess, I want you to publish it--I am satisfied of its merits and
- the certainty of its success.--
-
- His friends are numerous and wealthy, and the work would have a most
- rapid sale. I am sure you will not decline encouraging this young
- Muse, when I make her introduction through you a matter of personal
- and particular obligation to--Yours most truly C. Rob. Maturin.
-
-There is, indeed, no positive proof of Maturin’s being the author of
-_Lines on the Battle of Waterloo_, except the categorical statement in
-the _New Monthly Magazine_, besides the circumstance that the name of
-Shea, despite the wealthy and numerous friends, was destined never to
-adorn the history of English poetry. The poem is, however, furnished
-with a few notes written in a half-playful tone, where the author makes
-a reservation to eventual accusations of plagiarism, which notes, on
-account of the style alone, must be concluded to flow from the pen of
-Maturin. Of a passage like this, a student of Maturin can hardly doubt
-the authorship:
-
- A Poem written by one who owed nothing to communication with other
- minds, would be original in every sense of the word--but the paucity
- of its materials would probably ill atone for the novelty of the
- structure; it would be perhaps like the Indian love-song mentioned I
- think in Ashe’s travels, where all the varieties of sentiment, and
- modulations of language, that the passion might be supposed capable
- of inspiring, are compressed into three short sentences, strongly
- resembling the monotonous chirp of their native birds--I love you--I
- love you dearly--I love you all day long.
-
-The value of the poem itself is very moderate. Though endowed with a
-highly poetical temperament, Maturin was not a poet in the strictest
-sense of the word. Rhyme was an instrument of which he never became
-a master; the writer in the _New Monthly Magazine_ says that he had
-‘a natural distaste to the constant return of sound arising from
-the restraints it threw upon his luxuriant fancy.’ He mentions the
-_Waterloo_ as a singular example of Maturin’s being able to overcome
-his rooted aversion to the labours of versification, and cites two or
-three instances where he strove in vain to conquer the insurmountable
-difficulties it used to cause him. In 1821, when Ireland had the
-doubtful honour to receive a visit from George IV, Maturin, among
-many others, thought the occasion to demand a versified homage to
-the monarch. After the laborious production of three lines, however,
-he destroyed the paper ‘in a transport of rage.’ From _Montorio_,
-which abounds with indifferent poetry, it was already seen which way
-Maturin’s powers lay. His poetical prose is always fine and rhythmical
-in form, and very often original in ideas, whereas his rhymes are
-trivial, and usually make the thoughts so. The poem on Waterloo treats,
-in an obscure and bombastical style, less of the battle itself than of
-the glory of those who won it; the opening lines are, perhaps, the most
-worthy of quotation:
-
-    ’Tis night, her dim and dusky veil
-    Falls o’er creation’s aspect pale,
-    In deep repose lie town and tower,
-    Embattled steep, and foliaged bower--
-    The stilly forms of things unseen
-    Waver in twilight’s dubious screen,--
-    And mount, and vale, and earth, and sky
-    In grey confusion mock the eye,
-    Like features of some absent face,
-    That anguished Memory pains in vain to trace.
-
-What Maturin was capable of achieving in blank verse, remains next to
-be seen.
-
-
-
-
-III.
-
-1816-1817.
-
-    ’Tis true, said I, not void of hopes I came,
-    For who so fond as youthful bards of fame?
-    But few, alas! the casual blessing boast,
-    So hard to gain, so easy to be lost.
-
-  Pope.
-
-
-On the 9:th of May 1816 Maturin’s _Bertram, or the Castle of St.
-Aldobrand_ had its first performance at Drury Lane and ran, under
-general acclamation, for twenty two nights in succession.
-
-With similar distinctions, however, were then received a great many
-other plays, nowadays equally unknown and obscure. The disproportion
-between the enduring merits of a literary production and the admiration
-lavished upon it by its contemporaries was, at the time in question,
-most conspicuous in the field of the drama. The history of the whole
-18:th century drama in England is, with a few brilliant exceptions,
-a history of decay. From the shock that the drama had suffered at
-the triumph of Puritanism in the preceding century it recovered but
-slowly, and in the meantime the cultivated public was strongly decided
-in favour of the novel; while an undreamed revival was taking place
-within the last-named branch of literature, the theatre long remained
-a meeting-place of ordinary pleasure-hunters. Even the advance of the
-actor was injurious to the drama, the excellence of the acting offering
-ample excuse for the inferiority of what was acted.[68] Yet the English
-drama of the latter 18:th century, viewed in broad outlines, followed
-the fiction. The spectator is taken into scenes of domestic life where
-the absence of the grander elements of tragedy is compensated with
-tender and always well-bred sentimentality. Out of this _milieu_,
-but under the freshening influence of classical comedy, there arose
-the dramatic masterpieces of the age, the comedies of Sheridan and
-Goldsmith.
-
-The romantic drama which came after the sentimental, displays a
-spectacle still more unexhilarating. The fascination exercised
-by Shakespeare upon the young romantic movement bore fruit in
-the interpretations of great actors and, a little later, in the
-enthusiastic comments of eminent critics; but the playwrights could do
-nothing with a model that admitted neither approach nor imitation. This
-was realized by some of the dramatists themselves. Maturin wrote,[69]
-with reference to the sorry state of the English drama, which he calls
-a phenomenon unparalleled in the history of literature:
-
- While in every other department of literature, all means have been
- employed to excite and to satiate the appetite for novelty; while
- history, philosophy, and theology have contributed to enrich and
- diversify poetry, while it has sought to interest us not only by
- painting man in every situation in which he has yet been discovered,
- but in situations in which the vivid creations of fancy alone could
- give a habitation and a name, while the passions have been depicted
- not only in their visible operation on life, but in the silent and
- unwitnessed workings of the heart, the drama still rests her claim on
- the merit of her earliest productions, and the efforts of competitors
- or of imitators have only served to establish the triumphs of
- Shakspeare.
-
-At the same time there came an influence from very different quarters.
-If it was not possible to enter into competition with the Elizabethans,
-there was no difficulty in imitating writers like Kotzebue, who left
-his mark upon much in the English drama of the time. Yet nothing
-remains even of those who aspired higher. Joanna Baillie was the most
-admired of them; Maturin quotes her often and calls her the greatest
-dramatist of the age; but in our days ‘no man reads her unless he
-must.’[70] Until the appearance of _The Cenci_ (1819), the early 19:th
-century romanticism produced not a single drama worthy of the glorious
-traditions.
-
-Considering this desert-like state of the then English drama, the
-_éclat_ roused by _Bertram_ is not surprising. Still it was less due to
-any of its dramatical qualities than to its closeness to the poetical
-standard in vogue just at the time of its performance; the point was
-made by the admirers as well as by the slanderers of the play, that it
-was conceived quite ‘in the taste of Lord Byron.’ If Maturin’s first
-romance had appeared a little too late, with regard to the style in
-which it was written, his first drama thus appeared at the right moment
-and met with the right interpretation. Whatever the opinion of Kean may
-have been of the play, he certainly realized the intentions of the poet
-with a skill that left nothing more to be desired. In an account of the
-first night we read:[71]
-
- -- -- -- it will be observed that the part of Bertram is peculiarly
- adapted to the powers of Mr. Kean, by whom it is represented with
- extraordinary energy and effect. He is a mixture of ambition, pride
- and revenge; a character ashamed of the feelings of ordinary men, who
- has little in common with them, but his passion for a lovely woman,
- and in whose sorrows ordinary men of course cannot sympathize--in
- short, a character who like Milton’s Satan is “himself alone.”
-
-Such is count Bertram when presented to the spectator. Once he has been
-of wholly different character, while living in the kingdom of Sicily as
-
-    The darling of his liege and of his land,
-    The army’s idol, and the counsil’s head--
-    Whose smile was fortune, and whose will was law--
-
-When his power, however, has become too great, and his plans turned out
-to be too ambitious for the safety of the state, Lord Aldobrand has
-contrived to overthrow him. Deprived of name and fortune he has only
-saved his life by flight; and the admired and accomplished courtier
-has subsequently been changed into a captain of a gang of robbers, of
-uncommon ferocity. In the meantime his betrothed bride, Imogine, a lady
-of comparatively humble birth, has been induced to give her hand to the
-selfsame Aldobrand, for the (not very original) purpose of saving an
-aged parent from ruin.--
-
-By the coast of Sicily, then, in the vicinity of the castle of St.
-Aldobrand, the brotherhood of a convent are, at the opening of the
-play, roused from their sleep by a violent storm. At a short distance
-a vessel, to which they are unable to render assistance, is seen to
-go to pieces. One wild-looking and incoherently-speaking man alone is
-rescued and conducted to the prior in a state of utter exhaustion.--At
-the castle, too, the inmates are disturbed by the rage of the elements.
-Lord Aldobrand himself appears to be absent, and his lady is sitting
-in her apartment, contemplating a miniature picture of Bertram. She
-is joined by one of her maidens, to whom she now discloses the story
-of her life, assuring her that her heart still belongs to Bertram.
-The conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a monk, coming to
-request that the shipwrecked of whom, contrary to all expectation,
-many have been saved, might have, according to the wonted hospitality
-of Lord Aldobrand, free access to the castle. Upon Imogine answering
-that they are welcome, the whole band take up their residence at
-the castle; before that, however, Bertram--the stranger who was
-first saved--reveals his identity to the prior and vows vengeance
-on Aldobrand, the originator of his misfortunes. At the castle the
-majestic form and stern demeanour of Bertram attract the notice of
-Imogine, and she summons him to her presence. A scene of recognition
-takes place. Imogine explains her reasons for becoming the wife of
-Aldobrand; Bertram breaks out into furious accusations, but at last,
-when Imogine’s little boy runs in, he relents and kisses the child.
-
-These are the contents of the first two acts. In the third Imogine
-arrives to the convent to confess to the prior that she has yielded to
-the temptation offered by the unexpected appearance of Bertram, and
-clandestinely met him several times. The prior--who, in the foregoing
-scene, has been exhorting Bertram to give up his companions and leave
-the country--is much horrified and recommends the most severe penances.
-While still at the convent, Imogine encounters Bertram and is made to
-promise him one further interview, after which he is to disappear from
-her life. The act is again closed by the entrance of the child, who
-comes to inform his mother that Lord Aldobrand has returned.
-
-At the meeting intended to be their last, Bertram then appears to
-have taken advantage of Imogine’s weakness in a manner which even he
-is ashamed to recollect. Before he has time to execute his design of
-departing, he is informed by one of his gang that his being in Sicily
-has become known and that Lord Aldobrand holds a commission from the
-king to seek his life throughout the country. Bertram is again filled
-with inexorable rage towards his enemy, and remembers his determination
-to have revenge upon him.--In the meantime Aldobrand arrives at his
-castle where Imogine receives him in an agitated manner which he in
-vain endeavours to fathom. On her declaring that she has some penance
-to do, he leaves her alone; after a while Bertram enters, and she
-understands, with horror, that he is resolved to destroy her husband.
-Aldobrand has, indeed, just been summoned to the convent to share
-a feast in celebration of St. Anselm, but, owing to a flood which
-obstructs his way, he is compelled to turn back. On his return he is
-attacked by Bertram, and dies at the feet of Imogine.
-
-In the fifth act the tidings of the murder of Aldobrand are brought
-to the convent by Imogine, who, in a frantic state of mind, rushes in
-which her child. The monks and the knights of St. Anselm hasten to the
-castle. Bertram has locked himself up in a chamber where he has passed
-all the night with the dead body; at the summons of the prior, however,
-he opens the door and suffers himself to be arrested.--The last scene
-is laid in a dark wood where Imogine, who has lost her reason, is
-lingering in a cavern. The way which leads Bertram to the place of
-execution passes by the cavern, and he, who has up till now shown no
-repentance, sinks down when he hears the piercing shrieks of Imogine.
-She comes out and expires at the sight of him, whereupon Bertram
-snatches the sword of one of the knights and stabs himself.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-As a drama, _Bertram_ is not well constructed. The plot is curiously
-void of consistency and inner logic; when the talk is interrupted by
-action, it seems to happen more or less at random. The effect of the
-shipwreck in the first act is destroyed by the sudden appearance of
-all the banditti who are saved in a manner altogether inexplicable
-and whose preservation, moreover, is quite unnecessary. They do not
-in any way interfere in the events; Bertram kills Aldobrand with his
-own hands, and when the deed is done, he receives no help from his
-companions: they disappear from the play as mysteriously as they enter
-it. The final determination of Bertram to take Aldobrand’s life is
-very imperfectly accounted for. He must, surely, have been aware that
-Aldobrand, if cognizant of his presence, would adopt vigorous measures
-for his persecution, whence his sudden rage when informed of this is
-rather surprizing. He exclaims, with reference to the calamity he has
-brought over Imogine:
-
-    ’Twas but e’en now, I would have knelt to him
-    With the prostration of a conscious villain;
-    I would have crouched beneath his spurning feet;
-    I would have felt their trampling tread, and blessed it--
-    For I had injured him--
-
-but then he forgets that Aldobrand knows nothing of his relation to
-Imogine, or his repentance, or even of the fact that he has promised
-the prior to give up his trade and retire where the voice of man
-is never heard. Here, however, it must be mentioned that in the
-original manuscript of the play, Bertram is prompted to the committal
-of his crimes by an evil spirit who dwells in the forest and whom
-he insists on visiting. After his visit to the demon he seems so
-altered, and the stamp of an intercourse with a supernatural being
-is so visible upon him, that his own robbers shrink from him. These
-passages Maturin expunged on the advice of Scott, and, accordingly,
-made respective alterations in his play, though he consented to do
-so with great reluctance. The scenes in question were afterwards
-published by Scott in another connection;[72] he bestows high praise
-on their poetical beauty and hints, by way of comparison, at the
-effect produced upon Macbeth by the appearance of the witches. His
-motive for recommending Maturin to suppress them was that they were,
-in his opinion, unsuitable on the stage.[73] Generally speaking, a
-psychological argumentation certainly is, in a drama, preferable to a
-direct interference of a supernatural being who never appears himself;
-but here this argumentation is so weak that there also is some truth
-in the remark of another critic,[74] that without those scenes ‘the
-change from the Bertram of the second act to the Bertram of the fourth
-is inexplicable.’ Thus in either version the decisive point in the
-action is unsatisfactorily motived. Nor is it difficult to detect other
-implausibilities and makeshifts of a clumsy kind. The road of Aldobrand
-to the convent, for instance, is stopped by a flood which he is unable
-to cross even on horseback--because he must, some way or other, be
-brought back to the castle; but the flood does not hinder Imogine, the
-same night, from making the same journey on foot, carrying her child
-to boot. The child is introduced into the play in order to make an
-end of the second and third acts; what it has got to say sounds very
-unnatural. All the finales are ineffective, not least that of the fifth
-act. When Bertram has stabbed himself the prior rushes to him:
-
-    _Ber._ (_struggling with the agonies of death_)
-    I know thee holy Prior--I know ye, brethren.
-    Lift up your holy hands in charity.
-    (_With a burst of wild exultation_)
-    I died no felon death--
-    A warrior’s weapon freed a warrior’s soul--
-
-It will be remembered that in _Montorio_ the last words of the hero
-were an expression of joy at the fact that he did not perish on the
-scaffold. Here the sentiment is repeated, but it is clearly not
-fortunate to put it in the mouth of the hero himself; if there is any
-relief brought about by his nobler mode of dying, the spectator ought
-to feel it spontaneously.--
-
-It has already been seen, more than once, that the merits of Maturin’s
-works are not in their composition. The traces of his power which
-there admittedly[75] are in _Bertram_, are to be sought in richness
-of language and originality of style. Now and then, amid the ‘sound
-and fury’ of the whole, passages stand out where Maturin’s blank verse
-attains a sombre beauty of its own, while it expressively strikes
-the note of the time, vibrating with a genuinely romantic sense of
-loneliness, melancholy, and grandeur. Lines such as these, from the
-first interview of the hero with the heroine, doubtless did much to
-decide the partiality for _Bertram_ of critics like Byron and Scott:
-
-    _Imo._ Strange is thy form, but more thy words are strange--
-    Fearful it seems to hold this parley with thee.
-    Tell me thy race and country--
-
-    _Ber._                         What avails it?
-    The wretched have no country: that dear name
-    Comprizes home, kind kindred, fostering friends,
-    Protecting laws, all that binds man to man--
-    But none of these are mine;--I have no country--
-    And for my race, the last dread trump shall wake
-    The sheeted relics of mine ancestry,
-    Ere trump of herald to the armed lists
-    In the bright blazon of their stainless coat,
-    Calls their lost child again.--
-
-    _Imo._                      I shake to hear him--
-    There is an awful thrilling in his voice,--
-    The soul of other days comes rushing in them.--
-    If nor my bounty nor my tears can aid thee,
-    Stranger, farewell; and ’mid thy misery
-    Pray, when thou tell’st thy beads, for one more wretched.
-
-The omitted passages relative to Bertram’s dealing with the fiend
-of the forest are interesting for their novelty in Maturin. The
-supernatural element is here conceived in a manner quite alien to the
-Gothic Romance; it serves, in fact, to bring home a characteristic
-difference between the last-named movement and romanticism. It was
-the business of the ‘terrific’ school to trace the fear and horror
-aroused by unearthly apparitions in ordinary men; while in romantic
-poetry men of uncommon mould (like Byron’s Manfred) are, in consequence
-of their intercourse with spirits, made to grow still more distant
-from their neighbours and become themselves an object of awe in their
-unapproachable grandeur. Such is the case with Bertram after his visit
-to the demon, the description of which Scott found to be ‘executed in a
-grand and magnificent strain of poetry:’
-
-    --How tower’d his proud form through the shrouding gloom,
-    How spoke the eloquent silence of its motion,
-    How through the barred vizor did his accents
-    Roll their rich thunder on the pausing soul!
-    And though his mailed hand did shun my grasp
-    And though his closed morion hid his feature,
-    Yea all resemblance to the face of man,
-    I felt the hollow whisper of his welcome,
-    I felt those unseen eyes were fix’d on mine,
-    If eyes indeed were there--
-    Forgotten thoughts of evil, still-born mischiefs,
-    Foul fertile seeds of passion and of crime,
-    That wither’d in my heart’s abortive core,
-    Rous’d their dark battle at his tempest-peal:
-    So sweeps the tempest o’er the slumbering desert,
-    Waking its myriad hosts of burning death:
-    So calls the last dread peal the wandering atoms
-    Of blood and bone and flesh and dust-worn fragments,
-    In dire array of ghastly unity,
-    To bid the eternal summons--
-    I am not what I was since I beheld him--
-    I was the slave of passion’s ebbing sway--
-    All is condensed, collected, callous now--
-    The groan, the burst, the fiery flash is o’er,
-    Down pours the dense and darkening lava-tide,
-    Arresting life and stilling all beneath it.
-
-The achievements of Bertram, as represented on the stage, bear,
-indeed, too much resemblance to the doings of a common ruffian, and
-he stands, both morally and poetically, on a lower level than any of
-Byron’s personages, though maintained, by reviewers,[76] to be ‘that
-same mischievous compound of attractiveness and turpitude, of love and
-crime, of chivalry and brutality, which in the poems of Lord Byron and
-his imitators has been too long successful in captivating weak fancies
-and outraging moral truth.’ Yet he undoubtedly is a hero; and though
-Maturin later calls him one of his worst characters, he ought not, at
-the time, to have been surprised at being accused[77] of ‘exciting
-undue compassion for worthless characters, or unjust admiration of
-fierce and unchristian qualities;’ It is, above all, in his capacity
-of a fallen angel that Bertram had old-established claims upon the
-interest and indulgence of the English public. Of his fall this account
-is given by Imogine:
-
-    High glory lost he recked not what was saved--
-    With desperate men in desperate ways he dealt--
-    A change came o’er his nature and his heart
-    Till she that bore him had recoiled from him,
-    Nor know the alien visage of her child.
-
-This dismal change is regarded in a very ‘Miltonic’ light especially by
-the prior, who, himself represented as well-nigh a saint, could not but
-be supposed to express the view of the author. The impression that the
-hero makes upon the mind of the prior finds voice in eloquent outbursts:
-
-    High-hearted man, sublime even in thy guilt,
-    Whose passions are thy crimes, whose angel-sin
-    Is pride that rivals the star-bright apostate’s.--
-    Wild admiration thrills me to behold
-    An evil strength, so above earthly pitch--
-    Descending angels only could reclaim thee--
-
-This is uttered before Bertram has murdered Aldobrand; but that being
-done, the exaltation of the venerable prelate remains the same:
-
-    This majesty of guilt doth awe my spirit--
-    Is it th’embodied fiend who tempted him
-    Sublime in guilt?
-    -- -- -- --
-    Oh thou, who o’er thy stormy grandeur flingest
-    A struggling beam that dazzles, awes, and vanishes--
-    Thou, who dost blend our wonder with our curses--
-    Why didst thou this?
-
-It is the great fault of Bertram as a dramatic character, that he
-so poorly upholds the high attitude assigned to him by others, and
-that his imposing qualities chiefly rest on declamatory effects. As a
-poetical figure he occasionally becomes, thanks to life antecedents,
-surrounded with a gloomy splendour exciting the kind of admiration so
-keenly resented by critics who felt themselves called upon to extend
-their verdict to the moral side of the question. The heroine was,
-though unjustly, comprised[78] in the condemnation of the pernicious
-tendency of the play:--‘it is too much the taste of the present day,
-to bring forward the guilty passion of a wife for her paramour -- --
--- not, indeed, with direct admiration, but in such a manner, and with
-such a mixture of virtuous remorse and high-toned feeling, that we
-cannot hate the crime. Now a heroine who commits adultery certainly was
-a startling phenomenon on the English stage, and it was the occurrence
-of this offence which is said[79] finally to have caused _Bertram_ to
-be put aside. Yet in the play there is no connivance at the frailty
-of Imogine. When she comes to unburthen her heart to the prior, this
-arbiter of morals has nothing but harsh words for her; he sees nothing
-sublime in _her_ guilt, which at the end plunges her into the deepest
-misery. In the preface to his next play Maturin says, with reference
-to the shock he had given with the story of Imogine: ‘If Tragedy is
-not allowed to exhibit crimes and passions, what is left for her to
-exhibit?--If crime is attended with punishment as its consequence, I
-conceive the interests of morality are not compromised’--but he was
-not aware that it is sometimes the criminal more than the crime that
-the guardians of the interests of morality desire to hate.--Otherwise
-Imogine is sketched with something of Maturin’s skill at depicting
-female character, and hers is, as Kean observed, the principal part
-in the play as far as histrionic powers are concerned. Her reviving
-passion for Bertram, her misery and repentance are developed in a
-language comparatively free from the tinge of melodrama, and sometimes
-pervaded with a deep and natural feeling, like her confession to the
-prior:
-
-    Last night, oh! last night told a dreadful secret--
-    The moon went down, its sinking ray shut out,
-    The parting form of one beloved too well.--
-    The fountain of my heart dried up within me,--
-    With nought that loved me, and with nought to love
-    I stood upon the desert earth alone--
-    I stood and wondered at my desolation--
-    For I had spurned at every tie for him,
-    And hardly could I beg from injured hearts
-    The kindness that my desperate passion scorned--
-    And in that deep and utter agony,
-    Though then, than ever most unfit to die,
-    I fell upon my knees, and prayed for death.
-
-The character of Aldobrand, little as he appears, is drawn with
-peculiar skill. He is an excellent man and has brought about the
-ruin of Bertram out of disinterested zeal for state and sovereign; in
-private life he is kindness itself and greatly revered by all, not
-least by his wife. It might seem as if the author had unnecessarily
-hazarded the _sublime_ element in Bertram by making his enemy a man of
-worth; but where, then, would be the _guilt_ in knocking down a rascal?
-Considering the character Bertram is intended to support, Aldobrand
-could hardly be otherwise, and he is, in all his respectability,
-somehow made clearly to display a total want of those brilliant and
-interesting traits the absence of which is his only disadvantage by the
-side of the hero.--Other characters to speak of there are not in the
-play. It is incomprehensible how Charles Nodier[80] could ascribe so
-important a part to the prior: ‘cependant c’est le Prieur qui est le
-héros de la tragédie, et son calme sublime contraste avec le désordre
-et les passions des corsaires, comme l’immobilité de ses antique
-murailles avec l’agitation des flots, domaine inconstant de ce peuple
-désespéré.’ The prior really presents an extraordinarily sorry figure.
-His calmness--which asserts itself only when action is required; in
-words he is as tempestuous as Bertram--is most akin to inertness,
-not to say imbecility. He is from the first initiated into Bertram’s
-vindictive designs against Aldobrand--who is a great friend of his--and
-does nothing to prevent them except talking in a way which gives vent
-to his fantastic admiration for Bertram, very unnatural in a person
-of his character and situation. His high-flown comments upon the hero
-are, throughout the play, nothing short of ridiculous, which they by
-no means are meant to be. It was, however, quite in keeping with the
-romantic spirit to introduce the convent into the turbulent scenes as
-an asylum of peace, inhabited by good and holy men--in contradiction to
-the Gothic Romance, where a convent usually is described as a nest of
-all sorts of devilry. This is the only instance in Maturin’s work where
-the milder view prevails; he was, in _Melmoth_, soon to return to the
-terrific style again with a force seldom equalled in literature.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The motive of adverse circumstances driving a high-souled man to
-become a captain of robbers is most famous from _Die Räuber_ (1781) of
-Schiller. In that drama Gustave Planche[81] finds the ‘idée mère’ of
-_Bertram_, though he prefers the latter play:--‘les mêmes idées, qui
-dans Schiller resemblent à une dissertation, prennent dans Maturin la
-forme vivante et animée d’une légende surnaturelle, et cette différence
-suffirait pour établir la supériorité de _Bertram_ sur les _Brigands_.’
-It is, however, difficult to see where, in _Bertram_, the ideas of
-_The Robbers_ come in at all. The drama of Schiller is, despite its
-bombastic language, a typical 18:th century production with a social
-tendency. The hero and his followers are--as in the case of the
-theorizing ‘Arcadian’ robbers in Godwin’s _Caleb Williams_--revolting
-against the constituent principles of society, the perverseness
-of which alone has occasioned their desperate enterprise; but the
-enterprise is, after all, discovered to be an unjustifiable means of
-changing the existing state of things. In _Bertram_ there is nothing
-of the 18:th century. The adventure presented to the spectator is of
-a quite individual character, the case being applicable to the hero
-and no one else. He does not want to reform society; he does not place
-himself at the head of a gang of robbers on any ideal grounds; he
-falls. Nor are his companions robbers of the chivalrous type who keep a
-court of honour among themselves and take from the rich to give to the
-poor. Bertram himself says to some of them:
-
-                      --ye are slaves that for a ducat
-    Would rend the screaming infant from the breast
-    To plunge it in the flames.
-
-The play thus aims at nothing but the poetical exhibition of a man
-blending sublimity in guilt. The catchword of Karl Moor expresses his
-determination to surrender himself to justice, that is, voluntarily
-to meet the ‘felon death’ which Bertram, in his last cry, rejoices at
-having escaped. In all this there would appear, in _Bertram_, not a
-formally different application, but a total absence, of the ideas of
-_The Robbers_, and any influence from Schiller seems uncertain.--In
-some detached passages of _Bertram_ critics tried to detect loans from
-several obscure plays, from Shakespeare, and even from Scott; but
-excepting the fact that _The Tempest_ necessarily is called to mind by
-any play opening with a shipwreck, these loans are unimportant. The
-treatment of the other principal motive, the marriage of Imogine to
-the enemy of her lover, shows less originality. Its model, as pointed
-out in the _Irish Quarterly Review_ 1852, is to be found in a play
-called _Percy_ (1778), by Miss Hannah More. This was one of the first
-English dramas where the action is placed in romantic surroundings,
-although it resolves round the favourite topics of the day.[82] Percy,
-Earl of Northumberland, is the lover and destined husband of Elwina,
-daughter of Earl Raby. For some offence Raby breaks off all relations
-with Percy, who subsequently joins a crusade. During his absence Raby
-compels his daughter to marry Earl Douglas, an inveterate foe of
-Percy, and shortly after that the hero returns to England. Elwina, on
-one occasion, relates the story of her misfortunes to her maid, which
-passage has a direct correspondence in _Bertram_. The most conspicuous
-resemblance, however, is afforded by the scene where Elwina meets Percy
-and discloses to him that she is the wife of Douglas. Percy, like
-Bertram, is seized with a violent fury, and his words:
-
-    And have I ’scap’d the Saracen’s fell sword,
-    Only to perish by Elwina’s guilt?
-
-are distinctly echoed in Bertram’s:
-
-    And did I ’scape from war, and want, and famine
-    To perish by the falsehood of a woman?
-
-The further development of the conflict is, as easily can be imagined,
-totally different in the two dramas--a heroine of Hannah More was the
-least likely of any to suggest the character of the lady Imogine.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-It is generally asserted by biographers[83] that contemporary
-critics--with the single exception of Coleridge--were ‘enraptured’
-about _Bertram_; but this, undoubtedly, is to say too much. Its
-supposed immoral tendency, as has already been seen, roused a storm
-of indignation in the columns of the reviews, where the passing
-acknowledgments of the author’s talent almost vanished. The opening
-lines of the criticism in the _Eclectic Review_ are characteristic of
-the way in which the play was treated of:
-
- This tragedy has obtained, upon the stage, a popularity that would
- seem altogether undeserved. That the Author has strong powers no
- one can doubt; and as we are not uncandid, the reader will find in
- the course of our extracts, passages that prove him to have _very_
- strong powers. The piece might be objected to for its want of dramatic
- interest, for the bad taste of its poetry, but its principal fault,
- (in the absence of which objection indeed, we should quietly have left
- it to its fate,) is its vicious and abominable morality.
-
-Nor were the opinions even of those very strong powers always
-undivided. While the _British Review_ makes mention of ‘vivacious
-touches of a very glowing pencil’ and pronounces that ‘the description
-as well as the pathetic force of many passages is admirable, and
-the rhythm and cadence of the verse is musical, lofty, and full of
-tragic pomp’--the _Monthly Review_ maintains that the language is
-‘strained, inverted, and bombastic on many occasions,’ and that
-‘the versification, also, is often rough and imperfect; and a want
-of _keeping_, of harmonious _colouring_, and, we fear, of just
-_design_, is visible throughout.’ The severest attack upon Maturin’s
-play, however, was delivered by Coleridge[84] in an article uniting
-much cutting sarcasm with savage and indiscriminating abuse. It was
-supposed that Coleridge was irritated by the rejection of his _Fall of
-Robespierre_ in favour of _Bertram_; in that light the article was, at
-least, regarded by Byron,[85] who refers to it in a letter to Murray,
-dated October 12:th 1819:
-
- In Coleridge’s Life, I perceive an attack upon the then Committee of
- Drury Lane Theatre for acting Bertram, and an attack upon Maturin’s
- Bertram for being acted. Considering all things, this is not very
- grateful nor graceful on the part of the worthy autobiographer; and
- I would answer, if I had _not_ obliged him. Putting my own pains to
- forward the views of Coleridge out of the question, I know there was
- every disposition on the part of the Sub-Committee to bring forward
- any production of his, were it feasible. The play he offered, though
- poetical, did not appear at all practicable, and Bertram did--and
- hence this long tirade, which is the last chapter of his vagabond life.
-
-It is not quite clear in what manner Coleridge had been obliged, his
-play never appearing on the stage. If his criticism of _Bertram_
-was dictated by disappointment, that must have been galling indeed,
-for the tone prevailing in it is exceedingly acrimonious.[86] Every
-blunder in the composition, and unhappy turn of phrase in the impetuous
-style--not over-difficult to expose--is made the most of and the whole
-play torn to fragments, scene by scene, cleverly enough, but with
-a rancour which really conveys the impression of proceeding from a
-personal cause. The critic’s virtuous horror at the incidents is worked
-up to a pitch that leaves all other reviewers far behind; even the
-circumstance of Imogine, before she has recognized Bertram, sending for
-him and speaking to him, _alone_, is represented as a piece of gross
-indelicacy!--and if any spectator felt inclined to take a fancy to the
-hero, it certainly was no fault of Coleridge’s, who characterizes him,
-in a single breath, as ‘this _felo de se_, and thief-captain, this
-loathsome and leprous confluence of robbery, adultery, murder, and
-cowardly assassination, this monster -- -- --.’
-
-However, some nonsense though these reviewers utter, their opinion
-of Maturin’s first play comes nearer to its final valuation than
-that of many later writers who boldly prophesied the author’s lasting
-immortality on account of _Bertram_. Among admiring biographers whose
-verdict was unsupported by any literary authority, there were critics
-of some reputation; Gustave Planche, writing in 1833, does not hesitate
-to say that _Bertram_ contains scenes worthy of _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_.
-In opposition to this enthusiasm of the French, it is interesting to
-note the very sound judgment of Goethe. He had, in 1817, read the play
-and written a kind of advertisement of it, in which he reaches in a few
-words the kernel of the matter and explains the secret of its success:
-‘Das neuste englische Publikum ist in Hass und Liebe von den Dichtungen
-des Lord Byron durchdrungen, und so kann denn auch ein _Bertram_
-Wurzel fassen, der gleichfalls Menschenhass und Rachegeist, Pflicht
-und Schwachheit, Umsicht, Plan, Zufälligkeiten und Zerstörung mit
-Furienbesen durcheinander peitscht und eine, genau besehen, emphatische
-Pose zur Würde eines tragischen Gedichtes erhebt.’[87]
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-One result of the success attending _Bertram_ was--the play being
-produced anonymously--that several individuals began to make claims
-for the authorship. This circumstance contributed to Maturin’s
-determination to emerge from his anonymity and publicly take his
-place among the men of letters of his day. With regard to any further
-professional preferment this was definitely to burn his boats: a
-clergyman of the established church the writer of a play whose morality
-was generally pronounced to be an abomination. On the other hand the
-dream of his life now seemed realized, and the way open to the circles
-to which he felt himself to belong. He took the step; and, in order to
-make the most of it, accepted an invitation from London to come over
-to witness the triumph of his production. This was the only journey
-of any length ever undertaken by Maturin; if not very adventurous,
-it still was something of an enterprise at that time, when a crossing
-between Dublin and Liverpool could take up to 36 hours. Maturin’s stay
-in London did not exceed a month. He arrived there in the latter part
-of May, and the 22:nd of June he wrote, from home, his first letter to
-Murray, in acknowledgment of the kindness shown him by the publisher.
-In the _New Monthly Magazine_ 1827 we read that Maturin was, while in
-the metropolis, ‘suddenly elevated to the most dizzy and flattering
-distinction,’ being ‘caressed by the first men of the day, recognized
-by the audience during the performance of his play, and received
-with acclamations.’ The language, however, in Maturin’s own letters
-referring to his reception is very different, and suggestive rather of
-a disappointment. Even in his first letter, when sending his respects
-to Mrs. Murray, he assures his correspondent that ‘to your friendly and
-hospitable attention I am indebted for the only pleasant hours passed
-during my sojourn in London.’ In another letter, from July 6:th, he
-returns to the theme with marked bitterness:
-
- I should be particularly obliged by your letting me know at your
- leisure, and as a _friend_ (in which light I shall always consider,
- and feel my obligations to you) whether the impression I made in
- London was favourable or otherwise, or, whether _I made any impression
- at all_. My reason for urging this strange question is, _the marked
- coldness of my reception at every house but yours and Lord Essex’s_,
- and the singular circumstance of my never being invited to Mr. Lamb’s.
- I am aware that long struggle with distress and difficulty will not
- only cloud the mind, but degrade the manners of the sufferer, but
- still I cannot but think that my habits and conduct could not justify
- my exclusion from the line of society to which I was born, and in
- which till latterly I have always lived.
-
- When you have time to write, tell me if my apprehensions are true, and
- if I was really though unfit for the company of men who invited me
- over and on whose hospitality and courtesy I had therefore some claim
- during my very short stay.
-
-In spite of a soothing answer from Murray, the idea that he had
-not appeared to advantage continued to haunt Maturin. It ought to
-be mentioned, however, that in the letter quoted above there is an
-allusion to a member of the fair sex upon whom the impression made by
-the Irish guest seems to have been even more favourable than he could
-have wished--yet at the same time something to gratify the vanity of
-which he had, perhaps a little more than the usual allotment:
-
- I have received a letter from--since my return to Ireland. I really
- would be glad of your advice in this unpleasant business. I dread
- her resentment if provoked, and _I am determined not to answer her
- letters_. I wish it could be intimated to her that I was in the
- country and never received her Epistle--you know what Congreve says of
- “woman spurned.”--
-
-_Bertram_ was the first of Maturin’s works that appeared with his
-name. It was published by Murray, and ran through seven editions in
-the course of 1816; the current price of 3 sh. for a new play was
-on this occasion raised to 4 sh. 6 d.[88] Together with the profits
-of the performance, the sum cleared by Maturin for his tragedy is
-said to have amounted to £ 1000. The consequences, however, of the
-unhappy transaction in which he had been involved some years before,
-disagreeably asserted themselves at this piece of good luck, and he
-speaks of his affairs in a pessimistic tone. In a letter to Murray
-dated August 19:th he says:
-
- _There is not a shilling I have made by Bertram that has not been
- expended to pay the debts of a scoundrel for whom I had the misfortune
- to go security_, so here I am with scarce a pound in my pocket,
- simpering at congratulations on having made my fortune.
-
-Yet, if Maturin had not made his fortune by his first tragedy, he
-probably intended to make it by his second, for he took no pains to
-undeceive his congratulators. He was, by all accounts, somewhat dazzled
-by the bright prospects he imagined to be dawning for him, when he
-returned to Dublin as the greatest of its literary celebrities, and he
-changed his mode of living accordingly. He was, as appears from his
-letters to Murray, under the impression of being born to a line of
-society embellished by elegance and refinement, and his recollections
-of the easy circumstances in which he had grown up had not vanished
-amid the privations of later life. After his arrival from London
-Maturin plunged into the delights of society and became a conspicuous
-figure in saloons and assemblies; and his unpretending house in York
-Street was re-furnished and decorated with a splendour of which a
-friend of his who, however, admits that he did not see Maturin’s home
-until a later period, when the whole show had disappeared, gives the
-following account:[89]
-
- The walls of the parlours were done in panels, with scenes from his
- novels, painted by an artist of some eminence; the richest carpets,
- ottomans, lustres, and marble tables ornamented the withdrawing-rooms;
- the most beautiful papers covered the walls, and the ceilings were
- painted to represent clouds, with eagles in the centre, from whose
- claws depended brilliant lustres.
-
-In this abode--whether it exactly answered to the above description or
-not--was then received what Dublin society had to offer not only in the
-way of intellect, but preferably of youth and beauty. What it was that
-attracted Maturin in his social intercourse is vividly described by his
-biographer:[90]
-
- It is from this period that we may date the commencement of that
- folly of which Maturin has been lavishly accused. Whatever might have
- been the levities of his conduct before, now they certainly became
- more remarkable. His whole port and bearing was that of a man who had
- burst from a long sleep into a new state of being; always gay, he
- now became luxurious in his habits and manners. He was the first in
- the quadrille--the last to depart. The ball-room was his temple of
- inspiration and worship. So passionately attached was he to dancing,
- that he organized morning quadrille parties, which met alternately
- two or three days in the week at the houses of the favourite members
- of his _coterie_. He was proud of the gracefulness and elegance of
- his dancing; his light figure, and the melancholy and interesting air
- that, whether natural or fictitious, he threw into his movements,
- gave a peculiar character to his style. He was a perfect bigot in his
- attachment to female society; and generally restless and dissatisfied
- in the exclusive company of men. I remember meeting him at a large
- assembly where there were several beautiful women, and it was with
- reluctance he consented to forego the quadrille during the interval of
- supper: at supper he was uneasy and impatient although he happened to
- be sitting near some very intellectual persons; at last, after a few
- songs, which otherwise would have been prolonged, he started up, and
- with considerable animation and effect, taking a lady by the hand, led
- the way to the dancing-room.
-
-A very characteristic explanation of this gaiety is given by
-Mangan,[91] who ascribes it all to misery arising from unappreciated
-intellectual superiority. Maturin, he says,
-
- --had no friend--companion--brother; he, and the “lonely Man of
- Shiraz” might have shaken hands, and then--parted. He--is his own
- dark way--understood many people; but nobody understood him in any
- way. -- -- -- -- “Man, being reasonable, must get drunk,” observes
- Byron. It is an ugly line; but one that embodies a volume of
- philosophy--especially if we read it in juxtaposition with that other
- line, by Boileau “Souvent de tous nos maux la raison est le pire.”
- The world points the finger of scorn at the intellectual intemperate
- man--not reflecting--not caring to reflect--that it is his very
- superiority to the world that drives him to habits of intemperance.
- His nature is “averse from life” --he has an impatience of existence.
- Charles Lamb rushed forward, and forced the Gates of Death; and,
- actuated by a similar feeling, Maturin trod in his footsteps, though
- only trippingly. Lamb found his Lethe in the quart--Maturin sought his
- in the quadrille. One drank, the other danced. They were the two kings
- of Brentford “smelling at one nosegay,” only each experienced the
- sensation of a different odour from the flowers.
-
-Although the view applied by Mangan is too gloomy a one, it contains,
-no doubt, a certain amount of truth, and shows a remarkable penetration
-of Maturin’s character and situation. In his correspondence of that
-time Maturin repeatedly laments just his want of a literary friend or
-companion, and the absence of ‘excitement of any description’ that
-might inspire him to carry on his poetical occupations. As far as these
-were concerned, his spirit found little nourishment in his environs.
-Dublin was then rather void of literati, and the people he mixed with
-were, for the most part, of the usual, every-day character. Feeling
-thus that even the elite did not attain to the intellectual level he
-commanded, Maturin turned to the lighter style of social life--with
-real pleasure, as it corresponded to one side of his temperament, but
-sometimes, it is not unlikely, with a feverish intensity affording
-oblivion of the disadvantages under which he laboured, and escape
-from the melancholy that also was a constituent part of his mind. His
-nervousness might have been increased by doubts as to the duration of
-his present mode of existence, and at intervals there naturally came
-moments of weariness and _tedium vitae_. In his sermon preached on the
-first Sunday of the year 1817 Maturin exclaims:
-
- Yes, disappointment has been, _must_ be, the result of our pursuits
- and passions, because they were “of the earth, earthly;” because
- of their very nature they were hollow, worthless, and false, and
- they communicated that nature to their object--they were unworthy
- of the energies of a thinking spirit, unworthy of the dignity of an
- immortal soul! -- -- -- What is the result of the chase of these lying
- vanities? We are disappointed, either in failing to attain them, and
- thus being rendered wretched by the loss of that whose possession
- never could have made us happy; or--more mortifying to the illusions
- of our pride, by attaining them, and finding their possession to be
- emptiness, yea, “worse than nothing, than vanity.”
-
-Sentiments like these implied a general condemnation of the pursuits
-Maturin himself was engaged in all his life, and give one more
-illustration of the tragic contradiction between his profession and his
-inclinations. That the eccentricities of his conduct incurred a great
-deal of censure on the part of the more rigorous-minded has already
-been hinted; but his placidity of temper and easy, gentlemanly manners
-usually disarmed the displeasure of those coming into contact with him,
-and he had, upon the whole, no personal enemies. In his own parish he
-was universally beloved, and where his well-known figure emerged it
-attracted friendly attention, not unmixed with amazement. His outward
-appearance used to vary according to his conditions. When he could, he
-dressed in the highest fashion; his cash being at a low ebb, he would
-be seen walking about in a costume almost ostentatiously shabby. ‘Mr.
-Maturin’ says a writer,[92] ‘was tall, slender, but well proportioned,
-and on the whole, a good figure, which he took care to display in a
-well made black coat, tight buttoned, and some old light-coloured
-stocking-web pantaloons, surmounted in winter by a coat of prodigious
-dimensions, gracefully thrown on, so as not to obscure the symmetry it
-affected to protect.’ The portrait of Maturin, drawn by Brocas, which
-appeared in the _New Monthly Magazine or Universal Register_ 1819 and
-which is reproduced in the 1892 edition of _Melmoth the Wanderer_,
-shows a self-portraying and uncommonly handsome face: the finely
-chiselled mouth indicating a tendency towards the gay and luxurious,
-while the gaze of the large and melancholy eyes suggests the horrors
-his imagination was wont to dwell upon. Those who saw him in his home
-were struck by the former quality greatly prevailing over the latter,
-as is told by a visitor:[93]
-
- I found him in a large and rather well furnished drawing-room, seated
- at a writing-desk; while the table on which the desk rested was heaped
- with books and papers, scattered there in a state of most delectable
- confusion. He was clad in a sort of loose morning gown, which had
- evidently been in use for many years. He was cravatless, and looked
- at the moment rather pale and emaciated. At this period he was at the
- heyday of his literary popularity, and it struck me that he looked
- like one who had been enjoying the good things of life (enjoying them
- too freely) the night before. His eldest boy was seated at his right
- hand, copying out something from a sadly blotted M. S. Mrs. M. ----,
- with her daughter, occupied a place near the window, and, when the
- conversation commenced, joined freely in it. I saw before me for the
- first time the man of genius, the man whose language and sentiments
- had operated on me as a species of witchcraft. I felt an indescribable
- awe--my heart throbbed, and my tongue was for the moment bound up;
- but the cheerful welcome, the gentle tone, and the brightly animated
- look of the poet, soon set me quite at ease, and after a few minutes
- conversation I found myself as it were at home. I was struck most
- forcibly with the contrast existing in the person and manner of the
- author and his writings--the one all passion and gloominess and
- horror, the other ease, grace, and sprightliness, approaching even
- to levity. He exhibited on this, and on other occasions, when I was
- with him, a turn for mimicry, and a vein of humour, for which I was
- entirely unprepared.--
-
-It is mentioned in most notes on Maturin that he was in the habit of
-placing a wafer on his forehead in his hours of inspiration, to signify
-to his family that he was not to be intruded upon. This--and many other
-caprices of a similar kind--might have happened once or twice and then
-been related at the tea-tables of Dublin as a token of the eccentricity
-of their literary curate. The story of the wafer seems to be
-contradicted, or at least greatly qualified, by the statements of some
-other writers. Carleton[94] says that Maturin had composed the greatest
-part of his earlier romances at Marsh’s library in St. Patrick’s Close,
-‘on a small plain deal desk, which he removed from place to place
-according as it suited his privacy or convenience;’ and an intimate
-friend of his has said[95] that he never worked on his two last novels
-except in the stillness of night, when there was consequently no fear
-of his being disturbed. As for the inventive part of composition, one
-writer[96] reports the following utterance of Maturin:
-
- I compose on a long walk; but then the day must neither be too hot,
- nor cold: it must be reduced to that medium from which you feel no
- inconvenience one way or the other; and then when I am perfectly free
- from the city and experience no annoyance from the weather, my mind
- becomes lighted by sunshine and I arrange my plan perfectly to my own
- satisfaction.
-
-This confidence was made just on one of those long pedestrian
-excursions to the county of Wicklow, which Maturin loved to undertake,
-especially in autumn, his favourite season. During his rambles he
-sometimes would enter into a literary discussion--which he in general
-is said to have been rather disinclined to do--and from the occasion
-now in question his interlocutor has preserved some of his opinions
-about the poets of England. He appears to have been most attracted
-by those who presented the least points of contact with his own
-production. With Byron he shared a boundless admiration for Pope, and
-of the living poets he liked best Crabbe and next to him Hogg. He
-was very fond of Moore who had, he said, done what he had wished to
-do himself, had he been able; but for the poetry of Byron he had a
-strong distaste, the more remarkable as he had often, as in the case
-of _Bertram_, been supposed deliberately to imitate the bard of _The
-Corsair_ and _Lara_. What Maturin, however, objected to in Byron’s
-poems was not the spirit but the style:
-
- I never could finish the perusal of any of his long poems. There is
- something in them excessively at variance with my notions of poetry.
- He is too fond of the obsolete; but that I do not quarrel with so
- much as his system of converting it into a kind of modern antique, by
- superadding tinsel to gold. It is a sort of mixed mode, neither old
- nor new, but incessantly hovering between both.
-
-Lastly may be quoted what Maturin, according to the same writer, once
-pronounced upon Walter Scott whom he, no doubt, loved best of all
-authors, ancient or modern:
-
- Yes, he has a most powerful genius; a genius that can adapt itself
- to the changes of times and feelings with the most extraordinary
- celerity, and with less than the labours of ordinary thought can
- reform and remodel the literature of the age. He is the greatest
- writer of his day. He writes not for England, but for all mankind;
- and he has embraced in his infinite vision all modes and systems of
- men and manners. What he does, he does appropriately; not seeking to
- display all the varieties of his mind in any one work, but only that
- which properly belongs to it: nothing is out of place; all is perfect,
- simple, and real; and he possesses the magical talent of explaining a
- whole character by a simple word of feeling; and of imparting to the
- meanest figure in his picture the interest of a principal.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Among the literary plans Maturin revolved in his mind after the success
-of his first play was the publication of a new edition of _Montorio_,
-for which romance he still entertained a partiality. Murray, however,
-did not venture a republication of it, nor was he favourably disposed
-towards a project of Maturin’s to give out a new copy of _Bertram_
-from the original manuscript, containing everything that had been
-omitted in the representation. Maturin seems, at first, to have taken
-it for granted that this revised edition, which he intended to dedicate
-to Scott, was to be issued; ‘may I beg to know,’ he writes in the
-letter from July 6:th, ‘why the corrected copy has not yet appeared,
-I am really disappointed at this, for, exclusive of my restoring many
-passages that might possibly give pleasure to the _Readers_ (though
-not to the Dramatic spectator) I am most anxious that the preface, and
-above all the original dedication (a debt due by gratitude to my first
-literary friend Mr. Scott) should be made public.’ The question was
-under discussion for some time, but after a rather irascible epistle
-from Maturin dated Nov. 19:th, it was referred to no more. Maturin was
-already working at a new play, and the publisher prudently determined
-to wait how it would turn out before entering into any doubtful
-enterprises. In a letter from August 19:th Maturin sanguinely says that
-what he has written pleases him better than _Bertram_; but at the same
-time it is seen how lonely he felt in what now was to him a provincial
-seclusion:
-
- Let me beg of you to write to me. I cannot describe to you the effect
- of an English letter on my spirits; it is like the wind to an Aeolian
- harp. I cannot produce a note without it. Give me advice, abuse, news,
- anything, or nothing (if it were possible that _you_ could write
- nothing), but _write_.--
-
-The principal character of the drama on which Maturin was engaged
-had been suggested to him, while in London, on behalf of Kean. The
-tragedian was anxious to act the part of Lear, but that was rendered
-improper by the mental illness of George III; the part he wanted
-was, consequently, that of an old man in a state of decrepitude
-and insanity, but occupying a somewhat humbler place in society.
-The experiment was hazardous in every respect. It was required of
-Maturin to produce an imitation of one of the most famous characters
-in literature, without one of the principal qualifications for his
-greatness. A too close attendance to the desire of the actor laid a
-constant restraint upon his imagination, and thereto came some other
-inconvenient considerations. Referring to the attacks upon _Bertram_,
-Maturin says in his letter last quoted: ‘In my present attempt, I
-shall beware of moonlight interviews, and jobs for Doctors Commons;
-my Heroines shall form a complete Coro di Vestale, and my Hero shall
-be guilty only of murder and such Bagatelles.’ All this boded no
-good; and when _Manuel_ was brought out at Drury Lane, early in the
-following year, it turned out a decided failure. Kean, finding it but
-a poor compensation for _Lear_, soon lost all interest in it, and its
-reception on the part of the public was a very cold one. The general
-disappointment is described in a letter from Murray to Byron, dated
-March 15:th 1817:[97]
-
- Maturin’s new tragedy, ‘Manuel,’ appeared on Saturday last, and I am
- sorry to say that the opinion of Mr. Gifford was established by the
- impression made on the audience. The first act very fine, the rest
- exhibiting a want of judgment not to be endured. It was brought out
- with uncommon splendour, and was well acted. Kean’s character as an
- old man--a warrior--was new and well sustained, for he had, of course,
- selected it, and professed to be--and he acted as if he were--really
- pleased with it. But this feeling changed to dislike after the first
- night, for he then abused it, and has actually walked through the part
- ever since, that is to say, for the other three nights of performance
- -- -- -- I met Geo. Lamb on Tuesday, and he complained bitterly of
- Kean’s conduct, said that he had ruined the success of the tragedy,
- and that in consequence he feared Maturin would receive nothing.
- I send you the first act, that you may see the best of it. I have
- undertaken to print the tragedy at my own expence, and to give the
- poor Author the whole of the profit.
-
-The verdict of Byron, after he had read the play, was equally
-unfavourable. ‘It is the absurd work of a clever man,’ he writes to
-Murray in a letter from Venice dated June 14:th;[98] ‘as a play, it
-is impracticable; as a poem, no great things.’ One admirer, however,
-Maturin’s second tragedy was destined to meet: in a subsequent letter
-Byron tells[99] that ‘Monk’ Lewis, to whom he had lent it, preferred
-it to some extracts from _Lalla Rookh_ which he read at the same time.
-For his own part Byron adds: ‘Of Manuel I think, with the exception
-of a few capers, it is as heavy a nightmare as was ever bestrode by
-indigestion.’ This opinion was, later on, embraced by the author
-himself, who says in a letter to Murray from Sept. 27:th:
-
- I am not discouraged by the failure of Manuel; the public were in the
- right about it; it is a very bad play; but I was led astray by the
- folly of supposing I could adapt myself to the _exclusive_ taste of
- an actor in sketching a character for him. I sacrificed everything to
- him, and he in return--sacrificed me.
-
-_Manuel_, which was furnished with the longed-for dedication to Walter
-Scott, Esq. is, indeed, Maturin’s weakest production, and very little
-need be said about it.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Manuel, count of Valdi, is a distinguished Spaniard whose only son,
-Alonzo, was born to him in the evening of his life. Alonzo’s birth has
-frustrated the expectations of Manuel’s heir and kinsman De Zelos; the
-latter, with his children, is plunged into poverty and insignificance,
-and publicly slighted by all his former flatterers. He has conceived a
-vehement hatred against the innocent cause of his altered conditions,
-which feeling, however, is not shared by his children: his daughter
-Ximena is the beloved of Alonzo, and his son Torrismond is the lover
-of Victoria, the daughter of Manuel. Alonzo has, though still a youth,
-completely beaten the Moors in the battle of Tolosa, and the reports
-of his victory are, at the opening of the play, spreading through the
-city of Cordova. Manuel summons his friends to a feast with which he
-wishes to celebrate the return of Alonzo; the family of De Zelos, too,
-get an invitation. At the entertainment Manuel awaits his son with
-increasing impatience, but Alonzo never makes his appearance. At last
-his war-steed is heard galloping into the court-yard, yet he comes
-alone with blood upon the saddle and a broken lance trailing from the
-stirrup. With something like an inspiration Manuel immediately accuses
-De Zelos of having murdered his son. As no traces are found of Alonzo,
-De Zelos again becomes the heir to the estates of Valdi, and the
-grandees once more vie with each other in fawning upon him and feigning
-to disbelieve the accusations of Manuel. They are, however, to meet
-in the hall of justice, and though Manuel can produce no proof of his
-charge, he passionately maintains it to be true,
-
-    --by that whisper of the soul,
-    which to no ear but mine is audible.
-
-De Zelos is on the point of swearing himself to be innocent, when,
-agitated by Manuel’s shrieks of perjury, he claims a combat to
-vindicate his honour. Torrismond appears as his father’s champion,
-and the cause of Manuel is taken up by a stranger on the condition
-that he will be allowed to depart with his vizor closed and his name
-unknown. Manuel has long been hovering on the verge of madness, and
-when he now sees the stranger defeated, the insanity breaks out in
-all its fury.--The last act takes place at one of Manuel’s castles
-in the country, whither he is banished on account of his unproved
-accusations against De Zelos; he is attended only by his daughter and
-two faithful followers. In the meantime Ximena has resolved to seek
-refuge in a convent in the same vicinity. Passing by the chapel of the
-castle she descends into the vault when she is informed by her guide
-that a requiem is just being chanted to the soul of Alonzo. Here she
-is shortly afterwards joined by Manuel. His first impulse is to kill
-her, but he forbears when she declares that she has loved Alonzo; she
-also tells him that Alonzo’s murderer is now within the vault. Manuel
-rushes away and Torrismond, who is in pursuit of his sister, makes his
-appearance. To him Ximena repeats that she has found, lying on one of
-the tombs, the person who has murdered Alonzo; he has even given her
-his dagger which is furnished with the name of his employer, but made
-her swear that it is not to be examined except before the judges.--At
-the same time De Zelos with a large party of friends--also in quest of
-Ximena--arrive at the castle. Manuel is hurrying them to the vault when
-Torrismond rushes out crying that his father is innocent. As the judges
-happen to be of the party he unsheathes the dagger and reads the name
-of--his father. De Zelos, in despair, stabs himself, and Manuel, whose
-strength is worn out by now, expires in fearful ravings.--
-
-Throughout the four first acts the tragedy is well-nigh deprived of
-all dramatic vigour by incessant interruptions of the main plot. That
-consists, or ought to consist, in the development of the fate of Manuel
-until his madness--like Lear’s--breaks out after an accumulation of
-disappointments; but besides there being, in every act, plenty of
-dialogue to no purpose, the interest is divided among episodes very
-loosely connected with the intrigue. The incidents of the last act are
-prepared by such a sub-plot, bearing upon an intention of De Zelos
-to marry his daughter to the chief justice; for that reason, it must
-be supposed, she leaves her home and sets out for the convent. The
-appropriate arrival to the castle, however, of all the personages
-required, especially that of De Zelos and his party, makes the whole
-act highly improbable and its construction puerile in the extreme.
-The madness of Manuel, also, is here quite insupportable, and it is
-not to be wondered at that Kean could not endure the role more than
-one evening. Of the characters De Zelos is, upon the whole, the most
-interesting. He is a kind of villainous Timon of Athens. When his
-fortune is gone he sees how his friends turn their backs upon him; he
-perfectly comprehends the worthlessness of their conduct--
-
-    Ye insects in my heat that basked and buzzed,
-    And sung your summer-songs of flattery,
-    But, parting, leave your stings;
-
-yet instead of paying contempt with contempt, he is ready to commit
-a horrible crime in order to enable himself to re-enter their
-society. His lack of self-command, however, is so exaggerated and his
-nervousness so evident, that no one can be in doubt of his guilt, which
-is made only too clear by several incidents long before his name is
-read on the dagger. On one occasion his intended son-in-law tells him,
-much to his agitation, that a Moor has mysteriously whispered to him
-that De Zelos is a villain. When the unknown champion of Manuel then
-is defeated, he beckons De Zelos to him and, for a moment, discloses
-his face, which is black--at the sight of which De Zelos, ‘staggering
-with horror,’ falls into the arms of his son. This penitent Moor, whom
-De Zelos had hired to slay Alonzo, then appears to have travelled,
-wounded, to the ancient family-seat of his victim, thus adding to the
-number of people who, as if by appointment, are gathering there to
-die. As for the two heroines--who, according to the promise of the
-author, do not much occupy themselves with thoughts of love--they are
-so negligently treated that it is not quite clear what becomes of them.
-When Ximena reveals her discovery to Torrismond, she is said to be
-dying, but it is never explained why. Her fate is so obscure that the
-unknown writer of the witty epilogue to _Manuel_, after enumerating all
-the deaths occurring in the play, ends with the following reference to
-her:
-
-    Here doth the mourner, sad _Ximena_, lie
-    In death;--but hold!--one question--Did _she_ die?
-    What tho’ _she_ fell, and rail’d on life’s restraint,
-    Women talk thus who only mean to faint.
-    Well, then, for _her_ we’ll e’en delay our sorrow,
-    Till critics ascertain _her_ fate to-morrow;
-    And, if you please, to fix the matter quite,
-    I’ll meet you here again to-morrow night.
-
-The most depressing quality of _Manuel_, as a production of Maturin’s,
-is that its poetry certainly is ‘no great things.’ There is nothing of
-the breath of romance which runs through several passages of _Bertram_.
-The language is, for the most part, uninspired, and stored with
-hackneyed phrases and vulgar exclamations. A description of the battle
-of Osma, spoken by Manuel, was greatly admired by Alaric Watts,[100]
-but to a modern reader it is hardly enjoyable, as appears from the
-following fragment:
-
-    Night hung on van and rear: we moved in darkness,
-    And heavily did count our echoed steps:
-    As men who marched to death!--Osma, thy field
-    (When the pale moon broke on the battle’s verge)
-    Seemed as an ocean, where the Moorish turbans
-    Toss’d like the white sea-foam! Amid that ocean
-    We were to plunge and--perish!--
-    For ev’ry lance we couch’d the Moslem host
-    Drew twenty scimitars--and, when the cry
-    “God and St. Jago!” burst from our pale lips,
-    Seemed as if every Spanish soldier peal’d
-    His requiem, not his battle-shout!--Oh Sirs!
-    We stood not then on terms of war,--devices
-    To give the coward the cold praise of art:--
-    We fought with life and soul upon the issue,--
-    With sword (once drawn) whose battle knew no end,--
-    With hand, that wedded to the faithful hilt,
-    Knew no divorce but death, and held it _then_
-    With grasp which death unlocks not!--
-
-Critics took but little notice of _Manuel_. In the Monthly Review[101]
-there appeared an article in which the play is unmercifully cut up, and
-the circumstance of De Zelos’s dagger, above all, subjected to ridicule:
-
- It is actually to be read in the play of Manuel, and (still more
- trying to the faith of our posterity!) it has actually been _proved_
- to be there, by representation on the stage, that a murderer by proxy
- gives that proxy a dagger, with the name (not of the maker, but) of De
- Zelos,--with his own name, marked on it!!!--Parson Adams forgetting
- his sermons is nothing to this; no, nor his prototype, who walked
- unconsciously into the enemy’s camp.
-
-The absent-mindedness of De Zelos is referred to in the scene where
-Ximena tells her brother that she has seen the Moor:
-
-    An oath had seal’d his lips--he dar’d not speak it,
-    But to my hands he gave the very dagger
-    The villain, in unguarded haste, had giv’n him
-    To do the deed of blood--_His name is on it!_
-
-A man of De Zelos’s vacillating character _might_, perhaps, be
-imagined capable of throwing, in a moment of ‘unguarded haste,’ his
-own dagger to the proxy--but the writer is quite right in condemning
-the expedient: if the villain of a tragedy is so nervous as to become
-ludicrous, the case is irrevocably lost.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Shortly after the performance of _Manuel_, Maturin’s critique on
-Sheil’s _Apostate_, referred to before, appeared in the _Quarterly
-Review_. The article, probably written in great haste, and endeavouring
-to give a survey of the history of drama, from the earliest times, is
-not particularly interesting, though it displays extensive reading
-and, upon the whole, a correct judgment. Nor was it very welcome to
-the editor. Gifford is said[102] to have subjected it to a partial
-re-arrangement, thinking it worth preserving on account of a certain
-‘wild eloquence.’ The criticism of the _Apostate_, with which the
-article ends, is severe but not undeservedly so; the play had been
-a great success on the stage with Miss O’Neill in the heroine’s
-part,[103] but it belonged to the usual, ephemeral kind of the day.
-
-Maturin’s own career, however, as a successful dramatist, had now come
-to an end, and the fame he had so suddenly reaped by his _Bertram_
-was not destined to increase in that field. Ambitious plans and
-dreams of future golden times were once again replaced by the cares
-and duties of ordinary life, and the house in York Street began to be
-visited by creditors instead of dancing parties. Yet the effect of
-his recent failure upon the spirits of Maturin was, to judge from his
-subsequent productions where his genius rose to its highest flights,
-tranquillizing rather than disheartening. Experience had taught him the
-futility of heeding any prescriptions from outside; in the years to
-come he relied solely upon his own instinct and produced those works
-for which, in truth, he ought to be remembered.
-
-
-
-
-IV.
-
-1818-1820.
-
-    So schwing empor dich, Geist, und verweile jetzt
-    Beim Tode, jetzt durchdringe die Wolke, die
-    Den Sonnenstrahl der Auferstehung
-    Fallen nicht lässt in die offnen Gräber!
-
-  Lenau.
-
-
-The first intelligence that Maturin was contemplating a new novel
-is found in his caustic letter to Murray (Nov. 1816) concerning the
-non-appearance of the revised edition of _Bertram_: he mentions, in
-passing, that he will not have occasion to trouble the publisher about
-his prose-work, as he has been ‘honoured by the offer of a Society
-of literary Gentlemen in England, to print the work at their own
-expense, and to raise a large sum by subscription for the writer.’
-The prose-work alluded to was, no doubt, _Women; or, Pour et Contre_,
-which appeared in the beginning of 1818. Of the literary gentlemen
-nothing further was heard, but the author seems really to have been
-laid under some kind of obligation with regard to the publication
-of his novel. In September 1817 Maturin states that he is beginning
-to finish a novel for Mr. Constable, who has displayed unexampled
-liberality in the matter; and on Nov. 17:th he writes, likewise to
-Murray: ‘My novel will come out I believe next month. The Countess of
-Essex has done me the honour to accept of the dedication and an unknown
-friend has remitted a considerable sum to Mr. Constable in aid of the
-publication, so that I am in hopes he will have no reason to repent
-his liberality to me.’ It was through the influence of Scott that the
-Constables had been induced to purchase the copyright of the book, and
-it is not improbable that Scott had also played the part of the unknown
-friend, though it is surprising that such generosity should have been
-requisite in the present case. To Scott, too, the publishers appealed
-about a difference that arose between the author and themselves
-while the proofs were already going through the press. Maturin had
-composed a preface with the object of defending _Bertram_--always his
-favourite production--against the attack of Coleridge, which he had
-not been quite able to get over. Out of place as a tirade of this
-sort unquestionably was here, it became the more objectionable by
-delivering a furious counterblast upon certain of Coleridge’s works.
-The manuscript being forwarded to Scott, he replied to it with the
-following letter[104] which, though unfortunately the only specimen
-left of his communications to Maturin, clearly shows the cordial
-relations between the master of Abbotsford and his Irish protegé:
-
-  26:th February 1818.
-
- Dear Sir--I am going to claim the utmost and best privilege of sincere
- friendship and goodwill, that of offering a few words of well-meant
- advice; and you may be sure that the occasion seems important to
- induce me to venture so far upon your tolerance. It respects the
- preface to your work which Constable and Co. have sent to me. It is
- as well written as that sort of thing can be; but will you forgive me
- if I say--it is too much in the tone of the offence which gave rise
- to it to be agreeable either to good taste or to general feeling.
- Coleridge’s work has been little read or heard of, and has made no
- general impression whatever--certainly no impression unfavourable to
- you or your play. In the opinion, therefore, of many, you will be
- resenting an injury of which they are unacquainted with the existence.
- If I see a man beating another unmercifully, I am apt to condemn him
- upon the first blush of the business, and hardly excuse him, though I
- may afterwards learn he had ample provocation.
-
- I never let the thing cling to my mind, and always adhered to my
- resolution, that if my writings and tenor of life did not confute such
- attacks, my words never should.
-
- Let me entreat you to view Coleridge’s violence as a thing to be
- contemned, not retaliated,--the opinion of a British public may surely
- be set in honest opposition to that of one disappointed and wayward
- man. You should also consider, _en bon Chretien_, that Coleridge has
- had some room to be spited at the world, and you are, I trust, to
- continue to be a favourite with the public--so that you should totally
- neglect and despise criticism, however virulent, which arises out of
- his bad fortune and your good.
-
- I have only to add, that Messrs Constable and Co. are seriously
- alarmed for the effects of the preface upon the public mind as
- unfavourable to the work. In this they must be tolerable judges, for
- their experience as to popular feeling is very great; and as they have
- met your wishes, in all the course of the transaction, perhaps you
- will be disposed to give some weight to their opinion upon a point
- like this. Upon my own part I can only say, that I have no habits
- of friendship, and scarce those of acquaintance with Coleridge--I
- have not even read his autobiography--but I consider him as a man of
- genius, struggling with bad habits and difficult circumstances.
-
- Besides, your diatribe is not _hujus loci_. We take up a novel for
- amusement, and this current of controversy breaks out upon us like a
- stream of lava out of the side of a beautiful green hill; men will
- say you should have reserved your disputes for reviews or periodical
- publications, and they will sympathise less with your anger, because
- they will not think the time proper for expressing it. We are bad
- judges, bad physicians, and bad divines in our own case; but, above
- all, we are seldom able when injured or insulted to judge of the
- degree of sympathy which the world will bear in our resentment and our
- retaliation. The instant, however, that such degree of sympathy is
- exceeded, we hurt ourselves and not our adversary; I am so convinced
- of this, and so deeply fixed in the opinion, that besides the
- uncomfortable feelings which are generated in the course of literary
- debate, a man lowers his estimation in the public eye by engaging
- in such controversy, that, since I have been dipped in ink, I have
- suffered no personal attacks (and I have been honoured with them
- of all descriptions) to provoke me to reply. A man will certainly
- be vexed on such occasions, and I have wished to have the knaves
- _where the muircock was the bailie_--or, as _you_ would say, _upon
- the sod_--but it is, however, entirely upon your account that I take
- the liberty of stating an opinion on a subject of such delicacy. I
- should wish you to give your excellent talents fair play, and to ride
- this race without carrying any superfluous weight; and I am so well
- acquainted with my old friend the public, that I could bet a thousand
- pounds to a shilling that the preface (if that controversial part is
- not cancelled) will greatly prejudice your novel.
-
- I will not ask your forgiveness for the freedom I have used, for I
- am sure you will not suspect me of any motives but those which arise
- from regard to your talents and person; but I shall be glad to hear
- (whether you follow my advice or no) that you are not angry with me
- for having volunteered to offer it.
-
- My health is, I think, greatly improved; I have some returns of
- my spasmodic affection, but tolerable in degree, and yielding to
- medicine. I hope gentle exercise and the air of my hills will set
- me up this summer. I trust you will soon be out now. I have delayed
- reading the sheets in progress after vol. I that I might enjoy them
- when collected.--Ever yours etc--Walter Scott.
-
-Advice thus tactfully conveyed could not easily be resisted, and the
-offensive introduction was withdrawn. The short preface which appeared
-in print, though also relative to Maturin’s other writings, was to
-quite a different purpose; in it Maturin for the first time publicly
-owns the authorship of his earlier romances, but only to declare them
-devoid of all merit:
-
- When I look over those books now, I am not at all surprised at their
- failure; for, independent of their want of _external_ interest, (the
- strongest interest that books can have, even in this reading age)
- they seem to me to want _reality_, vraisemblance; the characters,
- situations, and language, are drawn merely from imagination; my
- limited acquaintance with life denied me any other resource. In the
- Tale which I now offer to the public, perhaps there may be recognised
- some characters which experience will not disown. Some resemblance to
- common life may be traced in them. On this I rest for the most part
- the interest of the narrative. The paucity of characters and incidents
- (the absence of all that constitutes the interest of fictitious
- biography in general) excludes the hope of this work possessing any
- other interest.
-
-The external incidents in _Women_ are rich and fantastic enough, as
-will be seen, nor does its superiority consist in the occurrence of
-the characters in ordinary life, but in the manner in which they
-are handled, in the penetration which a true poet applies to his
-personages, whether imaginary or otherwise. Maturin’s modest plea
-for what has later been called realism, is wound up with a passage
-perfectly characteristic of his prefaces: humble in appearance, but
-making, in its way, a strong appeal to the curiosity of the reader:
-
- If this plain avowal of the want of effect in my former attempts does
- not mitigate the severity of critical animadversion, I have one more
- plea to offer, which I hope may prove not ineffectual, that it is the
- _last time_ I ever shall trespass in _this way_ on the indulgence
- of the public. One more attempt I shall make, and then address my
- “_valete_” to the audience, with little hope of being able to add,
- “_plaudite_.”
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The story opens briskly. The hero, whose name is Charles De Courcy, is
-travelling up to Dublin from some remote part of Ireland, when, not
-far from the capital, the coach breaks down. Most of the passengers
-stop at the village where the accident takes place, but Charles,
-with the enthusiasm of early youth, continues his way on foot. On
-arriving, towards evening, at the outskirts of the town, he is passed
-by a carriage of mysterious appearance; a stifled cry issuing from
-within seems to indicate that some one is being forcibly carried away.
-Charles follows in the same direction and, though he soon loses sight
-of the vehicle, unexpectedly lights upon its burden in a cottage which
-he enters to make inquiries about his way. He is received by an old
-beggar-woman, apparently a maniac, and, notwithstanding her anxiety
-to get rid of him, Charles perceives, in an inner room, the form of a
-young girl lying immovable, as though in a swoon. Defying the beldam’s
-imprecations as well as her active resistance, he seizes the girl and
-hurries out of the house. In the darkness he successfully evades the
-pursuit of some persons whom he understands to be the agents of the old
-woman, and at length reaches the lodge at the gate of Phoenix Park. A
-messenger despatched to town for a carriage returns in company with a
-gentleman who has accidentally heard him talk about the matter. The
-new-comer addresses the girl as his niece and immediately removes her
-in the carriage. He also offers a seat to Charles, but makes no further
-communication to him about the mystery; the whole adventure dissolves
-like a dream. The exertion, however, put forth by Charles on the
-occasion, throws him upon a sick-bed where he is faithfully nursed by a
-friend called Montgomery, a young man of a Methodist turn of mind. One
-evening when Charles is able to walk out again, he attends his friend
-to the chapel which the sect is in the habit of frequenting; he goes
-there only to kill time, little expecting that he is to meet the girl
-whom he rescued from the hands of the maniac. She is greatly agitated
-on seeing him, whereupon he is spoken to by an elderly lady who is
-with her; though she very unwillingly alludes to the late adventure,
-she kindly invites him to visit them in their house, which invitation
-Charles accepts with delight, being already very much in love with
-the girl. The family of Wentworth appears to consist only of Mr. W.,
-a wealthy man retired from business, otherwise a bigot of a rather
-unpleasant character, whose sole interest is Calvinistic controversy;
-of his wife, also intensely religious, but at the same time a woman
-of head and heart; and of the niece, Eva, a timid and delicate being,
-who scarcely seems to belong to this world. Charles becomes a constant
-visitor at the house, yet the intercourse affords him but little
-satisfaction. Calvinism is the only thing between heaven and earth the
-Wentworths find worth discussing, and he soon despairs of Eva ever
-being capable of any other feeling towards him than ordinary gratitude.
-His strength is wasted by passion and disappointment, and he is again
-seized with a serious illness. While watching at the bedside of his
-delirious friend, Montgomery comes to know of his attachment to Eva.
-Montgomery is in the same predicament himself, but after a victorious
-struggle with his own aspirations he reveals Charles’s secret to his
-guardian--De Courcy has no family, only bright prospects of family
-wealth--whom he has thought it advisable to call to town. This
-gentleman goes straight to the Wentworths, where his negotiations are
-crowned with success: when Charles’s health is restored, he is admitted
-into the family as the acknowledged lover of Eva. His relations to
-her do not, however, undergo any remarkable change. Eva has scarcely
-had courage to confess to her aunt that Charles is not indifferent
-to her, and would never dream of showing her love to any one but her
-Maker; she is utterly incapable of reciprocating the enthusiastic
-passion of De Courcy. Charming as she is, the narrowness of her mind
-and occupations cannot but cool his ardour in course of time--nor has
-the general atmosphere of the house any attractions to offer to a young
-man of the world. Charles has at once been set down by Mr. Wentworth
-as a proper object of conversion, and from this topic his conversation
-never departs; literature, poetry, and fine arts are not even mentioned
-between them. One day then all Dublin--except the evangelical
-circles--is excited by the arrival of Madame Dalmatiani, reputed to be
-the foremost singer and actress in Europe, who has been induced to give
-some performances in the Irish capital. Notwithstanding Wentworth’s
-remonstrations, Charles visits the theatre every night when Madame
-Dalmatiani--or Zaira, as she is called--is to appear; and it is after
-becoming personally acquainted with her, that he begins to disregard
-the maxim expressed in the verse which stands as the motto to the book:
-
-    ’Tis good to be merry and wise,
-    ’Tis good to be honest and true;
-    ’Tis good to be off with the old love
-    Before you be on with the new.
-
-He is irresistibly drawn to the refined and luxurious home of Zaira,
-which indeed forms a striking contrast to the gloomy surroundings he
-has lately been used to. His visits to the house of the Methodist
-grow less and less frequent, and before long he becomes the most
-faithful attendant of Zaira, who, on her part, is by no means unmoved
-by his intense adoration. They are constantly together; once, on an
-excursion to Wicklow, they encounter the old woman who had arranged
-the mysterious abduction of Eva. She addresses them with her usual
-impetuosity of language, and seems to show some faint recollection of
-having seen Zaira before. In the meantime the infatuation of De Courcy
-is made the talk of the town and reaches even Eva in her retirement.
-She courageously makes up her mind to accompany some of her few
-worldly-minded acquaintances to the theatre, and when she sees the
-brilliant apparition of Zaira, she feels that she is lost. Zaira has,
-indeed, been informed by Montgomery that Charles is engaged to Eva, and
-generously struggles with her own affections; but when she is leaving
-Ireland she at the last moment allows him to bear her company. They
-are, however, not to marry at once, but set out on a journey, during
-which she intends to ‘develop his soul’ with literature and science.
-They first proceed to Paris where the Allies are then assembled--the
-events of the story occur in 1814--and the great metropolis is gayer
-then ever. Here De Courcy for the second time shows a tendency to
-forget the maxim quoted above, and an estrangement--involuntary on
-the part of Zaira--takes place between the lovers. When Montgomery
-appears with the news that Eva is dying, Charles is broken down by
-a fit of repentance and returns to Ireland as soon as he is able.
-Notwithstanding his despair he is not allowed to see Eva, who is fading
-away like a flower, in spite of most careful medical attendance. As
-for Zaira, the departure of Charles leaves her in the greatest agony
-of mind, cutting off the only tie that binds her to life. She finds
-no longer any happiness in the exercise of her talents; philosophy
-affords her no consolation, religion has not power to heal her aching
-heart. She even contemplates ending her sufferings by suicide, but
-lacks the strength. Sick in mind and body she at last betakes herself
-to Dublin, where she leads a very quiet life, being chiefly engaged
-in works of charity among the poor. In a miserable cottage she one
-evening happens to light upon the old beggar-woman who has figured
-in the course of the story. She appears to be lying on her death-bed
-and has, in her last moments, sufficiently recovered her reason to
-recognize her visitor and inform her that she is her mother. The story
-of Zaira’s earlier life--she in reality is a native of Ireland--is now
-given in one of her own letters to a friend.--She is the illegitimate
-daughter of a rich and despotic land-owner who resided in the West of
-Ireland and distinguished himself by the irregularities of his private
-life. Zaira was the only one of his children he ever took any notice
-of; he early observed her uncommon talents and had her instructed in
-everything except religion, being himself a convinced atheist. At the
-age of fifteen she was secretly married to her Italian music-master;
-but when she became a mother the story could no longer be concealed
-from her father, who, inconsistently enough, was so incensed at the
-‘want of principle’ in his daughter, that he expelled the couple
-from his house for ever. The Italian, a heartless rascal, separated
-the child from the mother and left it behind them in Ireland. Then
-he took his wife to Italy where he compelled her to go on the stage.
-Gradually she developed into the greatest artist of her time, though
-almost unwittingly, being always closely guarded by her husband, who
-reaped all the benefit of her successes. At his death she found herself
-in possession of a large property which she had earned but never yet
-enjoyed. The first use she made of her newly-gained liberty was to
-write to her father and inquire after the fate of her child. The old
-man promised to give her the information she wanted, and Zaira hurried
-to Dublin; but scarcely had she arrived there when she learned that
-her father had suddenly died without leaving any references to the
-child. Having thus lost all hope of ever finding her child, she again
-left Ireland in company with De Courcy.--Zaira’s mother was, for
-some time, the favourite mistress of the mighty man, but then, when
-she was overtaken in the act of carrying away Zaira in order to bring
-her up in the Catholic religion, he had turned her out of the house.
-Subsequently she partially lost her reason, preserving, however, a
-passionate devotion to her faith, and the desire of imparting it to her
-descendants guided all her actions; Zaira being out of her reach she
-turned her attention to Zaira’s child. She led the life of a beggar
-more by choice than of necessity, for she had, when occasion arose,
-means of hiring people to carry out her schemes: once, in fact, she
-was quite on the point of securing the person of her granddaughter
-who, after the departure of Zaira, had been committed to the care of a
-wealthy couple in Dublin, and educated as their niece under the name
-of Eva Wentworth.--Thus Zaira at last becomes acquainted with her
-daughter’s circumstances. She hastens to the house of Wentworth, but
-arrives just a moment after Eva has closed her eyes in death of which
-her mother has been the indirect cause. Shortly afterwards De Courcy
-also goes the way of all flesh, while Zaira, when the story ends,
-‘still lives,’ though a shadow of her former self.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The reproduction of the bare outlines of the story of _Women_ is an
-easy matter compared to that of Maturin’s earlier novels; what Scott
-wrote in the _Edinburgh Review_ with reference to the style, is equally
-true of the construction of the book: ‘We observe, with pleasure,
-that Mr. Maturin has put his genius under better regulation than in
-his former publications, and retrenched that luxuriance of language,
-and too copious use of ornament, which distinguishes the authors and
-orators of Ireland, whose exuberance of imagination sometimes places
-them in the predicament of their honest countryman, who complained of
-being run away with by his legs.’ Nevertheless it is the form which,
-even here, is most subject to criticism. The book can be divided into
-two principal parts, the first of which comprises the events happening
-before Zaira’s journey to Paris with De Courcy, while the second is
-devoted to the analysis of her mental sufferings after her separation
-from him; the experiences of De Courcy in the French metropolis, and
-the closing scenes in Dublin, are allowed comparatively little space.
-The description of the struggles of Zaira clearly is of secondary
-importance for the development of the plot, where it thus makes a
-hiatus of extraordinary length. The narrative is, besides, now and
-then broken by letters and discussions all of which are not kept
-within proper bounds. The positive merits, however, of each separate
-part of the work, more than atone for any lack of proportion in its
-construction.
-
-Of all the scenes in the book, those in the first part dealing with the
-Methodist circles of Dublin, unquestionably are the most interesting.
-Maturin often said that he was no judge of his own works, but he
-was not mistaken in seeing the main virtue of _Women_ in that it
-bears ‘some resemblance to common life.’ Formerly, as has been seen,
-Maturin’s ideas of his special powers had led him carefully to avoid
-the sphere of ‘common life,’ both in his treatment of external incident
-and, still more, of emotion; but the fact is that those powers, when
-ripened into maturity, were distinguished by a versatility not to be
-confined to any special style of fiction. In _Melmoth_ he returned,
-with undiminished powers, to the field of pure imagination, against
-which the preface to _Women_ denotes but a momentary reaction. It
-was not, perhaps, for artistic reasons only that Maturin, in the
-present work, described an aspect of common life as led in the rigidly
-Calvinistic community; the exposure of the less amiable qualities
-of the sect might have been a not unwelcome side-issue for him,
-considering the vast difference of his own views from those of the
-‘evangelical people,’ at whose instance the peculiarities of Maturin
-himself had, no doubt, received much damnation. Yet although there
-certainly is an under-current of satire, that satire never has a ring
-of personal animosity; on the contrary, it is relieved by a tone of
-genuine humour and brightened, above all, by the introduction of the
-angelic figure of Eva. The pursuits and occupations going on in the
-house of Wentworth, the whole atmosphere of a place where Calvinistic
-pamphlets are the only literature that is tolerated, and the only music
-ever enjoyed consists of evangelical hymns--all this is reflected in
-a manner the very graphicness of which suggests impartiality. The
-household bears the stamp of its master, who is incapable of cherishing
-more than one idea at a time:
-
- His manners were repulsive, his understanding narrow, and his
- principles inflexibly rigid; his mind was rather tenacious than
- strong; what little he knew, he knew thoroughly, and what he once
- acquired he retained for ever. Early in life he had made a large
- fortune with a spotless character, and having retired from business,
- found his mind utterly vacant; by the persuasion of his wife, he was
- induced to listen to the evangelical preachers, and (as is often
- the case with converts either in early youth or in advanced life,)
- in a short time he far outwent his preceptors. Calvinism, Calvinism
- was every thing with him; his expertness in the five points would
- have foiled even their redoutable refuter, Dr. Whitby himself; but
- his theology having obtained full possession of his head, seemed so
- satisfied with its conquest, that it never ventured to invade his
- heart.--
-
-To a character thus formed, the abstinence from the vanities of life
-costs no struggle, and implies no victory over himself, for Calvinism
-is sufficient to afford him amusement as well as edification; the most
-enthusiastic playgoer could not await a first night with more eagerness
-than Wentworth looks forward to an occasion upon which a Socinian, a
-Catholic, an Arian, and an Arminian Methodist, are to be exposed ‘for
-the whole night to the battery of a dozen resolute Calvinists.’ In
-the house of Wentworth the community naturally can feel safe from any
-disturbing interferences, and it is, in fact, their habitual place of
-meeting. Among the daily guests is the greatest orator of the sect, a
-Tartuffian figure called Macowen, who appears to have also a private
-reason for visiting the family:
-
- He was the son of a poor labourer, the tenant of a wealthy gentleman
- in Cork, whose wife was evangelical; she instructed the children of
- her husband’s tenants in her own system; her husband gave her no
- disturbance; he followed his fox-hounds all day, and damned his wife’s
- Methodism over his claret all night. The good lady went her own way,
- and discovering in this lad, maugre his fierce red hair and bare broad
- feet, evident marks of his being “a growing and a gracious character”
- -- -- -- -- She proposed a subscription among her friends to enable
- him to enter the university, and be qualified “to minister at the
- altar.”
-
- The subscription went on zealously, and young Macowen entered College;
- but when once there, _his views_, as they were called, expanded so
- rapidly, that no Church Episcopalian, Presbyterian, or Independent,
- had the good fortune precisely to suit his sentiments in orthodoxy of
- system, or purity of discipline. Thus he moved a splendid and erratick
- meteor, shedding his light on the churches as he passed, but defying
- them all to calculate his orbit, or ascertain his direction. In the
- mean time, it had been suggested to him that many evangelical females,
- of large fortune, would not be unwilling to share his fate. This hint,
- often repeated and readily believed, threw a most odious suavity into
- his manner; his overblown vulgar courtesy was like the flowers of
- the poppy, all glare and stench. Under these circumstances, he had
- become the intimate of the Wentworth family; and from the moment he
- beheld Eva, his feelings were what he could not describe, and would
- not account for even to himself, but what he was determined implicitly
- to follow. His system took part with his inclinations, and in a short
- time he believed it a duty to impress her with the conviction that her
- salvation must depend on her being united with him.--
-
-The inmost reason for Mr. Wentworth having suffered so meritorious a
-wooer to be outrivalled by the unbelieving De Courcy lies in his still
-being enough of a man of business fully to appreciate the considerable
-property the latter is heir to. His wife, on the other hand, is really
-attached to the preserver of her ‘niece.’ She is a woman remarkable for
-intelligence of mind and dignity of character; and though her manner
-appears stiff and constrained by the influence of her religion, she is
-naturally warm-hearted and loves Eva as if she were her own child.
-She cannot, however, do much to enliven the heavy routine fixed by
-Wentworth and Macowen, the monotony of which is broken only by scenes
-like the following. De Courcy and Montgomery call one morning when the
-gentlemen are sitting at the breakfast-table, engaged in an animated
-controversy with a new convert:
-
- The muffins had been swallowed wholesale, the eggs scarcely tasted,
- (though Macowen was a very good judge of eggs), and the tea drank
- scalding hot, in the rage of debate, and still it raged. Mrs.
- Wentworth sat at her knitting, at safe distance from the field of
- battle, and Eva poured out cup after cup in silence. Macowen had
- been pressing the new convert for a test of his faith; for he had
- no idea of a man’s having any religion unless he could specify it
- under a particular denomination, and signify his creed by a kind of
- free-masonic sign, technical and decisive. This the convert refused,
- it seems; and as the young men came in, he was bellowing, with a cup
- of tea in his hand, which he was spilling in the trepidation of his
- rage,--“No, sir--no, sir--never, never. I will neither be Catholic or
- Protestant, Arminian or Calvinist.”
-
- “_Don’t put Arminian first_,” said Mr. Wentworth.
-
- He went on.--“Neither Trinitarian or Arian--neither Universalist or
- Particularist. No sir.--Sir, I will be a Christian.--Yes, I will be a
- Christian, (foaming with passion). I will--I will be a Christian.” And
- his voice was actually a roar, and he thumped the table in the fury of
- his vociferation and the eagerness of his orthodoxy.--
-
-Against this sombre background stand out the characters of the
-principal personages. Eva, the most pathetic among all the figures of
-Maturin’s creation, is drawn with a skill almost unparalleled in the
-art of representing a character in the purest and most ethereal light
-imaginable, without detracting anything from an unswerving fidelity
-to nature. She is as real in her goodness as in her timidity and
-inexperience. She has all the passive loveliness which can possibly
-flourish in such surroundings as hers, and is completely devoid of
-every active quality implying any degree of independence of mind.
-There is nothing brilliant about her, and the range of her ideas is
-certainly narrow. She would not think of doubting the infallibility
-of the opinions expressed by Mr. Wentworth or Macowen; but for her
-own part she instinctively clings to what there is best and noblest
-in her religion; and what little energy she possesses is employed,
-not in controversy, but in works of charity among the children of the
-poor. She is never severe to any one except herself, and shows firmness
-only in a punctual attention to her own religious duties. With these
-she unfortunately feels the demands of her temporal bridegroom to be
-irreconcilable, and though she suffers greatly under the conflict, she
-cannot find her way out of it. Her attachment to De Courcy is true
-and deep; but she is, as Scott said, ‘unable to express her passion
-otherwise than by dying for it.’ A passion of so unsubstantial a
-description would have put to severe trial the patience of most lovers,
-let alone that of De Courcy who, at the commencement of the story,
-is a young man of seventeen, without any self-denying tendencies.
-The inclination of Maturin to represent his heroes and heroines in
-their earliest dawn of youth sometimes led to implausibilities, but
-not in the present case. De Courcy is the most carefully sketched of
-all his male characters, delineated, in fact, with a subtlety and
-penetration far in advance of what the fiction of the time usually
-attained. His chief characteristics are precocity and weakness;
-constitutional weakness, in spite of a splendid external appearance,
-and an inconsistency of mind and fickleness of disposition constantly
-at war with the good and generous qualities which the author, with
-impartial hand, bestows upon him. The interest of a ‘protector’ with
-which he regards Eva after their little adventure very soon and very
-naturally yields to a deeper feeling which, to begin with, knows of no
-pretensions. On the first occasion of his being invited to the house
-of Wentworth he is plunged amid an evangelical dinner-party, most
-capitally described, where he feels but ill at ease, being the only
-‘unenlightened’ person present; the gentlemen are sitting apart, ‘on
-their chairs sublime, in thought more elevate, and reason high’ in
-terms which he does not even understand--and the ladies are gathered
-in the drawing-room talking, for the most part, nothing at all; but
-one look from Eva repays him all his weariness and embarrasment:
-‘For months after he fed on that look; it came to him like a beam
-of light, and he forgot whether it was day or night when it glanced
-before his eyes.’ Yet the pleasure of feeding on a look sooner or later
-_will_ be exhausted, and a character like his is not formed to bear
-disappointments. He is almost broken down both in mind and body when
-he suspects that he is indifferent to Eva, and when he has learned
-that this is not so, the incompatibility of their views and habits
-seems to raise insuperable obstacles between them. Their short hours of
-confidence are always interrupted in the same way:
-
- One evening he had succeeded in prevailing on her to listen to “The
- Lay of the Last Minstrel;” she was struck by the introduction, and
- Charles was proceeding with that increasing confidence which the
- increasing interest of a listener gives a reader, when the clock
- struck, and she reminded him it was time to go to the evening lecture
- at Bethesda Chapel. Charles, with a sigh, threw aside the poem, and
- accompanied her. The sermon was eloquent and long, the congregation
- profoundly attentive; Charles sate abstracted and listless. As they
- returned, the lovely calmness of a vernal night revived the feelings
- of Charles; and as Eva leaned on his arm, and sometimes raised her
- looks (but with other feelings than his) to the bright blue spangled
- sky, that exquisite passage broke involuntarily from his lips, that
- ends with, “for lovers love the western star.”
-
- Eva started, started with actual terror; she felt the name or language
- of love like a profanation of the moment, and told him that she was
- trying to recollect the substance of the sermon she had just heard,
- and impress it on her memory. Charles was silent; and silently
- accompanied her home, where nothing but the sermon was spoken of, and
- every division and subdivision of theological subtlety was run on it
- to exhaust the hour that must intervene till the bell was rung for the
- servants to attend the family devotions, and a long extempore prayer
- from Mr. Wentworth concluded the night.
-
-There is, in the purity and innocence of Eva, something sublime that
-often makes Charles himself feel it almost a crime to intrude upon
-her with too vehement declarations of a worldly passion. The result
-of this is, however, that they never ‘love like lovers,’ and it is
-shown with much psychological insight how they gradually glide away
-from each other by reason of an unnatural spiritualization of their
-mutual relations. Their estrangement is subsequently hastened by the
-appearance of Zaira, whose society Charles from the first imprudently
-cultivates. In the person of Zaira critics have been wont to see
-an expression of the usual ‘extravagance’ of Maturin’s writings.
-Yet allowing for some casual exaggeration of her great talents, the
-general characterization stands on a very high level. The figure is
-not new in Maturin--both Lady Montrevor in _The Wild Irish Boy_ and
-Armida Fitzalban in _The Milesian Chief_ are studies of this kind; but
-Zaira is depicted with a moderation and veracity infinitely superior
-to either. She is none of those distinguished dilettantes that have
-acquired their accomplishments conveniently in their leisure hours;
-she is a professional artist and has attained her prominence through
-hard and unremitting work--work which, as a matter of fact, is the only
-way to the pinnacles of art. Her character is naturally noble, and
-she is free from all haughtiness and caprice. Under the bitter sorrow
-she has sustained, her heart has remained pure and tender, yearning
-ever for love which she has never met with. In the isolation she has
-suffered during the greater part of her existence, her mind has been
-cultivated and her abilities developed at the expense of her experience
-in practical affairs; she has become curiously unfamiliar with real
-life and displays, on several occasions, a naiveté almost equal to that
-of Eva herself. This contrast between her superior intellect and her
-incapacity of extricating herself from the difficulties of common life
-is presented with an exquisite skill, and to it she owes the tragedy of
-her fate. Zaira’s attachment to De Courcy originates, on her part, in a
-need of tenderness that has nothing to do with passion. The news of the
-loss of her child throws her into a desolation of mind in which she
-first receives his enthusiastic admiration with a feeling inspired by
-the instinct of self-preservation. She says in a letter to her friend:
-
- How often! oh, how often! gazing on his perfect form, have I wished
- that, if it were possible, such had been the child I lost, such were
- the child I found! It is impossible, I feel, for the heart long to
- be vacant. One image filled mine for many years, and the very length
- and intensity of those feelings created a habit of the heart, which
- it might have been fatal to my existence, or my reason, not the have
- indulged.--
-
-From this, indeed, there is but a short step to love, though she is,
-characteristically enough, herself the last to become aware of it.
-Knowing that Charles is engaged she tries to persuade herself that what
-she feels for him is only friendship which can well be extended to her
-rival; and she succeeds in building up a theory in which she, at the
-time, firmly believes:
-
- The friendship, which will be the charm of my future existence, will
- be purified and ennobled by the certainty that the object of it
- is devoted to another, to whom he will shortly be united; and the
- security which is enough to satisfy my own heart, I do not hesitate to
- offer to the world careless whether it will accept or reject it.
-
- But if the world could ever read a heart, the innocence of mine would
- astonish and convert it. At this moment, my whole pile of future
- happiness rests on the foundation of theirs--Yes, of _theirs_. To
- see two beings, equally amiable, _equally beloved_, enriched by my
- fortune--improved by my talents--and elevated by the distinction which
- I have not dishonourably attained, would be not only beyond all I
- have ever enjoyed, (alas! that has been but little hitherto,) but all
- that I have even conceived. I shall feel like the happy genius, who
- constructed a palace of gems for the favoured Aladdin and his bride,
- and then was seen no more.--
-
-Her correspondent, a Frenchwoman of fashion, at once understands the
-situation; and her letters--which are very cleverly written and present
-an amusing mixture of frivolity and acute observation--tear down the
-theory of Zaira and open her eyes to the state of her own feelings.
-Once acknowledged, these feelings, rapidly grow stronger, and the
-end, in spite of desperate attempts at bridling her passion, is what
-has been told.--Neither does Charles leave Eva without a great deal
-of honest and painful struggling against his new infatuation, though
-he knows that his strength is not to be relied upon. He is induced
-to make a final appeal to Eva in a fine scene--: she is frightened
-by a thunderstorm into a swoon when Charles, supporting her, hears
-her whisper something about his intention of forsaking her--which she
-purposely never alludes to. The situation vividly reminds him of their
-first meeting, and his tenderness for her takes hold of him once more:
-
- “Desert you--never, never--May the lightning strike me first!--Forsake
- you--never, never--Eva, my beloved--beloved of my soul--Yes, warm
- your cold cheek on mine; yes, rest your dear, dear head on my bosom;
- do not let its beatings startle you--Yes, twine your lovely fingers
- in mine--It is a heart that loves you, yours is prest to; it is a
- hand that soon will be yours you clasp--Why do your fingers wander
- so wildly among my hair, my love? one ringlet of yours is worth all
- that ever--And how often has this hair,” he continued wildly, “been
- damp with despair? how often has it been torn in anguish, since I knew
- Zaira?”
-
- Eva revived, and her pure feelings acting instinctively, she started
- from his arms, and still pale with terror, she tried to falter out an
- apology for her terrors.
-
- “No,” said De Courcy, pursuing, and kneeling at her feet, “no, you
- must not fly me. This is a decisive moment--a moment that must end
- many struggles. Eva, already are you cold, already silent? Is it only
- in terror and danger you cling to me? Is it only in the terrible
- intervals of paroxysm and insensibility that I am ever doomed to feel
- your arms twined round me, to hear your lips utter my name? Already I
- see your countenance averted from me, the moment it has the power to
- give a conscious look.”
-
- And so it was; for Eva, trembling at the recollection that her arms
- had been thrown round him, sat abashed and confounded.
-
- “Eva, I call on you passionately, solemnly. This is the crisis of both
- our destinies. Speak--tell me that you love--love me as I wish, as I
- demand to be loved. Bind me to you by an irresistible confession--make
- me yours for ever. One word, one penetrating word of fire. One word of
- the language of the heart. Utter it, and bless me.”
-
- Eva, struggling between her timidity and her passion, tried to comply
- with, his wishes. She searched her feelings, for something that might
- correspond with his. It was in vain; her pure heart had not one image
- that reflected the ardour of his. Her lip knew no language that
- could answer him. Distressed and perplexed, she sat with distress
- and perplexity increasing, anxious to give him some proof of her
- sincerity, but unable to give one that would satisfy him.
-
- “Eva, speak, do you love me?”
-
- “Have I not said so?”
-
- “Oh! when we love, it is so easy to pour out the proofs with an
- overflowing sensibility; the heart luxuriates in those proofs of
- its being deeply touched; it is oppressed by its own fullness, and
- delights to communicate what it cannot bear undivided. If you loved,
- Eva, love itself would inspire you with involuntary testimonies; your
- very silence would be eloquence, nor would I have to kneel at your
- feet for a word in vain.”
-
- “What can I say?” said Eva, his doubts becoming too strong for her
- fears; “is passion to be mistrusted, because its power renders, us
- speechless?” And trembling at her own temerity in uttering these
- words, she became silent.
-
- Was De Courcy satisfied with this declaration? We know not; for it is
- certain that there is an exaggerated sensibility, a sensibility that
- doubts its own truth, and is better satisfied with words than with
- things. It requires to be paid in its own coin, and would rather hear
- a florid sentiment than accept of the most perfect sacrifice.
-
-This interview is indeed decisive: it is the last time the passion, of
-De Courcy flames up in the presence of Eva. When the hour of Zaira’s
-departure draws nigh he renounces ‘all engagements, all ties, and all
-objects’--and obtains her permission to accompany her. He has already
-sent a note to Eva begging her to forgive him if she can, in answer to
-which note he receives a long letter, said by a critic[105] to be ‘for
-feeling, for eloquence, for heart-touching resignation, and impassioned
-grief, almost unique in the language.’ The writing of this letter is
-made easy to her by the presentiment that she will not overlive his
-desertion of her; and her resignation is so free from all factitious
-generosity and all ostentatious self-sacrifice, that the beatings of a
-human heart are, as it were, audible through the lines.--
-
-In connection with Zaira’s stay in Ireland a few glimpses are given
-of the higher society of Dublin, which, no doubt, also ‘bear some
-resemblance to common life.’ Maturin was, by this time, familiar
-with all the circles the town could boast of, and the drawing-room
-does not escape a fling of his good-natured satire any more than the
-conventicle. De Courcy is introduced to Zaira at a large evening
-party, given in her honour by a Lady Longwood, the wife of one of
-his guardians. The bustle excited by the presence of Zaira; the idle
-expectations of a more substantial refreshment, entertained by ‘mammas
-and misses’ who have been talking themselves hungry in her praise;
-Lady Longwood moving among her guests canvassing applauses for the
-indifferent musical performances of her silly daughters, before the
-eyes of the greatest artist in Europe: all is described with a humour
-and a vivacity that makes one regret that Maturin so seldom, in his
-writings, gave vent to those high spirits by which he was distinguished
-in private life. One of the finest chapters in this part of the
-book is further the one containing an account of Eva’s visit to the
-theatre. She is enough of a woman to feel an irresistible desire of
-seeing her famous rival, but would never dare to speak about it to her
-foster-parents. Going out, however, she one day accidentally meets Lady
-Longwood and her daughters, with whom she is slightly acquainted, and,
-summoning up all her courage, accepts their invitation to accompany
-them to witness Zaira’s last appearance on the stage. Her confusion
-at the theatre where everything is new to her, the overwhelming
-impression produced upon her by the brilliant apparition of Zaira, and
-her anguish when she observes De Courcy behind the scenes are analysed
-with a dramatic force and a marvellous penetration into the innocent
-soul-life of Eva. Less interesting, from an artistic point of view,
-are the scenes taking place at the house of Zaira, chiefly filled with
-literary discussions. A well-sketched personage, however, present on
-most of these occasions, is De Courcy’s friend Montgomery: a blunt
-and honest character who sees with unselfish grief that his friend is
-beginning to neglect Eva, and who tries to bring him back to the way
-of duty by the not very chivalrous means of endeavouring to detect and
-point out immoral or blameworthy tendencies in the views and principles
-of Zaira. To this end he obstinately contradicts her where he can,
-and once, weary of hearing Zaira’s taste called ‘classical,’ he makes
-a furious attack upon the entire classical literature, falling upon
-the ancients ‘with redoutable, repeated blows, slaying them, like
-Sampson, by thousands.’ These doubts as to the excellence of one of
-the corner-stones of English education roused the wrath of the critics
-of _Women_, who, naturally enough, felt irritated at being told that
-in their own days Horace would have been hanged and Juvenal stood in
-the pillory. The method of ascribing to the author the opinions of his
-personages, always applied with vigour in the case of the Rev. Mr.
-Maturin, came here, for once, pretty near the truth. It is not only in
-_Women_ that he displays a hostility to classical studies; in one of
-his sermons he speaks of them with a marked and candid antipathy:
-
- I will say it is the black and crying sin of civilized Europe, to
- compel their children to familiarize their young imaginations with
- the most brutal crimes, and force their most unripened passions, by
- placing them in a hot-bed of unutterable impurity. This we do--this we
- have done for centuries--and this we shall answer for in eternity. Let
- me propose one plain question to the admirers of the classic writers,
- as they are called: If a father finds his son reading such passages as
- occur in their books in his own language, would he not fling the vile
- pages into the flames, and scarce think those flames too bad for the
- author?
-
-As Maturin himself had been, for a long time, occupied in giving
-instruction in this same branch of learning, he knew very well that the
-copies of the ancients committed into the hands of British school-boys
-were carefully pruned of the passages he took such offence at; and his
-eccentric inveighings against the classical writers expressed, after
-all, his artistic temperament rather than any zeal for morality. His
-literary tastes were eminently romantic, notwithstanding his admiration
-for Pope. He had accepted the revival of Mediaevalism in all its
-phases; his own work began under the auspices of Mrs. Radcliffe and
-ended with an imitation of Walter Scott; and his works possess every
-quality generally termed romantic. But Maturin’s _Women_ affords, at
-the same time, a striking proof of the fact that the romantic writers
-could occasionally greatly excel in realism, though the spirit of
-classicism was to them foreign and indeed odious.--
-
-The fancy of Zaira to devote a year before her intended marriage to De
-Courcy to an ‘intellectual existence’ during which she is to finish
-his education, is as consistent with her ideal and theoretical cast
-of mind as it is inconsistent with anything like common prudence.
-Paris is, moreover, the most unfortunate place she could choose for
-the commencement of her task; in the most brilliant society of Europe
-not even Zaira can make so unique a figure as in Dublin, and to the
-fluctuating mind of De Courcy the gay metropolis has a thousand things
-to offer, calculated to attract him more than the conversation of
-Zaira. Among these is a person called Eulalie de Touranges--otherwise
-unimportant, but just giving him the pleasure of a transitory
-flirtation, new to his experience, and irresistible at his age. Thus
-the relation between the lovers very soon becomes constrained in a way
-appropriately described in a letter of one of Zaira’s friends:
-
- Yesterday I met them at a party at our friend ----’s. The circle was
- brilliant, and Zaira was unusually eloquent in literature. At the end
- of a striking sentence which had called forth loud applauses from
- her auditors, she looked round with a flush of triumph in her lovely
- countenance for De Courcy. She saw him engaged, not in conversation,
- but in delighted listening attention to the beautiful Eulalie de
- Touranges. He was bending over her chair in silence. I marked the
- change in her countenance, in her voice; the subsiding of her whole
- figure; the gloomy vacancy of disappointment in her expression. Her
- hearers did not notice it; they pressed her with some new remarks.
- She attempted to answer, but evidently did not understand them;
- struggled to recover her composure, and went on, obviously not
- knowing of what she was speaking. Music was proposed soon after; and
- apparently determined to force De Courcy to feel an interest in what
- she was undertaking, she asked him what she should sing. He appeared
- not pleased at the publicity which this application gave him, and
- returned some slight answer, referring her to her own choice. She sat
- down. I could hear her sigh. She turned languidly over the leaves of
- her music-book, and sung an air _sotto voce_ with a tone, a look, a
- manner unlike--oh, how unlike Zaira! At the close of the air, she
- turned her head almost imperceptibly, and saw De Courcy arranging the
- men on a chess-board with Mademoiselle de Touranges. The last notes of
- the air were nearly unintelligible.--
-
-The episode with Eulalie de Touranges is not the only circumstance
-contributing to the alienation between De Courcy and Zaira. The very
-basis of their friendship is unnatural. No man, as Maturin simply
-remarks, is pleased to be the pupil of a woman, and to be continually
-reminded of the superiority of Zaira cannot fail to become irritating
-to De Courcy. His _liaison_ to an actress is, moreover, often
-misconstrued in a way that is very disagreeable to him; but, weak as
-he is, instead of resolutely defending her honour, he only wishes
-to get rid of her. Once he is told that Zaira has been married and
-even had a child, the fate of whom is entirely unknown. His love to
-her being already on the decline, he feels, and not quite without
-reason, greatly incensed at her having never mentioned this to him.
-The innocent figure of Eva begins to reappear to his mind, and when he
-hears from Montgomery that Eva is lying dangerously ill, his sensitive
-nature is utterly shocked at the thought of his being the cause of
-her death. Nothing can now detain him at Paris. The development of
-these incidents is traced with an inner logic that makes De Courcy’s
-return to Ireland appear not only natural but inevitable, and forces
-the reader at once to accept the argumentation. Scott, indeed, says
-in his critique on _Women_ that De Courcy’s desertion of Zaira is
-not ‘half so probably motived as his first offence against the code
-of constancy;’ but his judgment proceeds, no doubt, from an honest
-indignation at a hero so lamentably deficient in what had always been
-considered as the principal qualification of one, fidelity in love:
-summing up the characteristics of De Courcy, the author of _Waverley_
-concludes by wishing him to the devil. Yet De Courcy, although the
-‘hero’ of an extensive novel, is meant to be neither admired nor hated,
-only understood, and the characterization is executed with a realism
-which the time was not quite able to appreciate.--As for Zaira, she
-knows nothing of the art of keeping the interest of a lover alive by
-occasionally exercising some reserve towards him; it is impossible for
-her not to show clearly that he is all she lives for, and this deep
-and serious view of their relation would, even in itself, inspire a
-kind of awe in the fickle-minded De Courcy. Now the passion of Zaira
-is heightened according as that of De Courcy cools down; she is seized
-with that eccentric, all-absorbing infatuation which persons of genius
-sometimes conceive for objects wholly unworthy of it. Having been kept,
-for a time, painfully hovering between hope and despair, she is at last
-relieved from all doubts. It happens in rather a hackneyed way: she
-gets hold of a bit of paper on which De Courcy has begun to compose
-an answer to his guardian who has written to him and implored him to
-come back, and Zaira makes out the words: ‘I am weary, sick to the soul
-of my present situation; I shall fly from it as soon as possible.’
-The lack of originality, however, is easily forgotten in the almost
-appalling power with which the sufferings of Zaira are described,
-sufferings that gradually deprive her of her talents and her health,
-of everything but life. Of pride she has never had much; now she loses
-every trace of it. Although aware that she is wearying him, she is
-still anxious to appear in his company, and when he actually begins
-to shun her, she even follows him in the street, and stealing to his
-hotel, at last sees him depart. But for the tender care which some
-of her French friends take of her, Zaira would perish; to restore her
-to her former vigour, however, is not in human power. She cannot find
-peace in any of her old pursuits, nothing can divert her mind from the
-calamity that has befallen her. At this time she is thrown into the
-society of an atheistic philosopher who, in support of his theories,
-endeavours to prove to her that misery is, and must be, the lot of all
-intellectual beings. Their conversations on this subject unquestionably
-belong to the _longueurs_ of the book; as the adoption of his sceptical
-views would not, in her present state of mind, be of any solace to
-Zaira, the discourses are unnecessarily protracted, and her escape from
-the ‘snares’ of the philosopher does not appear so meritorious as is
-probably intended. But all the more impressively are described Zaira’s
-attempts at turning to religion, seeking consolation in a living faith.
-Her friends have taken her to a beautiful villa in the country, where
-she has a singular experience while roaming about in a summer night:
-
- -- -- -- The garden, with its placid regular beauty, tortured her by
- its contrast to the agitation of her soul. A gate, at the extremity of
- it, opened into a wood; she hurried into the wood, its darkness was
- as light unto her, it seemed as a shelter from her own thoughts, and
- she fled to it with avidity. Nature, in all its rich and exhaustless
- luxuriance, has nothing to the eye or to the soul so delicious as
- the mild splendour of moonlight, shed over the darkness of a forest.
- There is darkness beneath for the unhappy to muse--there is light
- above for the happy to gaze on--and the trembling gleams between
- the branches give a strong image of life, chequered indeed with
- fitful and precarious lustre, but of which the predominant image is
- gloom--diversified, but essential.
-
- Zaira wandered on; the beauty of the night, the mildness of the
- climate, precluded all apprehension from her wandering at this late
- hour. She found herself in a part of the wood where the thick-mingling
- branches excluded all light, but a tremulous and chequered gleam, that
- appeared and disappeared among the foliage above, as it was agitated
- slightly by the breeze. Suddenly a figure appeared to her in the
- darkness; a white figure, as large as life. She started at first, but
- a moment after approached it; just where it seemed to stand, the trees
- opened a little, and the moonlight fell strongly on it, producing
- a remarkable and solemn effect. It was a figure of Christ on the
- cross, which had been taken from a ruined church in the neighbourhood,
- and placed there by the peasantry. It was of wood, but it was well
- executed, and the light that fell on it at once concealed its defects,
- and magnified its expression. What an object for a mind in the state
- of Zaira’s!--Accident, that had so often presented her with the most
- terrible omens, seemed in this to seek to make atonement. The image
- of the Saviour of the world hanging on the cross a sacrifice for
- mankind, surrounded by darkness, and concentrating and reflecting the
- light solely from his own figure, was an intuitive symbol of relief.
- She approached it, as she would the presence of a friend. The pale
- and dying countenance, the woe-bent head, the outspread arms, seemed
- to unite the expression of suffering and protection--singular but
- intelligible combination. None can pity but those who have suffered.
- “He that suffered, being tempted, is able to succour those that are
- tempted.”
-
- As Zaira gazed on this figure, it seemed to live, to speak to her.
- Texts of scripture rushed on her heart, as if whispered to it by the
- Deity. She appeared to hear these sounds issuing audibly from the
- lifeless lips of the figure--“Come unto me, all ye that are weary
- and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” She obeyed the call thus
- echoed from the bottom of her heart; she prostrated herself before
- the cross. Her spirit was bowed down along with her body, as she
- exclaimed, “Oh, my God! accept a heart that has wandered, but longs
- to return to its Saviour. Purify it, regenerate it, fill it with the
- love of you alone. Had it known no other but yours, it had never been
- almost broken. Let your Spirit descend on it, and aid me to struggle
- with that image, for which all its pulses have beat, which has been
- wrapt in its very core. You alone are worthy of that place, which a
- mortal has too long usurped. Vindicate it for yourself, and set me
- free. Deliver me into the glorious liberty of the children of God,
- unconscious of any presence, incapable of admitting any image, but
- yours; dead to the world, and absorbed in God alone.”
-
- But though she uttered these words, it seemed as if some inner winding
- of her treacherous heart was disclosed to her, where the image of
- Charles rested, and defied the power even of heaven to displace him.
- It seemed to her as if she dreaded lest her own prayers should be
- heard; and that if the Deity had that moment offered to efface that
- image for ever from her soul, to make it as the image of one she had
- never seen or seen always with indifference, she would have shrunk
- from the offer, and implored any other infliction at his hands.--
-
-The religious inspiration Zaira has thus felt for a moment does not
-return, although she passes the greater part of the night before the
-Crucifix, where she is, in the morning, found insensible. All her
-devotional exercises are in vain; for as she cannot find peace in the
-spirit of religion, her efforts to embrace its empty forms are also
-doomed to fail. She makes some arrangements to enter a convent, but
-is deterred from it after a conversation she holds with an old nun, a
-resident of the place. The results of an existence that leads to apathy
-and stupefaction, that deadens every feeling and makes living automata
-of human beings, are displayed in the person of the nun with all the
-force expressing Maturin’s innate horror at a life in monotony--and
-Zaira abandons her intention with a strong conviction that she could
-not buy the salvation of her soul at the price of killing it first.
-The convent was, indeed, the usual refuge of fictitious characters in
-great distress; in _The Heart of Midlothian_ which appeared in the same
-year as _Women_, Lady Staunton--the ‘Zaira’ of that great novel--ends
-in a continental convent practising all the vigils and austerities of
-the religion, and is then heard of no more. Yet it would have been a
-too convenient way of quenching the fire by which Zaira is consumed,
-and breaking off the psychological process she is undergoing, to shut
-her within the walls of a convent. The author pursues with unfaltering
-consistency the restless strivings of her powerful mind after
-forgetfulness which she both wishes and dreads. Perceiving that her aim
-cannot be reached in solitude, she engages in acts of private charity,
-visiting the poor and sick until she is tired out. Satisfaction,
-however, is denied her; it is boldly shown that a person, however good
-and noble, cannot perforce make herself religious, and that there are
-circumstances under which that remedy fails, without any fault of the
-patient’s. Weary to the soul, she at last decides to put an end to her
-life. In all her vicissitudes, it must be observed, her nature has
-remained unchanged, and with the most terrible reality before her eyes
-she still lives half in a world of theories. She discusses the subject
-of suicide with her friends, and passes some painful nights in reading
-accounts of the deaths of Brutus and Cato.[106] Yet at the decisive
-moment her reason wanders; dream and reality are blended; magnificent
-visions chase each other through her delirious brain, and on recovering
-she clearly remembers having seen a white figure whom she imagines to
-be the Irish girl, once forsaken for her. This figure continues to
-haunt her mind, and as it is something she can concentrate her thoughts
-upon, it soon becomes an _idée fixe_ with her. Weak and exhausted as
-she is, she travels to Dublin. From a morbid inclination as much as for
-philanthropical reasons she keeps on visiting the filthiest streets and
-most miserable hovels, in one of which, as has been related, she finds
-her wretched mother.--
-
-To this part of the book, above all others, must be applied what Alaric
-Watts wrote in 1819: ‘“Women” is a work which, with all its dullness,
-its monotony of suffering, and its _horrible anatomy_ of the _moral
-frame_, stands alone among modern writings--there is nothing like
-it--its profound and philosophic melancholy, its terrible researches
-into the deepest abysses of the human heart, and of human feeling--its
-daring _drawing the veil_ of the “holy of holies,” while the hand that
-draws it trembles at the touch, make it a work unequalled in the list
-of English novels.’ This sentence was justified; _Women_ stood alone
-among contemporary writings. The tendency pointed out by Watts is one
-which, according to a modern writer,[107] indicates the latest phase
-in the development of the novel: ‘Yet I think he is but a superficial
-student of the literature of recorded time who does not note one
-tendency of later work, of later method, of later procedure, of later
-life, as compared with earlier work, earlier method, earlier procedure,
-and earlier life, which seems to imply an underlying law. -- -- -- This
-law of tendency is, in general, that the depiction of the external,
-objective, carnal, precedes, in every form of expression of which we
-can have records, the consideration of the internal, the subjective,
-the spiritual. We go from shapes, and forms, and bulk, and externals,
-to the presentation of the life within.’ Now the growth of the ‘novel
-of personality’ towards a closer representation of the ‘life within’
-does not show any remarkable progress during the second decade of the
-century which, on the contrary, is marked by the rapid rise of the
-historical novel. It is no wonder that the depth and intensity with
-which the inner life is depicted in Maturin’s _Women_, should make a
-powerful impression upon thoughtful minds, though on the part of the
-larger public the book met with the usual fate of a work in advance of
-its time.--
-
-While Zaira is well-nigh breaking down under the inconstancy of De
-Courcy, her daughter is, in Dublin, pining away from the same cause.
-In the Wentworth family things are going on in the same old style, Eva
-only is able to take less and less part in the usual proceedings. The
-symptoms of her disease manifest themselves in a general weakness,
-alarmingly increasing. Physicians are duly consulted--sea-air is
-recommended by one, mountain-air by another. Eva submits to all with
-a passive smile; she has not the least doubt that she is hastening
-to her grave. Soon, indeed, this becomes evident to the rest of the
-family, and Wentworth already plans what evangelical institutions might
-be supported by the fortune which will probably fall to him after
-Eva’s death, that is, the capital settled on her by her grandfather.
-A little incident exposing, in a masterly way, the inmost characters
-of the principal members of the circle, is related in connection with
-a meeting where Macowen is requested to give a ‘word of prayer.’ This
-gentleman, who also has been thwarted in love, deems this a suitable
-opportunity of taking his revenge, and exercises his eloquence entirely
-at the expense of Eva:
-
- --he implored the mercy of Heaven for a wanderer who had strayed
- from the fold; for one “who had forsaken the guide of her youth, and
- forgotten the Covenant of her God; who had loved strangers, and after
- them would go.” And as he went on, aided by the sympathising murmur of
- the audience, his memory supplying him with images, and his passions
- with eloquence, there was not a single metaphor in the Old Testament
- descriptive of the apostacy of the Jews from their God, that he did
- not apply to Eva, who, compelled to kneel out this martyrdom, wished
- to sink into the earth to escape it. This cruel holding her up as an
- object to a numerous circle, was the most painful trial she had yet
- experienced. Wentworth thought it excellent, and expressed much hope
- from the strivings of that godly man in her behalf. Mrs. Wentworth
- thought very differently; her feelings were so much outraged, she
- could hardly remain on her knees; and when her husband soon after
- proposed Macowen to be of a party that was to meet at their house,
- Mrs. Wentworth strenuously declared, “He should not come into their
- city, nor _shoot an arrow_ there.” And Wentworth was not displeased
- with her opposition to his wishes, because it was couched in the
- language of Isaiah, whom Macowen had taught him to call the fifth
- evangelist.
-
-One evening as Eva is sitting in her garden, De Courcy appears before
-her; she swoons in his arms and, from that moment, does not leave her
-bed. He besieges Mrs. Wentworth with letters and supplications, but
-is no more admitted to Eva, whose only wish is to die in peace. It is
-not without much exertion of her feeble strength that she succeeds in
-repelling the image of her lover from her thoughts and fixing them
-on religion alone, yet at length she attains the tranquillity which
-Zaira had sought in vain, and her last moments are undisturbed by any
-earthly memories. The pitiable state into which De Courcy is reduced
-is spoken of in a tone evincing the author’s latent sympathy for him,
-but he forbears to give any detailed relation of the end of his hero: a
-character like De Courcy is interesting only in hours of happiness and
-enthusiasm. And as a crowning touch of the knowledge of the conditions
-of human nature displayed in Maturin’s _Women_ must be mentioned the
-circumstance that Zaira remains alive. She is strong, having never been
-accustomed to self-indulgence. At an age when Eva and Charles knew no
-external compulsion, but were free to follow the dictates of their
-feelings, Zaira was placed face to face with real life in its sternest
-aspect, and the strenuous work into which she was driven, has, while
-she has had strength to go through it at all, hardened her vitality so
-that death touches her not when it would be most welcome. She lives on
-in the painful consciousness of having caused the death of her child,
-unknown and unnoticed. The book ends with this melancholy aphorism:
-
- When great talents are combined with calamity, their union forms the
- _tenth wave_ of human suffering--grief becomes inexhaustible from the
- unhappy fertility of genius, and the serpents that devour us, are
- generated out of our own vitals.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-_Women_ is, in conception as well as in execution, the most original
-of Maturin’s novels. What literary reminiscences there may be
-discerned--and these are but of a superficial character--lead, for
-the most part, back to his own work. It has already been said that
-his second book, _The Wild Irish Boy_, contains scenes and personages
-that anticipate certain things in the present work. The hero there was
-not unlike De Courcy; his affections would hover between a brilliant
-mother and a pale and delicate daughter; his friend Hammond was a very
-distinct prototype of Montgomery. Hammond approves of Lady Montrevor
-as little as Montgomery does of Zaira, and he also is anxious to
-detect something condemnable in the opinions and conversation of the
-remarkable woman who has bewitched his friend. The imperfectly sketched
-characters and the clumsy composition of _The Wild Irish Boy_ are of
-little interest in themselves, but they clearly show the enormous
-advance of Maturin’s powers after the success of _Bertram_. In Zaira
-critics were inclined to see an imitation--hostile reviewers said a
-caricature--of M:me de Staël’s Corinne. Scott writes: ‘We have -- --
--- -- hinted at some of the author’s errors; and we must now, in all
-candour and respect, mention one of considerable importance, which the
-reader has perhaps anticipated. It respects the resemblance betwixt
-the character and fate of Zaira and Corinne--a coincidence so near,
-as certainly to deprive Mr. Maturin of all claim to originality, so
-far as this brilliant and well-painted character is concerned. In
-her accomplishments, in her beauty, in her talents, in her falling a
-victim to the passion of a fickle lover, Zaira closely resembles her
-distinguished prototype.’ All this is true, yet the most essential
-point of contact between the two characters is left unmentioned. The
-type was one that had occupied Maturin’s imagination long before he
-wrote _Women_; it might with as much reason be asserted that the
-accomplishments and outward appearance of Armida in _The Milesian
-Chief_ were borrowed from _Corinne_ (1807). But one trait in Zaira,
-which, in all probability, was directly influenced by M:me de Staël,
-is her sweetness of temper and lack of pride--a quality which excludes
-from the descriptions of her suffering the ‘frenetical’ element
-Maturin’s earlier writings were noted for. Otherwise the figure of
-Corinne, though depicted in a calmer style, is much more exaggerated
-than Zaira: the latter is only a celebrated actress--and a very learned
-woman certainly; while Corinne is, in addition to this, a gifted
-painter, an eminent poetess, and a national heroine. Of the external
-circumstances of Corinne’s destiny several can be pointed out which,
-no doubt, have their analogies in _Women_--the mystery that covers her
-early life before she rises to the height of fame; the unhappy issue
-of her attachment to a man unworthy of her, and the final loss of her
-great talents. What, however, there is most remarkable in the history
-of Zaira, the minute analysis of the progress of her sufferings, that,
-in short, which Watts holds forth so eloquently, has no parallel in
-the book of M:me de Staël who is content only to state the result of
-the mental struggles her heroine undergoes. _Corinne_ is not a novel
-in the same sense as _Women_; its weight lies neither in incident nor
-psychology, but in its broad-minded _raisonnement_ about life and
-literature in the European countries of the time. The characters are
-subjected to a quite conventional treatment, and it is curious to see
-how closely the death of Corinne resembles the death of Eva, though
-nobody ever thought of accusing Maturin of imitation in this respect.
-The observation which Maturin makes with reference to Zaira, M:me de
-Staël applies to Corinne: ‘Quand une personne de génie est douée d’une
-sensibilité véritable, ses chagrins se multiplient par ses facultés
-mêmes: elle fait des découvertes dans sa propre peine comme dans le
-reste de la nature; et, le malheur du coeur étant inépuisable, plus on
-a d’idées, mieux on le sent;’--but nevertheless she succeeds in finding
-the harmony of mind which is the natural inheritance of Eva. She fixes
-her thoughts on religion alone, and, decidedly refusing to see her
-lover or answer his letters, declares her only wish to be to die in
-peace:--‘au moment de mourir Dieu m’a fait la grâce de retrouver du
-calme, et je sens que la vue d’Oswald remplirait mon âme de sentiments
-qui ne s’accordent point avec les angoisses de la mort. La religion
-seule a des secrets pour ce terrible passage.’ Maturin, on the other
-hand, does not shrink from drawing the extreme conclusions from his
-definition, and shows with a merciless consistency that she who was
-born a Zaira can never become an Eva.
-
-The originality of yet another personage in _Women_ was disputed, in
-so far as some critics maintained Zaira’s mother to be a copy of Meg
-Merrilies in _Guy Mannering_ (1815). This romantic creation of Scott--a
-spinner of intrigues in the shape of an old hag of wild manners and
-questionable sanity--variations of which reappear in several of the
-_Waverley_ novels, was very likely to attract a novelist of Maturin’s
-temperament and may have had some share in the origin of the old
-Irishwoman. There is, however, this great difference, that Meg is
-more of a type, the Irishwoman more of an individual. The former, who
-admirably succeeds in her plans, is a schemer by profession, a gipsy
-and the leader of a whole tribe; the latter has become what she is
-through a series of personal calamities, and completely fails in the
-fantastic aim which she is pursuing: she dies in misery without having
-converted any of her descendants.--Zaira’s mother is the only person in
-the book who is demonstratively Irish, a representative of the lower
-classes. The description of her appearance is impressive, even terrible:
-
- She was a frightful and almost supernatural object; her figure was
- low, and she was evidently very old, but her muscular strength and
- activity were so great, that, combined with the fantastic wildness of
- her motions, it gave them the appearance of the gambols of a hideous
- fairy. She was in rags, yet their arrangement had something of a
- picturesque effect. Her short tattered petticoats, of all colours,
- and of various lengths, depending of angular shreds, her red cloak
- hanging on her back, and displaying her bare bony arms, with hands
- whose veins were like ropes, and fingers like talons; her naked feet,
- with which, when she moved, she stamped, jumped, and beat the earth
- like an Indian squaw in a war-dance; her face _tattooed_ with the
- deepest indentings of time, want, wretchedness, and evil passions;
- her wrinkles, that looked like channels of streams long flowed away;
- the eager motion with which she shook back her long matted hair, that
- looked like strings of the grey bark of the ash tree, while eyes
- flashed through them whose light seemed the posthumous offspring of
- deceased humanity,--her whole appearance, gestures, voice, and dress,
- made De Courcy’s blood run cold within him.
-
-A certain ‘picturesque effect,’ intended as a token of her nationality,
-is carefully preserved in all her sayings and doings, but never
-emphasized so as to make her attractive in any way. Maturin, as has
-been seen, was not fond of idealizing the Irish people, and the
-street-types occurring in _Women_ form no exception to the rule.
-Otherwise _Women_ is a psychological novel without any national
-tendency, notwithstanding a few patriotic sentences and political
-allusions to the unfortunate state of the country. Nor is there
-anything peculiarly Irish in the principal events of the book, except
-in Zaira’s early history, which gives a glimpse of the primitive and
-unregulated life led on a remote Irish estate at that period. As this
-part, however, supplies the groundwork for the whole fabric, Allan
-Cunningham[108] is not entirely wrong in calling _Women_ ‘an Irish
-story, wild, wonderful, and savage, with many redeeming touches of
-pathos and beauty.’--Amidst all the realism of the book, an incident
-with something of a supernatural import is unexpectedly introduced;
-whether this be a characteristically Irish trait or no, a study of
-Maturin must take account of it. It is told that on a pleasure-party,
-at the time when the intimacy between Zaira and De Courcy is ripening
-into love, he twice sees the apparition of Eva, which remains unseen
-by others; and Eva, on the same afternoon, in a dream imagines herself
-in exactly the same situation in which she appears to De Courcy. This
-incident, mentioned in a few words but with a remarkable seriousness,
-caused Scott, in his critique on _Women_, to refer to and quote the
-suppressed passages of _Bertram_.--
-
-Scott’s benevolent review is one of the most pleasant specimens of his
-literary criticism. Cordial praise from the man whom he considered the
-greatest writer of the age, must have occasioned much satisfaction to
-Maturin, so much the more as the two other critiques which _Women_
-directly gave rise to were to a very different purpose. Anything more
-unintelligent than an article in the _Monthly Review_[109] it would be
-difficult to find. The writer ever probes for the moral reasons of the
-author’s describing this or that, and of Maturin’s treatment of the
-Methodists he comes to this wonderful conclusion:
-
- To expose the repellent and unsocial manners of this sect, who are
- called in derision, levelled at their own presumption, ‘evangelical,’
- seems the main moral object of the writer; and we grant that his
- design, had it been executed judiciously, and fairly, would have
- been praiseworthy: but it is obvious that, to attain this purpose of
- discountenancing spiritual pride and gloomy superstition, the author
- must not on the one hand grossly overcharge the picture which he
- wishes to hold up to reprobation; nor, on the other, must he omit to
- present a rational and amiable contrast, in the person of at least
- _one_ specimen of pure and social Christianity. In both these points,
- Mr. Maturin has entirely failed.
-
-Of what the writer so strongly feels the loss of, Maturin has, in fact,
-given not one but three instances: what is there of spiritual pride in
-Eva? or what of gloomy superstition in Montgomery and Mrs. Wentworth?
-Still more stupid is another charge against the author’s fairness,
-which the writer tries to make much of. De Courcy receives, while in
-Paris, a letter from his guardian--an old and conservative clergyman
-who, in principle, disapproves of dramatic art and those who practise
-it--in which he eagerly dissuades De Courcy from marrying an actress.
-This letter, the reviewer says, he has read ‘with equal surprise and
-displeasure,’ and continues: ‘We cannot conceive how Mr. Maturin, as
-the countryman of Miss O’Neil, whose virtues are the groundwork and
-the glory of her talents, can have brought himself to pronounce such
-a sweeping condemnation of the characters of actresses. If he should
-say, “These are only arguments in the mouth of an advocate against an
-imprudent marriage,” he who has been so unusually connected with the
-stage should have taken some opportunity to counteract, or to modify,
-the unmitigated censure.’ But is not the whole _life_ of Zaira a
-modification of any censure? and is it not shown at almost every page
-to what a moral superiority and greatness of soul an actress is capable
-of rising? Unjust as this critique is, it is nothing to the savage
-attack delivered upon the book in the _Quarterly Review_.[110] At this
-time the famous literary warfare between Croker and Lady Morgan was
-at its hottest, and Maturin’s friendship with the authoress--she is
-admiringly spoken of even in _Women_--had, no doubt, its share in the
-extraordinary venomousness of the article, which there is no difficulty
-in recognizing as a production of Croker himself. He treats the book
-as an intentional parody on novels in general; but the satirical tone
-is often broken by bursts of great vehemence, and ignoble allusions to
-Maturin’s profession are by no means spared:
-
- Parodies, as we once before said, should be short--Mr. Maturin’s,
- though admirably sustained, is too long, and we may venture to say
- also that the mask is never sufficiently removed--_we_ know that the
- reverend author means to be merry at the expense of novel writers and
- portfolio pedants, but we regret to say that we have heard that some
- persons, mistaking his book for a serious production, have censured
- it as degrading, by its folly, its ignorant pedantry, its constant
- fustian, and its occasional blasphemy, the character of a clerical
- author; while others, equally well disposed, but more simple, have
- looked upon it not only as serious but as meritorious, and have
- praised it as having all the qualities of an excellent novel.
-
-That Maturin’s _Women_ has never been reprinted cannot but be regarded
-as one of the curiosities in the history of the English novel.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-In the February number of the _British Review_ 1818 appeared an
-article, by Maturin, on Miss Edgeworth’s tales of _Harrington_ and
-_Ormond_. It was originally intended for the _Quarterly Review_; in his
-letter to Murray from Sept. 27, 1817, Maturin says that his article is
-ready, and only waits an order for transmission. His first contribution
-to the _Quarterly_, the critique of Sheil’s _Apostate_, which had not
-met with a favourable reception, was, however, to be also his last. In
-another letter, dated Nov. 17, Maturin writes: ‘I can easily comprehend
-a truth which your politeness would conceal, that the inferiority and
-not the lateness of my article was the cause of its rejection. I am
-extremely obliged by your kindness in suggesting an application to
-the British Review; I have availed myself of it and must entreat your
-pardon for the trouble it imposes on you.’ At that time Maturin was
-still anxious to have a place in the _Quarterly_, little as his own
-production harmonized with the views advocated by the literary staff
-of that periodical--though the exceedingly inimical criticism which
-both _Women_ and _Melmoth_ afterwards received there, probably made
-an end of his desire to have any connection with it. Whatever might
-have been the cause of the rejection of the article, it appears that
-Murray later mediated in Maturin’s behalf with the _British Review_,
-which was induced to accept it. The article is composed after the same
-pattern as the critique on Sheil--though it is far more interesting--:
-the development and history of the novel is traced from its earliest
-beginnings up to the new stories of Miss Edgeworth. Several quotations
-have been made, in the foregoing pages, from this typical essay of
-Maturin, where the Gothic Romance is happily and enthusiastically
-characterized, and the great novelists of the 18:th century mentioned
-with an astonishing lack of appreciation. Miss Edgeworth, however, is
-highly panegyrized; but it is quite evident that Maturin’s opinion of
-his celebrated countrywoman is more akin to respect and esteem than to
-ardent and genuine admiration. He cannot conceal that she is deficient
-in those romantic qualities of passion and feeling for nature, which to
-him mean the highest pitch of inspiration:
-
- Such is Miss Edgeworth’s sacred horror of any thing like exaggerated
- feeling, or tumid language; such her anxiety for reducing her
- characters, where they are not meant to be heroes, to the level of
- ordinary feelings and occupations, and lowering the intoxications
- of romance to a “sober certainty of waking bliss,” that she appears
- as averse from the enthusiasm of nature as from the enthusiasm of
- passion. -- -- -- We do “grievously suspect” that Miss Edgeworth is
- one of those who would have joined with Johnson in his laugh against
- the pastoral prosers who “babble of green fields;” and we rather fear
- that she speaks her own sentiments in the person of Lord Glenthorne in
- Ennui, when he gives all the “Beauties of Killarney to the devil.”
-
-Maturin’s criticism of the two particular, tales now under discussion
-is very severe, of _Ormond_ decidedly too much so. This well-known
-Irish story being the very antipode of the patriotic novels produced
-by Lady Morgan and Maturin, it is no wonder it did not appeal to him.
-There are no soul-stirring adventures, no breath of romance, and the
-ancient glory of Ireland is not even alluded to.--
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Romantic, in the highest degree, is Maturin’s next work, his tragedy
-of _Fredolfo_, which was written in the course of the year 1818.
-The economic success of _Women_ had bettered his circumstances, and
-the alluring prospect of a successful drama once more began to loom
-before his fancy. As early as January 28:th Maturin communicates
-to Murray that he has been made ‘a very liberal offer to write a
-tragedy for Covent Garden;’ _Fredolfo_, in all probability, was the
-fruit of this offer, though it was not acted there until April 1819.
-Maturin’s correspondence with Murray--that part, at least, which is
-extant--breaks off in August 1818, and there is little to tell of his
-life until the appearance of _Fredolfo_, except that he was fortunate
-enough to form another of those literary friendships he always desired.
-Alaric Watts became, at that time, editor of the _New Monthly Magazine
-or Universal Register_, where he published his admiring article on
-Maturin. This article, according to some autobiographical notes of
-Watts,[111] brought him the acquaintance of the novelist:
-
- I have no distinct recollection of the occasion of my introduction
- to this remarkable man; but I have little doubt that it originated
- in my having written a memoir of him in the first series of the _New
- Monthly Magazine_, to accompany a fantastic-looking portrait of him
- in that periodical. He was at that time in the zenith of his fame.
- At all events, I was solicited by him, in 1819, to superintend the
- production, at Covent Garden Theatre, of a tragedy from his pen,
- entitled “Fredolpho.”
-
-The tragedy turned out a failure as complete as it was undeserved:
-_Fredolfo_ is not only the best of Maturin’s dramatic compositions, but
-a work of considerable poetic value.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The scene in _Fredolfo_ is laid in Switzerland, which country had,
-through Byron, become as popular with the romantic writers as Sicily
-and Spain had been during the bloom of the Gothic Romance. Fredolfo the
-hero is an ancient and respected Swiss lord, who has gallantly pleaded
-his country’s cause against the tyranny of Austria:
-
-    He was his country’s idol--Switzerland,
-    Through all her rescued cantons, blessed her champion;
-    For, when he sat in council, from his head
-    Sprang Liberty, a living goddess arm’d!
-    Nor lack’d his hand the thunder to defend her.--
-
-Yet he is not happy, for a crime weighs upon his mind. Once, years
-ago, his solitary castle on St. Gothard had been, during his absence,
-visited by the Austrian governor Wallenberg, who on the same occasion
-seduced his wife. Shortly after Fredolfo’s return Wallenberg was
-murdered near the castle; the deed was done by Fredolfo, with the
-assistance of one single attendant, a fiendish and deformed dwarf
-called Berthold. The cries of Wallenberg, however, attracted the
-attention of a young Swiss peasant, Adelmar, who was wandering in the
-mountains. He rushed to the place offering his help to the assailed
-party, but was himself left there, severely wounded, without having
-recognized any of the fighters. This unexpected witness to the scene
-now became an object of Fredolfo’s pursuit; he had him secretly carried
-away from Switzerland and compelled him to live in a foreign country.
-Here he was allowed every comfort he could desire, but his longing
-for his native land was too strong for him, and at last he made his
-way back to Switzerland. Knowing Fredolfo to be his pursuer he still
-established himself in the vicinity of the castle, and even succeeded
-in winning the love of Fredolfo’s only daughter, Urilda.
-
-The play opens in the castle whither, while a violent storm is raging,
-Fredolfo and his daughter are expected to return from Altdorf. Urilda,
-committed to the care of Berthold, is travelling in advance; but
-Berthold arrives at the castle alone, with the intelligence that
-Urilda’s horse has been frightened and carried away by a flood,
-together with its burden. After a while, however, Urilda is brought
-home. She has been saved by a stranger in whom she, on recovering,
-recognizes Adelmar, the object of her love and her father’s hatred.
-Their tête-à-tête is interrupted by the news that Fredolfo, too, is
-perishing in the storm. Moved by Urilda’s despair Adelmar departs to
-save her father, and successfully helps him out of a chasm among the
-mountains. He then wishes to depart without revealing himself, but as
-Fredolfo insists on seeing his face, he at last flings back his mantle.
-Fredolfo, on discovering by whom he has been rescued, is seized with
-fury, and when they are joined by his attendants, he commands Adelmar
-to be secured and conveyed to the dungeon of the castle; only the
-intervention of Urilda, who comes out to meet them, saves the life of
-her lover. Fredolfo observes with intense agitation the tender relation
-between Urilda and Adelmar. Now Berthold, who has been casting his eyes
-upon Urilda and hates Adelmar as a rival, eagerly advises Fredolfo
-to put him to death. Fredolfo, however, sets Adelmar at liberty, and
-from that moment Berthold is his implacable enemy. Soon indeed an
-opportunity for vengeance arises. Wallenberg, the present Austrian
-governor and son of the murdered one, makes his unexpected appearance
-at the castle. He has been the cause of Fredolfo’s bringing her
-daughter away from Altdorf; he freely confesses to have ‘gazed upon the
-maid with lawless love,’ but now he indicates that he will honourably
-claim her hand from her father. Fredolfo summons her daughter to answer
-for herself, and her answer is proudly rejective. Wallenberg departs
-in rage, and Berthold offers to bear him company, casting a look upon
-Fredolfo from which he understands that he is now a lost man.
-
-The first two acts, which comprise what is related above, are, in
-every respect, the best part of the play. They have the character of
-an introduction containing the necessary premisses for the catastrophe
-that follows, but they are well conceived and full of stirring life.
-In the very first scene the tragedy of Fredolfo is alluded to by
-an old attendant of his in a conversation with a minstrel, and the
-spectator thus becomes aware that a gloom is cast over the life of
-the hero. At the arrival of Berthold it becomes clear that he is the
-evil genius of the drama; he is received by the inmates of the castle
-with curses and maledictions, and when Urilda recovers from her swoon
-she shows equal horror and disgust at the sight of him. Berthold has
-been regarding her with indications of love, but now it is seen how
-his love is changed into hatred, and thoughts of vengeance already
-begin to fill his mind. From the beautiful dialogue between Urilda
-and Adelmar it appears that he is the object of Fredolfo’s dislike,
-which explains the agitation of Fredolfo on recognizing his preserver.
-Then the scenes of the rupture between Berthold and his master, and of
-Wallenberg’s visit and departure, follow each other in well-balanced
-succession. The release of Adalmar from his prison is, indeed, somewhat
-undramatically executed, in so far as Fredolfo simply sends Berthold
-to open the door for him, and he disappears without any further ado;
-but this act of generosity marks the stage which the mental progress of
-Fredolfo has now reached. He is weary of his long struggle against the
-fate that nevertheless is approaching; he feels that his crime, however
-defensible, is drawing near its punishment, and he can do no more than
-resignedly give himself up to whatever is to come. The mutual relations
-of Fredolfo and Adelmar are essentially the same as those of Falkland
-and Caleb in Godwin’s _Caleb Williams_, another phase of which Maturin
-had utilized in _Montorio_. Falkland, too, has been driven to commit
-a murder under exceptional circumstances; Caleb alone is acquainted
-with the deed, and he pursues him with relentless vigour until his own
-strength is wasted. The difference is that Fredolfo is already at the
-beginning of the drama reduced to that state of exhaustion in which all
-resistance ends, and that his crime is known, besides to Adelmar--who,
-indeed, is not quite certain whether Fredolfo was one of the nocturnal
-combatants--to an enemy much more dangerous. Fredolfo shares the
-general abhorrence of Berthold, but dares not dismiss him. Berthold
-follows him like an evil conscience, embittering every moment of his
-existence, and now endeavours to prompt him to do away with Adelmar:
-
-    _Fred._ -- -- --
-    What scowl’st thou on, with thy portentous smile,
-    Passing like lightning, o’er thy stormy visage?
-    It is some evil, or thou could’st not smile!
-
-    _Bert._ (_with bitter irony._)
-    I mark with awe the patriot’s private moments;
-    These are thy triumphs, Virtue, view, and boast them!
-                                  (_suddenly changing._)
-    Oh! what a fool is the brute multitude,
-    To shout “a God!” before this hollow image!
-    Ha! ha! ha! things are well balanced here;--
-    The evening’s groan repays the morning’s boast.
-    Vice were too humble, but for scenes like these,
-    And hopeless Villainy, lacking such solace,
-    Would turn an anchorite for very sadness!
-
-    _Fred._ Thou tool of wrath, which, while I grasp, I shudder,
-    Though one wild moment’s sudden agony
-    Made me a fiend, I am a man again.--
-    I would not harm that youth for many worlds;
-    Go, and release the prisoner.
-
-    _Bert._ (_Drawing his dagger, and pointing to it with a significant
-    gesture._)
-    Thus, perchance?--
-
-    _Fred._ (_giving him a key._)
-    No, villain, thus--bid him be free, and live!
-    Bid, him, if possible, forget--if not,
-    Let him revenge--I’m weary of the struggle!--
-
-When Berthold hints at his feelings towards Urilda, Fredolfo loses all
-self-command, and only the sudden arrival of Wallenberg saves Berthold
-from immediate destruction. He has, however, now made up his mind to
-desert his master.
-
-In the next act Wallenberg reappears at the castle, attended by
-Berthold and his guard, and accuses Fredolfo of the murder of his
-father. Fredolfo is thereupon taken to the prison of Altdorf, and
-Urilda suffers herself to be dragged away with her father. Adelmar has
-also journeyed to Altdorf, where he engages himself in preparing a
-rising among the citizens for the rescue of Fredolfo. Here he is seen
-by Berthold, who invents a ruse in order to secure him. Wallenberg
-enters the prison where Urilda is tending her father, and pretends to
-have forgiven him and determined to set him at liberty; only for the
-sake of appearances the place should be stormed by the people, led by
-some youth ‘of bold and enterprising arm,’ for which time Wallenberg
-promises to dismiss the guards. Urilda at once remembers Adelmar and
-finds opportunity of sending word to him. The following night Adelmar
-and his band then rush in, but are met by Wallenberg and his soldiers,
-who have been lying in wait for them. While the battle is raging,
-Wallenberg re-enters the prison and, revelling in the agony of Urilda,
-pronounces Fredolfo’s death-warrant. The forces of Adelmar, however,
-appear to be stronger then has been expected, and Fredolfo is really
-liberated, though Adelmar himself is disarmed and captured and remains,
-together with Urilda, in Wallenberg’s power.--Fredolfo is carried to a
-cavern in the mountains, where he observes, with horror, that Urilda is
-not with him. He implores his followers to go back and save her, when
-Berthold arrives to inform him that if he refuses to suffer his death
-sentence, his daughter is to suffer it instead. Fredolfo instantly
-prepares to go, but at the same time they are joined by Adelmar, who
-has escaped from the prison; he has placed Urilda by the altar of a
-shrine and comes now to re-gather his band. In the meantime Wallenberg
-and his attendants, in vain opposed by a prior, break into the church.
-As Fredolfo and his party enter it shortly afterwards, Wallenberg
-snatches Urilda up to the altar and, drawing his dagger, points it to
-her breast. Fredolfo, understanding her danger, dismisses his band.
-Adelmar also is induced to give up his sword to Wallenberg: whereupon
-Wallenberg stabs him with the selfsame weapon and then releases Urilda.
-Fredolfo now recovers himself, rushes upon Wallenberg and mortally
-wounds him. Urilda expires upon the body of her lover, and Fredolfo
-alone is left alive.--
-
-The last three acts are not, considered as drama, quite abreast
-of the introduction. The development of the action is, upon the
-whole, made too dependent on the caprices of Wallenberg; the purely
-horrible elements of the play are dilated upon with too remarkable a
-predilection, especially the demonstrations of the diabolic natures of
-Wallenberg and Berthold sometimes take undue space. Before Adelmar’s
-attack upon the prison, for instance, there is a long scene filled
-with enticements on the part of Berthold to get Urilda to sign a paper
-in the belief that it contains an order of liberation for her father,
-but which paper really is the death sentence of Adelmar. Apart from
-the unnaturalness of this proceeding, it has no connection with the
-events that follow: Adelmar makes his escape, and the death warrant
-is no more alluded to; the sole purpose of the scene is to bring out
-the excruciating pain felt by Urilda when she is thus kept hovering
-between hope and fear, and the extraordinary wickedness of Berthold.
-Yet notwithstanding this and certain other awkwardnesses of a similar
-kind, it is undeniable that the construction is firmer and far better
-regulated than in Maturin’s earlier plays, and the place of the hero
-as the central figure is well sustained by means of the skill and
-moderation with which the characterization is executed. The reader has,
-in fact, some misgivings that he is to share the fate of Manuel, go mad
-and start raving; but Fredolfo retains his reason to the end, and the
-weary resignation that has hold of his mind lends him a dignity and a
-calmness very different from the fury of his enemies.
-
-What, however, raises the first two acts so far above the rest, is the
-romantic glamour shed over the persons and events, much of which fades
-away as the play advances. The figure of Adelmar is an exceedingly
-poetic one. He does not--like Bertram--belong to the typically
-‘Byronic’ heroes; there is nothing demoniac or criminal about him.
-Yet he is not bloodless or commonplace; he has an air of romance and
-mystery of his own, and his speech is pervaded, as it were, by an echo
-from his native Alps. He never assumes any _pose_, for he can afford to
-do without one. His dialogue with Urilda, in the first act, contains
-the best things Maturin ever wrote in verse.
-
-    _Uril._ -- -- -- --
-    He comes! oh, God! it cannot, cannot be!--
-    And does he dare amid these walls to seek me?
-    For me he trembled--for himself he fears not.
-              (_Rushing up to him._)
-    Away! away! thou must not enter here!
-    There is a voice from out these walls forbids thee!--
-    My father hates thee, tracks thy hunted steps--
-    (_Relaxing from fear into tenderness, and falling into his arms._)
-    Adelmar, art thou here?--and was it thou?
-
-    _Adel._ Yes; Adelmar, the unowned, the wanderer.
-    The stranger--almost to himself unknown;
-    He, o’er whom midnight murder darkly watches,
-    He, who on unseen daggers plants his steps,
-    And tramples them to clasp thee:--Yes, I follow’d thee
-    O’er the dark mountains--through the night I follow’d;--
-    The spirits of the tempest raised their arms
-    To snatch thee, and I grappled with their might,--
-    Wrestled with them in darkness, and o’ercame them.
-    Bright star, emerging sole on my fate’s blackness,
-    Shed thy last light on me! (_kneeling_) ’twill be the last!
-    -- -- -- -- --
-    -- -- -- -- --
-
-    _Adel._ (_solemnly._) I am the child of woe,
-    Of persecution, and of mystery;
-    Fredolfo’s name--the name his country worships--
-    Rung in my infant dreams.--I was a boy,
-    Wild and imaginative, full of thoughts
-    That mountain-spirits to their children whisper,
-    I might have been a hero!
-
-    _Uril._ Might have been! Thou art!
-
-    _Adel._ I should have been, but for thy father!
-    A peasant child, amid the mountain steeps,
-    St. Gothard’s heights I wander’d--the storm’s shrieks
-    I heard, and echoed in wild fearless mirth,
-    Like children, who in awful ignorance sport;--
-    There came another shriek,--a shriek of murder!
-
-                                  (_Urilda shudders._)
-
-    _Uril._ (_starting and agitated._)
-    Murder! but, then, my father was not there,--
-    Or was there--but to save?
-
-    _Adel._ I will not speak--
-    Dark thoughts come thronging with that night’s remembrance.
-    Twice, twice, with horrible strength the voice shrieked murder!
-    I flew in madness there.--Amid the night
-    Darkly I grappled with two shadowy forms,
-    Beneath whose gripe a struggling warrior heaved,
-    Then lay a corse.--I had no arms.--
-    -- -- -- -- -- --
-    -- -- -- -- -- --
-
-    _Adel._ Time pass’d as in dream, and oft I thought
-    That the dead warrior in his mountain grave
-    Slept unremember’d--then, by ruffian hands
-    Dragg’d from my hut, all tremblingly I follow’d--
-    Far in a sea-toss’d bark the ruffians bore me;--
-    A voice was in the wind, that swell’d the sails,--
-    That charm’d them ne’er to let their freight return!
-
-    _Uril._ A voice!--what voice?
-
-    _Adel._ I know not;--but I cried,
-    Who tears a freeman from his mountain-home?
-    Who rends the child his country cannot spare
-    From her spread arms? The answer was,--Fredolfo!
-
-    _Uril._ (_shrieking with amazement._) Impossible!
-
-    _Adel._ _I_ cried, ‘impossible.’
-    Years, mournful years, in a strange land were wasted,
-    Wasted to me--the land was beautiful--
-    Fair rose the spires, and gay the buildings were,
-    And rich the plains, like dreams of blessed isles;
-    But, when I heard my country’s music breathe,
-    I sigh’d to be among her wilds again!
-    I climb’d a bark’s tall side--an arm grasp’d mine--
-    Struggling, I turn’d, and ask’d who dared withhold me?
-    A dark-eyed ruffian answer’d,--’twas Fredolfo!
-    -- -- -- -- --
-
-
-In the latter part of the play Adelmar, though a moving force in the
-action, appears only by glimpses, so that the impression he leaves is
-the most uniformly favourable of all the personages, being free from
-the general decline of characterization towards the end. Urilda is
-altogether more conventional than Adelmar, and does but seldom, by any
-action of her own, make good the very fine things said about her. In
-the second act Wallenberg says, seeing her approach:
-
-    She comes with all that shrinking bashfulness,
-    The eloquence of motion, mute, but felt.
-    The air around her breathes of purity;
-    And, as she moves, her equal tread’s fine impulse
-    Falls on the ear like harmony;--the light
-    That gleams on her fair locks and slender form
-    Crowns them with hallowed glory, like some vision
-    To saintly eyes reveal’d!--She is a thing
-    To knee and worship. Beauty hath no lustre,
-    Save when it gleameth through the crystal web
-    That Purity’s fine fingers weave for it;
-    And then it shows like Venus from the wave,
-    The fresh drops clinging to her beauty still!--
-
-In the figures of Wallenberg and Berthold, Maturin’s unrestrained
-imagination within the field of the horrible carried him to a length to
-which the failure of the play has been ascribed. Talfourd,[112] while
-admitting that it contains ‘passages of a soft and mournful beauty,
-breathing a tender air of romance,’ says, with reference to these two
-personages: ‘In “Fredolfo,” the author, as though he had resolved to
-sting the public into a sense of his power, crowded together characters
-of such matchless depravity, sentiments of such demoniac cast, and
-events of such gratuitous horror, that the moral taste of the audience,
-injured as it had been by the success of similar works, felt the
-insult, and rose up indignantly against it.’ The same opinion has been
-expressed by a later critic:[113] ‘The wickedness of Berthold the dwarf
-and Wallenberg surpasses all bounds of reason. Neither is a human
-being at all.’ Less depravity, no doubt, would be sufficient, yet the
-question is not so much of the amount as of an unskilful display of it;
-in the first two acts neither character is unnatural, nor are they
-much worse than many famous villains in literature. Wallenberg appears
-as a subtly drawn tyrant of unbridled passions, accustomed blindly to
-follow all his freaks; his attachment to Urilda is hardly more than a
-passing caprice. His proposal for her hand is characteristically worded:
-
-    Fredolfo, hear me!--Friend, or foe, I reck not--
-    Spite of the pride that burns upon my cheek.
-    Spite of the blood, whose cold recoiling drops
-    Refuse to flow ere they would mix with thine;
-    Spite of our nations, natures, hearts averse,
-    Of all that makes me shudder while I sue,--
-    I claim thy daughter’s hand!
-
-A love like this is never very far from hatred, and, when disappointed,
-it is naturally turned into a furious thirst for revenge which spares
-neither its object nor its cherisher:
-
-    I could rend out the veins that throb for her;--
-    I could on mine own heart fix suicide’s fangs,
-    So they defaced that form it dares to cherish!
-
-Upon these sentiments he acts, and his ‘wickedness’ is not without
-consistency, only it is spread out so as to affect the symmetry of
-the composition. The same is still more true of Berthold, who, in the
-beginning, appears to be not only sinning, but sinned against. It
-is not quite clear how he has, previous to the events of the play,
-deserved the detestation of all his neighbours; to a great extent it
-seems to be inspired by his bodily deformity. His love to Urilda is
-tender enough; leaning over her, when she is lying senseless, he speaks
-this beautiful monologue:
-
-    Oh! it renews the heart to gaze oh thee!
-    Thou thing of power, that hast not life, but givest it:--
-    Thou beautous even in death--making death beautous!
-    Those softly closed lids, in whose rich veil
-    The unseen light dwells lovely,--the wan cheek,
-    Amid whose pallid bower death weds with beauty;
-    The faintly-falling arms, the woe-bent head--
-    Oh! still be thus! Oh, yes, be ever thus!--
-    While thus I see thee calm, I deem thee kind.
-    Those eyes will ope--to turn their light from me;
-    Those arms will wave, to chide me with their softness;
-    And, oh! that lip,--that rubied cup of bliss,
-    That flows with joy for all, pour hate on me!
-
-Of a creature who can speak like this it can hardly be said that he is
-no human being at all. As for the prophecy expressed in the last lines,
-it is verified the moment Urilda revives; and as Berthold then resolves
-upon his vengeance it is not difficult to understand that a being with
-his wild and primitive standpoint shuns no means in order to effect
-it. The part was considered an important one by Maturin, who wished
-particular care to be bestowed upon it. In his letter to Watts[114]
-about the performance of _Fredolfo_ he says: ‘I must revert to the part
-of Berthold, which is sufficiently eccentric and extravagant. Don’t let
-him, on my account, appear a ludicrous figure. Perhaps his deformity
-may be best expressed by a certain savage picturesqueness of costume,
-which I could sketch were I upon the spot, but which I readily submit
-to your taste in my absence; but don’t let him be ludicrous, that must
-be the ruin of the play. No one could bear a _kitchen Richard_. Much
-depends on Berthold.’--A certain resemblance of Berthold to Richard III
-is indeed obvious. Their criminal instincts are excited by bitterness
-arising from a sense of their personal disadvantages. Some reflections
-of Berthold:
-
-    I could, such is my heart’s o’erflowing spleen
-    To all that loved, and lovely are--methinks,
-    I could, even with a look,--as thus--dart through him
-    The basilisk’s eye-fang--dying on the throe,
-
-lead (_mutatis mutandis_) back to the opening monologue of Richard III:
-
-    I, that am rudely stamped, and want love’s majesty
-    To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;--
-    -- -- -- -- --
-    And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
-    To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
-    I am determined to prove a villain -- -- -- --
-
-Something of a ‘kitchen Richard’ Berthold, however, is, inwardly if
-not outwardly: he is a Richard without genius or grandeur. The same
-difference is noticeable in the case of another literary figure that
-presumably influenced the character of Berthold--Rashleigh Osbaldistone
-in Scott’s _Rob Roy_ which appeared in 1818, just at the time when
-Maturin was composing _Fredolfo_. The ‘wickedness’ of Rashleigh is by
-no means incomparable to that of Berthold, but he is in possession of
-an intellectual power and mental superiority which makes him the most
-prominent figure in the environment in which he is depicted. Berthold,
-though neither ludicrous nor unnatural, is not sufficiently interesting
-to support the important part assigned to him, having nothing to
-counterbalance his ‘matchless depravity.’
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The principal rôles of _Fredolfo_ were in the best hands at Covent
-Garden: Fredolfo was played by Young, Adelmar by Charles Kemble,
-Berthold by Yates, Wallenberg by Macready and Urilda by Miss O’Neill.
-Maturin expected success in a kind of hopeful anxiety. His letter to
-Watts of April 17, alluded to above, displays his usual overflowing
-gratitude to those who took an interest in his productions, and his
-inclination to speak, on such occasions, slightingly of them himself:
-
- “My inestimable friend,” he begins, “I never deplored my want of
- _l’eloquence de billet_ before; but if I possessed all the eloquence
- I do not possess, it must fail under the task of expressing my
- obligations to you. How much do I not owe you, and how much am I not
- proud to owe you! I have implicitly followed your advice and written
- to Young. Your suggestions as to curtailment I adopt unhesitatingly;
- reject and retain what you like. Present, I beg you, my best
- acknowledgments to Mr. Young for his friendly zeal for a part but
- little worthy of his great abilities; and in your kindness, apologise
- to Mr. Charles Kemble, Mr. Macready, and the other gentlemen, for my
- not having had the pleasure of witnessing their talents, and thus of
- qualifying myself for writing parts more worthy of their acceptance
- than the wild and crude sketches of Adelmar and Wallenberg.”
-
-The fact was, however, that only Yates appeared to be satisfied with
-his rôle. The failure of the play was, as Watts proceeds to say,[115]
-due to this indisposition of the principal actors, to the blunders of
-the minor ones, and, in the public opinion, to the last outburst of the
-unchivalrousness of Wallenberg:
-
- Miss O’Neill was cast for the principal part, but displayed little
- interest in it, and did not hesitate, some three weeks before the play
- was produced, to prophesy its failure. -- -- -- The immediate cause
- of its damnation was the exquisitely ridiculous manner in which one
- of the inferior actors advanced upon the stage, with the deliberation
- of an undertaker, and apprised the audience, with the most stoical
- calmness, that his master was at that moment perishing in a snowstorm
- on the mountains. The stolidity of this gentleman ... and the
- sedateness with which he delivered himself of the following harrowing
- ejaculation--
-
-    “My Lord! my Lord! the storm! He perishes!”
-
- precipitated the audience into a fit of merriment from which it was
- found impossible to recover them, until a gallant young officer,
- having delivered up his sword to his more successful antagonist,
- is slaughtered with it on the spot. This thoroughly un-English
- incident so revolted the audience as to convert their merriment
- into indignation, and to not another word would they listen. I had
- presented to Maturin’s notice the danger of this situation; but
- neither Harris, the manager, nor Macready, who took the part of the
- assassin, appeared to think much of the objection. With the exception
- of Yates, who made an extremely effective part of Berthold, and
- Macready, always conscientious and thorough, little effort was made
- for the play, and its failure was irremediable.
-
-The merriment was unfortunately roused as early as in the first act,
-and the many impressive scenes of the introduction passed by unheeded.
-As to the offending mode of Adelmar’s death, it takes place in the
-very end, after which there is not much more to listen to, nor is it
-probable that it would have been sufficient to damn the play, if the
-whole had been favourably received. Now, however, _Fredolfo_ was
-silently dropped, without even any critiques being visible; Maturin’s
-career as a dramatist was practically at an end. Watts dismisses his
-melancholy story with the remark that--‘Maturin, the most impulsive
-and eccentric of Irishmen--and that is saying a great deal--bore his
-disappointment with some philosophy.’
-
-A positive result of this philosophy was that Maturin returned to
-novel-writing and produced _Melmoth the Wanderer_, his most famous
-romance. Before coming to that, however, a few other things remain
-to be noted. About the same time as _Fredolfo_ was acted, there
-appeared[116] some unpublished scenes from _Manuel_. In a letter to
-Henry Colburn, dated March 15, Maturin says of the extracts:--‘Detached
-from the tragedy they seem to me very feeble and I would advice
-you to consult a literary friend before you venture to insert them
-in your Magazine--should you publish them pray let it be in your
-poetical department, they are not of importance enough to appear
-in any other.’--The scenes treat of the dread of De Zelos lest his
-crime should be discovered, and of Manuel in the castle where he is
-banished; they are indeed of little importance, rising in no way
-above the average level of this the feeblest of Maturin’s poetical
-productions.--In the course of 1819 Maturin published, further, a
-collection of _Sermons_. Popular as he is said to have been as a
-preacher, the volume did not prove a success; it was marked by the
-disadvantages of Maturin’s double vocation. ‘His sermons, too,’
-says his biographer,[117] ‘betrayed the struggles of a poetical
-mind endeavouring to adapt itself to the prevailing austerity of a
-particular class of religionists: and, between the party which rejected
-his book because it was not evangelical, and those who would not read
-it because it was not a romance, it was his fate to please neither, and
-fail.’ A benevolent critic in a contemporary[118] points out a certain
-want of any ‘order of arrangement’ and adds that ‘though these Sermons,
-if well delivered, must have had great effect from the pulpit, the
-impression, at the same time, could scarcely be anything else than
-transient.’
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-That _Melmoth the Wanderer_ is nowadays considered the work by that
-which its author stands or falls,[119] sufficiently explains why
-Maturin is only mentioned in connection with the school of terror. The
-‘terrific’ elements in _Melmoth_ are, it is true, strong enough to
-render it the greatest novel of that school in the English language.
-All the same, it is much too complex to be confined within the limits
-of one single school, while its general purport connects it with some
-of the greatest works of European literature in its period. As for
-the production of Melmoth, that was carried on under circumstances
-distressing and even dismal; Maturin’s short period of opulence had
-passed for ever, and it was only the silent hours of night he was able
-to devote to his literary labours. His mode of composing, at that time,
-has been impressively described by a friend:[120]
-
- Returning late in the evening, it was then after a slight refreshment
- that his literary task commenced, and I have remained with him
- repeatedly, looking over some of his loose manuscripts, till three in
- the morning, while he was composing his wild romance of “Melmoth.”
- Moderate, and indeed abstemious in his appetites, human nature, and
- the over-busy and worked intellect, required support and stimulus,
- and brandy-and-water supplied to him the excitement that opium yields
- to others; but it had no intoxicating effect on him: its action was,
- if possible, more strange, and indeed terrible to witness. His mind
- travelling in the dark regions of romance, seemed altogether to have
- deserted the body, and left behind a mere physical organism, his long
- pale face acquired the appearance of a cast taken from the face of a
- dead body; and his large prominent eyes took a glassy look; so that
- when, at that witching hour, he suddenly, without speaking, raised
- himself, and extended a thin and bony hand, to grasp the silver branch
- with which he lighted me down stairs, I have often started, and gazed
- on him as a spectral illusion of his own creation.
-
-_Melmoth the Wanderer_ appeared in autumn 1820 and was, by permission,
-inscribed to the ‘most noble the Marchioness of Abercorn.’ A
-preface[121] explains the genesis of the book:
-
- The hint of this Romance (or tale) was taken from a passage in one of
- my Sermons, which (as it is to be presumed very few have read) I shall
- here take the liberty to quote. The passage is this.
-
- “At this moment is there one of us present, however we may have
- departed from the Lord, disobeyed His will, and disregarded His
- word--is there one of us who would, at this moment, accept all
- that man could bestow, or earth afford, to resign the hope of his
- salvation? No, there is not one--not such a fool on earth, were the
- enemy of mankind to traverse it with the offer!”
-
- This passage suggested the idea of “Melmoth the Wanderer.” The Reader
- will find that idea developed in the following pages, with what power
- or success _he_ is to decide.
-
-The preface ends with one of those apologies of an artist for creating
-works of art, which Maturin thought proper to make every now and then,
-but which do not strike one as being over-sincere:
-
- I cannot again appear before the public in so unseemly a character
- as that of a writer of romances, without regretting the necessity
- that compels me to it. Did my profession furnish me with the means of
- subsistence, I should hold myself culpable indeed in having recourse
- to any other, but--am I allowed the choice?
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The preface, as will be seen, really does not give more than a ‘hint,’
-either of the story or of its hero. It is not the enemy himself
-who is made to traverse mankind with the gloomy offer; Melmoth the
-Wanderer is a poor mortal who has, driven by an insatiable thirst for
-forbidden knowledge, bartered the hope of his own salvation for certain
-privileges not allotted to common man. Among these is the quenching
-of his soul’s thirst, a life prolonged by 150 years and the ability
-of rapidly performing great distances and appearing where he pleases,
-unhindered by lock or bolt. His contract with the evil one can be
-cancelled only if he finds another mortal who is willing to change
-destinies with him. Such mortal it soon becomes Melmoth’s sole wish to
-encounter. His curiosity is perfectly satisfied; his partly superhuman
-existence grows an intolerable burden to him, and he looks with terror
-and anxiety towards the expiration of his term, when he will be lost
-for all eternity. The greater part of his prolonged existence is
-occupied in tracing out and visiting human beings in utmost misery and
-wretchedness, and tempting them to buy their temporal salvation at the
-cost of their eternal, but none, ‘to gain the world, will lose his own
-soul,’ and when the term does expire, Satan inexorably claims his due.
-
-Melmoth, as we are told towards the end of the story by a clergyman who
-has known him in his youth, is originally an Irishman of good family,
-of ‘various erudition, profound intellect, and intense appetency for
-information.’ About the year 1650 he travels in Poland and there
-becomes ‘irrevocably attached to the study of that art which is held
-in just abomination by all who name the name of Christ.’ After some
-years the clergyman, then residing in Germany, is summoned to a dying
-friend who turns out to be Melmoth. He confesses that he has--without
-explaining how--committed ‘the great angelic sin,’ and has but one
-thing to ask of his friend: ‘I sent for you to exact your solemn
-promise that you will conceal from every human being the fact of my
-death--let no man know that I died, or when, or where.’ At an hour,
-predicted by Melmoth with great exactitude, his strength begins to
-fail, and he becomes perfectly cold, like a corpse. The friend then
-leaves him, but afterwards, while travelling on the Continent, he is
-continually haunted by rumours of Melmoth being still alive. It is,
-accordingly, after his apparent death that Melmoth has been re-animated
-into his new, weird existence, and that his hopeless wanderings
-commence.
-
-The idea of melting Faust and Mephistopheles into one person was
-strikingly original, and the figure of Melmoth keeps, in the fiction
-of the time, a place distinctly its own, even if a great many minor
-traits, relative both to its human and its superhuman character, can
-be traced to literary sources more or less obvious. There is Milton’s
-Satan,[122] grand and awful in his fallen state; there is the legend
-of the Wandering Jew,[123] who restlessly travels from land to land,
-in hope of eventually being delivered of his curse--as does his
-counterpart at sea, the Flying Dutchman; there is the Radcliffe hero,
-tormented by secret crimes and mysteriously appearing and disappearing,
-and his successor the Byronic hero with his large and gloomy eyes and
-with his sardonic yet strangely fascinating smile; and finally the
-Rosicrucians,[124] so common in the imaginative tales of the time:
-all these can, in glimpses, be recognized in the Wanderer. From some
-contemporary stories Maturin seems to have borrowed certain ingredients
-directly appertaining to the wonderful change which Melmoth undergoes.
-The incident of his apparent death recalls John William Polidori’s
-story of _The Vampyre_ (1819).[125] The hero, who turns out to be a
-vampyre living on the blood of men--or preferably of women--is mortally
-wounded while travelling with a friend in Greece, and his greatest
-care, like Melmoth’s, is to conceal his death:
-
- “Swear!” cried the dying man, raising himself with exultant violence,
- “Swear by all your soul reveres, by all your nature fears, swear that
- for a year and a day you will not impart your knowledge of my crimes
- or death to any living being in any way, whatever may happen, or
- whatever you may see.”
-
-Afterwards the vampyre re-appears in society and, thanks to the oath
-of his friend, succeeds in making his sister one of his victims. Of
-greater importance, however, are the impulses Maturin received from
-Godwin’s _St. Leon_. Here an old man, under circumstances mysterious
-and but imperfectly described, communicates to Reginald de St. Leon the
-secret of everlasting youth and inexhaustible wealth. The hero joyfully
-consents to relieve the old man of what seems to be a burden to him;
-but almost at the very moment the bargain is made, he becomes deeply
-unhappy:
-
- Methought the race of mankind looked too insignificant in my eyes.
- I felt a degree of uneasiness at the immeasurable distance that was
- put between me and the rest of my species. I found myself alone in
- the world. Must I for ever live without a companion, a friend, any
- one with whom I can associate upon equal terms, with whom I can have
- a community of sensations, and feelings, and hopes, and desires, and
- fears?
-
-This must be indicated as one of the fundamental ideas in _Melmoth the
-Wanderer_, also.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Maturin’s romance belongs to the stories of the supernatural only in so
-far as the personality of Melmoth is concerned; otherwise, the ‘Gothic
-elements’ contained in it consist of the usual external apparatus,
-calculated to appeal to the reader’s sense of ‘fear arising from
-objects of invisible terror,’ as stated in the preface to _Montorio_.
-The book consists of six different tales with nothing in common except
-the appearance, at the critical moment, of Melmoth the Wanderer. The
-whole is extraordinarily involved, and the only means of analysis is to
-treat each tale separately.[126]
-
-When the story begins, in 1816, a young man of the name of John Melmoth
-is summoned from Dublin to the county of Wicklow, to attend a dying
-uncle. John is the orphan son of a younger brother and has passed his
-joyless life alternately in an humble attic in Dublin, and on the
-estate of this same uncle, an old miser, who has scarcely allowed his
-young visitor food enough; he has, however, been taught to consider
-himself his uncle’s heir apparent, and, consequently, to treat him with
-the utmost deference. On arriving at the country-house John finds it in
-a most desolate and neglected state, as well as the miser himself, who
-lies on his death-bed attended by an old village Sybil whom he employs
-to avoid the expense of a doctor, and sundry menials impatiently
-waiting for the death of their master to enable them to celebrate a
-wake with more food and drink than they are wont to see during a whole
-year. The miser is well aware of these genial expectations, which by
-no means contribute to the sweetening of his last moments. The arrival
-however of John somewhat enlivens him; he even commissions his nephew
-to bring him a glass of liquor from a small closet, which John well
-remembers nobody but his uncle has ever been allowed to enter. Once
-in the closet, he sees on the wall the portrait of a man in middle
-age, whose eyes appear to him to shed an unearthly lustre from the
-old canvas; on the border of the picture he reads: Jhn. Melmoth, anno
-1646. The picture detains him in the closet a few moments more than
-necessary, whence his uncle concludes that he has been examining it.
-With terrible exertion he whisperingly communicates to John that the
-original of the picture is still alive and that he himself is--on that
-account--dying of fright. The same night old Melmoth expires, and
-John, to his horror, sees the door opened by a stranger who distinctly
-resembles the portrait in the closet.
-
-From the miser’s will it appears that he has made John his sole
-heir. He has, moreover, added a memorandum to the will, in which
-he enjoins his nephew to destroy the portrait alluded to, as well
-as an old manuscript which he will also find in the closet. John’s
-curiosity is roused about the mystery connected with his family, the
-more so as he gathers that his uncle has, during his last years, been
-constantly hanging over a manuscript which he always concealed if any
-one entered the room. From the old Sybil John learns what tradition
-has kept alive of the secrets of the family. She states that the elder
-brother of the Melmoth who first settled in Ireland as a follower of
-Cromwell, was a great traveller and seldom visited his family; once
-when he appeared all were surprised to see that he had undergone no
-external change whatever, although he ought to have been, at that
-time, a very old man. His visit was but short, and at his departure he
-left his portrait behind him. Some years afterwards a person arrived
-who appeared to be most anxious to know as much as possible about
-Melmoth the traveller; but the family being unable--or unwilling--to
-communicate anything of importance, he departed and, in his turn, left
-behind him a manuscript. As to the traveller, the hag concludes, he is
-generally believed to be alive and to make his appearance on the death
-of such members of the family as have something weighing upon their
-conscience.--After having burnt the portrait, John devotes himself
-to read the old, discoloured, mutilated manuscript as well as he is
-able. The writing is interrupted by many illegible lines; sometimes
-whole pages are missing. What he makes out is that the writer, an
-Englishman called Stanton, was travelling in Spain in 1676 and there
-saw a countryman of his who excited much superstitious horror among the
-populace, and, as it seemed, not quite without cause. Stanton himself
-had heard him break into a demoniac laughter on seeing two persons
-blighted by lightning, and shortly afterwards heard a story still more
-terrible. At a fashionable wedding-feast he had frightened all by the
-unearthly glare of his eyes, and even killed a priest who was going
-to utter a prayer, by merely staring at him. The wedding had ended by
-the bride being found dead in the arms of the bridegroom, who had lost
-his reason on the same occasion; and this tragic event also had been
-attributed to the machinations of the stranger--Melmoth the traveller.
-Stanton, tormented by an inexplicable longing to see and hear more of
-his mysterious countryman, had returned to England and spent several
-years in fruitless attempts to get sight of him. At length he had met
-him outside a theatre, and Melmoth had uttered a horrible prophecy of
-their meeting soon again in a madhouse. And he was right; Stanton was
-confined at a hospital through the means of a designing relative, and
-when the horrors of his situation had well-nigh spent him, Melmoth
-had appeared in his cell, spoken much to him and finally offered to
-bring about his liberation, on certain conditions. The pages where
-these conditions are expounded are illegible in the manuscript John
-is examining, but it appears that Stanton had rejected them in great
-rage, whereupon Melmoth had departed. When Stanton finally gained his
-liberty he had resumed his restless pursuit of Melmoth. He had also
-visited Ireland, and left there the manuscript containing a narrative
-of his adventures.
-
-So the manuscript ends; but John is soon to learn more of his
-interesting ancestor. One night, in a violent storm, a vessel is
-wrecked and lost on the coast. All the neighbourhood gather on the
-shore and, under John’s command, do their best to save the crew, but
-their efforts are ineffectual. In the midst of his toil John perceives
-a man standing tranquilly upon a rock somewhat out of the way, and
-suddenly a terrible laugh is heard. Remembering the manuscript John
-rushes towards him, stumbles on his way and falls down into the sea.
-The only one of the shipwrecked who has succeeded in reaching the coast
-gets hold of him and clings to him until both are thrown on the shore
-by a huge wave. They are carried up to the manor-house, and after
-some days their strength is restored. The stranger is found to be a
-Spaniard; his first question is, whether John’s name is not Melmoth.
-Receiving an answer in the affirmative he shows him a portrait, which
-John instantly recognizes as a miniature of the one he has destroyed.
-The Spaniard, apparently a man who has suffered much, then proceeds to
-tell the story of his life.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The narrative related above, lengthy as it is, serves as a sort of
-introduction to all that follows, affording the first imperfect
-glimpses of the Wanderer. The scenes which are enacted in the dreary,
-half-decayed country-house before and after the miser’s death are
-the best-written passages in _Melmoth_, representing, together with
-certain chapters in _Women_, Maturin’s art on its very highest level;
-and this art, it is as well to observe, is eminently realistic.
-Little as the abode of old Melmoth has in common with the household
-of Mr. Wentworth, there is the same blending of intensely suggestive
-‘atmosphere’ and minute truthfulness to nature about the descriptions.
-The sorry state of the manor to which John Melmoth travels and which
-recalls his gloomiest memories, is vividly painted thus:
-
- As John slowly trod the miry road which had once been the approach,
- he could discover, by the dim light of an autumnal evening, signs of
- increasing desolation since he had last visited the spot,--signs that
- penury had been aggravated and sharpened into downright misery. There
- was not a fence or a hedge round the domain: an uncemented wall of
- loose stones, whose numerous gaps were filled with furze or thorns,
- supplied their place. There was not a tree or shrub on the lawn; the
- lawn itself was turned into pasture-ground, and a few sheep were
- picking their scanty food amid the pebble-stones, thistles, and hard
- mould, through which a few blades of grass made their rare and squalid
- appearance.
-
- The house itself stood strongly defined even amid the darkness of the
- evening sky; for there were neither wings, or offices, or shrubbery,
- or tree, to shade or support it and soften its harsh outline. John,
- after a melancholy gaze at the grass-grown steps and boarded windows,
- “addressed himself” to knock at the door; but knocker there was
- none: loose stones, however, there were in plenty; and John was
- making vigorous application to the door with one of them, till the
- furious barking of a mastiff, who threatened at every bound to break
- his chain, and whose yell and growl, accompanied by “eyes that glow
- and fangs that grin” savoured as much of hunger as of rage, made
- the assailant raise the siege on the door, and betake himself to a
- well-known passage that led to the kitchen. A light glimmered in the
- window as he approached: he raised the latch with a doubtful hand;
- but, when he saw the party within, he advanced with the step of a man
- no longer doubtful of his welcome.
-
-The party in question consists of old Melmoth’s servants and
-‘followers.’ This was the last time Maturin depicted his countrymen,
-the lower Irish, and never had he done so with more vigour and
-penetration. They are described without even a semblance of
-idealization; specifically Irish is only their instinctive deference
-to persons of higher rank, and their endless circumlocutions of
-speech, but there is no boisterous and overflowing humour about them,
-still less a breath of soul-stirring romance; they simply are what
-circumstances have made them, and that is, in this case at least, a
-set to be both disliked and distrusted. Yet the picture does not lack
-its brighter side. These people cannot, as a matter of course, be
-expected to be exactly sorry at the approaching end of their master,
-but John Melmoth has nothing to fear from them, and that there is much
-in them that is naturally good and brave is seen in their spontaneous
-efforts to save the sinking vessel. There is an old housekeeper who
-is described with a kind of rough sympathy and not without strokes of
-humour. John has always been an object of her tenderness--long ago,
-when he was staying in the house and was sent hungry to bed, she had
-often stolen up to him with something she had had much trouble to
-save, and she still kindly insists on calling him her ‘whiteheaded
-boy.’ To be sure, she avails herself of her knowledge how to get at
-the store of spirits by a way unknown to old Melmoth, and so has made
-ample preparations for his honour’s wake in good time; but she is, at
-the same time, really anxious to think of his soul in his departing
-hour, and conceives it to be her religious duty perforce to put upon
-him a clean shirt when that solemn hour draws nigh.--The old Sybil, on
-the other hand, is a decidedly unsympathetic figure, a humbug and an
-impostor of the first order, a type not common in the fiction of the
-time.
-
-Old Melmoth is extremely well drawn; in the few pages treating of him
-his character stands perfectly clear before the reader. Though always
-of a niggardly turn, he has once been a gentleman, and has, in fact,
-never committed actual wrongs in the course of accumulating his wealth.
-‘He was,’ says the housekeeper, ‘of a hard hand, and a hard heart,
-but he was as jealous of another’s right as of his own. He would have
-starved all the world, but he would not have wronged it of a farthing.’
-He is, towards the end of his life, tormented by fear as much as by
-the passion of avarice. His days are passed in the revolting but
-irresistible task of studying the manuscript, and he firmly believes
-that he has seen his mysterious ancestor in his own house. In the
-superstitious horror that never leaves him he clings, as it were, all
-the more eagerly to something real and concrete, and, having nought
-else, he cherishes his worldly goods until he sits in the kitchen to
-save a fire in his own room and expresses, as his last, the desire
-to be buried in a parish coffin. A fragment of his conversation best
-illustrates the character of old Melmoth:
-
- --“What made you burn sixes in the kitchen, you extravagant jade? How
- many years have you lived in this house?” “I don’t know, your honour.”
- “Did you ever see any extravagance or waste in it?” “Oh never, never,
- your honour.” “Was any thing but a farthing candle ever burned in
- the kitchen?” “Never, never, your honour.” “Were not you kept as
- tight as hand and head and heart could keep you, were you not? answer
- me that.” “Oh yes, sure, your honour; every _sowl_ about us knows
- that,--every one does your honour justice, that you kept the closest
- house and closest hand in the country,--your honour was always a good
- warrant for it.” “And how dare you unlock my hold before death has
- unlocked it,” said the dying miser, shaking his meagre hand at her.
- “I smelt meat in the house,--I heard voices in the house,--I heard
- the key turn in the door over and over. Oh that I was up,” he added,
- rolling in impatient agony in his bed, “oh that I was up, to see the
- waste and ruin that is going on. But it would kill me,” he continued,
- sinking back on the bolster, for he never allowed himself a pillow;
- “it would kill me,--the very thought of it is killing me now.” The
- women, discomfited and defeated, after sundry winks and whispers, were
- huddling out of the room, till recalled by the sharp eager tones of
- old Melmoth.--“Where are ye trooping to now? back to the kitchen to
- gormandize and guzzle? Won’t one of ye stay and listen while there’s a
- prayer read for me? Ye may want it one day for yourselves, ye hags.”
- Awed by this expostulation and menace the train silently returned,
- and placed themselves round the bed, while the housekeeper, though a
- Catholic, asked if his honour would not have a clergyman to give him
- _the rights_ (rites) of his church. The eyes of the dying man sparkled
- with vexation at the proposal. “What for,--just to have him expect a
- scarf and hat-band at the funeral. Read the prayers yourself, you old
- ----; that will save something.”--
-
-With these scenes of strong and sordid realism is mingled the
-supernatural fear felt for the traveller; but sparingly and skilfully
-as this supernatural element is used, it does not disturb the general
-style of the narrative. It only serves to heighten the gloominess of
-the atmosphere and to excite the reader’s curiosity. This curiosity
-is admirably kept alive throughout the whole. It increases gradually,
-being never satisfied. When John asks the old hag to tell him all she
-knows about his ancestor, it is stated that she leaves him excited
-with a story, wild, improbable, actually incredible. The story is not
-at once related to the reader; he is left in suspense about it, while
-John Melmoth immediately proceeds to gather more information from the
-manuscript. It appears, however, that candles there are none in the
-house, and until such are procured from a neighbouring village, he
-sits alone in the dreary room, while night falls upon him and the sky
-is overcast with dark clouds promising a long continuance of gloom and
-rain. Now he in his thoughts recapitulates the story he has just heard,
-the one with reference to the traveller and his portrait. The messenger
-sent to the village then returning, John seeks out the manuscript and
-begins, by the ghastly light of a couple of candles, to decipher a
-story much wilder than that which he has from the hag. It is easy to
-perceive that the increase of interest is greater with this succession,
-than if the calmer passage about the preparations for studying the
-manuscript were placed between the two stories.--As for the fragmentary
-manuscript itself, it of course always breaks off at the most thrilling
-moment.
-
-By the opening chapters of _Melmoth the Wanderer_, Maturin’s first
-romance of _Montorio_ is called to mind in a way clearly showing the
-disadvantages of the Radcliffe style and the general inferiority in the
-construction of stories of that school. The figure of Schemoli--which,
-as has been shown, is a typically Radcliffeian hero--is here, in many
-respects, a prototype of Melmoth: the obscurity in which his person
-is veiled as well as his sudden and unimpeded entrances where he is
-not expected, are traits which have descended to the Wanderer; but
-the supernaturalness of the latter is real and need not be explained
-as some utterly incredible, merely human attainments. In one of the
-half-ruinous apartments of the castle of Muralto where Annibal is so
-fond of rambling, there is an old portrait, the eyes of which are, by
-the tricks of Schemoli, made to appear to him as living. The impression
-made on John Melmoth by the portrait in the miser’s secret closet is
-a result of that same preternatural quality in the original, which,
-once accepted, defies all ‘natural’ elucidations and is not followed by
-the disappointment necessarily appertaining to such. Thus the artistic
-effect of these scenes is of a permanent kind and preserves its charm
-even at re-perusal, which is never the case with the puerile tricks of
-the Radcliffe stories. Yet notwithstanding this slight supernatural
-import, the incidents taking place in the house of old Melmoth cannot
-be ranked among the actual ‘Gothic’ stories. These incidents are
-not fantastical or violent enough, and the style is too strikingly
-realistic; nor does the ‘passion of supernatural fear’ here seem to be
-the ultimate object of the author. The tale of Stanton, on the other
-hand, is typically a production of the school of terror. To begin with,
-the introduction of a story by the discovery of an old, half-moulding
-manuscript was a favourite one with most of the writers of this school,
-and the manuscript studied by John Melmoth affords all the usual
-requisites: Spanish environs, with ruins both Moorish and Roman, amid
-thunder and lightning; wedding-feasts in great houses with dead bride
-and insane bridegroom; religious intolerance, Inquisition, and fear of
-the devil. These passages are rather rhapsodical--as indeed they are
-meant to be--and less interesting than Stanton’s subsequent experiences
-in England; the madhouse where Stanton is confined is described more
-horribly than any prisons of the Inquisition in any romance of terror.
-The time of action is that of Charles II: a period in which Maturin
-was deeply versed and which had a strange fascination for him. In his
-pursuit of Melmoth, Stanton is said often to visit places of public
-amusement, and it is at a theatre he at last discovers him. This
-gives Maturin occasion to insert a brilliant study of the theatrical
-performances of that time, most evidently written _con amore_, in spite
-of the strong emphasis laid upon the loose morals of these amusements.
-After one performance, during which a great commotion is caused by
-the attempt of an actress to stab her rival in good earnest, Stanton
-meets Melmoth in the deserted street, where he has been waiting for
-him. Stanton being, at first, at a loss what to say, Melmoth quietly
-announces that they will soon meet again:--‘the place shall be the bare
-walls of a madhouse, where you shall rise rattling in your chains, and
-rustling from your straw, to greet me,--yet still you shall have the
-_curse of sanity_, and of memory. -- -- _I never desert my friends
-in misfortune._ When they are plunged in the lowest abyss of human
-calamity, they are sure to be visited by me.’
-
-Here, for the first time, is given the clue to Melmoth’s personality
-and the purpose of his wanderings; from the tale of Stanton it can also
-be concluded that Melmoth has the power of contributing to, as well
-as predicting, the destiny of his victims. The prophecy is fulfilled.
-Stanton’s eccentric mode of living and incessant talk of Melmoth,
-whom nobody else has ever seen, rouses the belief in his madness.
-Of this belief his nearest relative and heir, an unscrupulous man,
-resolves to avail himself. He procures a place in a madhouse which
-he easily induces the careless and absent-minded Stanton to visit,
-and there he is forced to remain. The picture which Maturin draws of
-this place is frightful in the extreme, yet doubtless historically
-true, in as much as lunatics at that time were treated exactly like
-criminals, chains and whip being the only medicine resorted to by the
-keepers, many of whom were most inhuman ruffians. But this picture is
-also in other respects pervaded by the spirit of the time. About the
-Restoration insanity raged in England more than at any other period
-before or since, and the fanaticism, both religious and political, of
-the preceding decades, has amply furnished the madhouses with wretched
-inmates. As Stanton’s next neighbours there are a puritan weaver, who
-has lost his reason after listening to one of the celebrated preachers
-of the day, and a loyalist tailor, who has been ruined by too liberal
-a credit to the cavaliers; and these two pass the nights in desperate
-controversies which make the very walls ring. Further, there is a woman
-who has lost her husband and all her children in the great London
-fire--this, too, a topic of the day. Once a week, the night of her
-disaster, she recapitulates the horrors which have befallen her:
-
- The maniac marked the destruction of the spot where she thought she
- stood by one desperate bound, accompanied by a wild shriek, and
- then calmly gazed on her infants as they rolled over the scorching
- fragments, and sunk into the abyss of fire below. “There they
- go--one--two--three--all!” and her voice sunk into low mutterings, and
- her convulsions into faint, cold shudderings, like the sobbings of a
- spent storm, as she imagined herself to “stand in safety and despair,”
- amid the thousand houseless wretches assembled in the suburbs of
- London on the dreadful night after the fire; without food, roof, or
- raiment, all gazing on the burning ruins of their dwellings and their
- property. She seemed to listen to their complaints, and even repeated
- some of them very affectingly, but invariably answered them with the
- same words, “But I have lost all my children--all!” It was remarkable,
- that when this sufferer began to rave, all the others became silent.
- The cry of nature hushed every other cry,--she was the only patient
- in the house who was not mad from politics, religion, inebriety, or
- some perverted passion; and terrifying as the out-break of her frenzy
- always was, Stanton used to await it as a kind of relief from the
- dissonant, melancholy, and ludicrous ravings of the others.
-
-It is clear that Stanton well-nigh loses his own reason in this
-neighbourhood. At first he tries to effect his liberation by observing
-a calm and sane behaviour, but seeing that his sanity is interpreted
-as the refined cunning of a madman, he gradually gives up all hope.
-He grows careless and neglects himself; at last he never rises from
-his wretched bed, and when Melmoth, according to his promise, appears
-in his cell, he is indeed ‘in the lowest abyss of human calamity.’ To
-judge from some indistinct lines in the manuscript, Stanton from the
-first receives him with distrust; for on the following pages Melmoth
-exerts all his terrible eloquence to induce Stanton to listen to him.
-He holds out to him the prospect of his soon losing his reason, or,
-still more dreadful, of his fear of losing it becoming a hope--nay,
-even to the life to come Melmoth extends his gloomy anticipations. He
-points out that as there is not a crime which madmen are not prepared
-to commit, the soul of a madman is not likely to be favourably judged,
-but, on the contrary, destroyed along with the reason, the loss of
-which, accordingly, implies the loss of immortality. Thus even his
-eternal welfare will depend upon his consenting to be liberated by
-Melmoth. The conditions for this are illegible in the manuscript, but
-it appears that Stanton indignantly rejects them. He does not, however,
-reap very great benefits by his steadfastness, for, being finally
-liberated, his life is to pass in the same restless anxiety as before,
-and in the same fruitless efforts to see his tormentor once more.--
-
-The manuscript being finished the story turns back to John Melmoth and
-the shipwrecked Spaniard. The description of the storm is fine and
-animated enough, although this mode of introducing the stranger was
-none of the newest, even if somewhat better in its place here than
-in _Bertram_. Here the Spaniard only is saved, and he now becomes
-the hero, Melmoth the Wanderer disappearing for a considerable time.
-The happenings in the house of old Melmoth, with the tale of Stanton
-inserted, form the first great section of the book, being still
-of an introductory character. The general effect is an excellent
-one. The desolated country-house is a very appropriate back-ground
-to the fantastical incidents read in the ancient manuscript; and
-different as are the styles of the two narratives, the contrast is not
-inartistic. This introduction to _Melmoth_ is evidently reflected in
-some fantastic productions of later time. The idea of the Wanderer’s
-marvellous portrait has been supposed[127] to reappear in _The
-Picture of Dorian Gray_ (1890)--Wilde, whose mother was a niece of
-Maturin, was well acquainted with his great-uncle’s romance; it will
-be remembered that he lived his last years in Paris under the name of
-Sebastien Melmoth. In one of the most famous English ghost-stories,
-Bulwer-Lytton’s _The Haunted and the Haunters_ (1859), the mysterious
-being is first introduced by means of a miniature portrait, bearing a
-strange, never-to-be-forgotten expression. He has much in common with
-Melmoth the Wanderer. His existence is prolonged for centuries--not,
-indeed, by any pact with the devil, but by the extremely developed
-‘energetic faculty that we call _will_.’ He turns up in various
-countries and in various guise, arranging, at his departures, a mock
-celebration of his own obsequies. He has the same unlimited knowledge
-as Melmoth, and it seems to interest him as little; and though his
-supernatural life is traced to a scientific source, it is even hinted
-that a power like his, however malignant, cannot injure the good and
-the brave.
-
-Owing, probably, to the great length and extraordinary contents of
-_Melmoth_, this introduction seems to have been passed by with but
-little notice on the part of the critics. There are some lines on it in
-a contemporary review,[128] interesting in so far as they show that the
-first chapters, exaggerated as they were accused of being, were at once
-felt to differ from the rest, and have little to do with the obsolete
-school of _unnatural_ terrors:
-
- The opening of the book is natural and simple, relating the dependence
- of a poor lad, John Melmoth, on an old miser of an uncle, and his
- sudden call from college to attend his uncle on his death-bed. -- --
- -- We shall not inflict upon our readers the horrors attending the
- miser’s death-bed, or the manner in which his neighbours and servants
- enjoyed the scene of his departure; though there are some features of
- the description very natural, and others, we doubt not, very national:
- but then our author never stops in the right place. Over doing,
- _Anglice_, exaggeration, seems a passion with him.
-
-The ‘natural and simple’ was what people were beginning to have an
-appetite for; _Melmoth_, like _Montorio_, came into the world just a
-little too late to be exactly what the public wanted.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-In the _Tale of the Spaniard_ the stranger relates to John Melmoth a
-part of his life which has been passed amid extraordinary hardships
-and sufferings, in desperate attempts to escape from a convent in
-Madrid, and subsequently in the prisons of the Inquisition. He is a
-descendant of the ducal house of Monçada; his mother is of a rank far
-inferior, and Alonzo (the hero) is born before his parents are united
-in marriage, for which reason he is educated in strict seclusion. The
-marriage, however, is at last acknowledged by the old duke, Alonzo’s
-grandfather, but Alonzo, before his birth, has already been devoted
-to God and destined to become a minister of religion, in expiation of
-his mother’s crime. Inspired by her Director she fanatically insists
-on Alonzo’s entering a convent of ex-Jesuits, and as this is much
-against the inclinations of Alonzo, the contention grows very acute.
-Alonzo’s father is good-natured but weak; in his heart he commiserates
-his son, but dare not oppose the menaces of the Director, who urges
-the fulfilment of the vow solely to maintain and augment his own power
-over the family. To overcome Alonzo’s resistance every means, fair
-and foul, are resorted to, and finally a promise is extorted from him
-to become a novice. These proceedings it is of interest to compare to
-certain chapters in the great Italian novel _I promessi sposi_ (1827)
-of Alessandro Manzoni--namely, to those in which Gertrude, the daughter
-also of a duke, is, likewise for family reasons, forced to take the
-veil. There is much resemblance between her fate and Alonzo’s. From
-their earliest childhood their future vocation is spoken of as a thing
-irrevocably decided, as well as perfectly agreeable to themselves, and
-as they grow old enough to have an opinion of their own, allurement and
-compulsion is alternately used to subdue it; during their noviciate
-they are treated with peculiar indulgence on account of their birth and
-high connections; and the demoralizing influence of coersion, which
-shows itself in a repulsive hypocrisy, is strongly emphasized in both
-cases. It would, of course, be too bold to assert that Manzoni had
-received any impulses from _Melmoth_, although he is known to have been
-a student of English literature, especially of Scott; but the parallel
-unquestionably goes to show that this part of _Melmoth_ is not only a
-work of anti-catholic imagination, without any relation to real life in
-Catholic society. The mild and quiet style of Manzoni is, otherwise,
-as far as far can be from the indignant rage that burns in every line
-of the Spaniard’s tale. Maturin, as has been said, was convinced
-that his own ancestors had been victims of Catholic intolerance, and
-his antipathy to the darker sides of this religion, always keen, is
-nowhere so strongly expressed as in the present story. He sees nothing
-good in monastic life and refuses to find any redeeming features in a
-system which favours it. Young as Alonzo is, he fully comprehends the
-hypocrisy practised by the monks and novices, and immediately conceives
-an invincible aversion for the convent. This aversion is, in fact,
-shared by all its inmates; but those who themselves have lost all hope
-of liberation are, out of envy, most anxious to retain others in the
-same misery. Thus a frank, open word is never heard among them, and
-when trying to address his comrades, Alonzo is invariably repelled by
-the sanctimonious and untruthful air they assume towards him:
-
- I said to them, “Are you, then, intended for the monastic life?” “We
- hope so.” “Yet I have heard you, Oliva, _once_ (it was when you did
- not think I overheard you) I heard you complain of the length and
- tediousness of the homilies delivered on the eves of the saints.”--“I
- was then under the influence of the evil spirit doubtless,” said
- Oliva, who was a boy not older than myself. “Satan is sometimes
- permitted to buffet those whose vocation is but commencing, and
- whom he is therefore more afraid to lose.” “And I have heard you,
- Balcastro, say you had not taste for music; and to me, I confess, that
- of the choir appears least likely to inspire a taste for it.” “God
- had touched my heart since,” replied the young hypocrite, crossing
- himself; “and you know, friend of my soul, there is a promise, that
- the ears of the deaf shall be opened.” “Where are those words?” “In
- the Bible.” “The Bible?--But we are not permitted to read it.” “True,
- dear Monçada, but we have the word of our Superior and the brethren
- for it, and that is enough.” “Certainly; our spiritual guides must
- take on themselves the whole responsibility of that state, whose
- enjoyments and punishments they reserve in their own hands; but,
- Balcastro, are you willing to take this life on their word, as well as
- the next, and resign it before you have tried it?” “My dear friend,
- you only speak to tempt me.” “_I do not speak to tempt_,” said I, and
- was turning indignantly away -- -- --
-
-When Alonzo, touched by the grief and despair of his mother, at
-last consents to take the vow and finally to enter the monastery,
-he is soon to see that hypocrisy is not the only vice thriving in
-that fertile soil. The incidents related above present a subtle and
-powerful picture of the influence of the Catholic church, but thus
-far there has been nothing actually horrible in the Spaniard’s tale.
-Now, however, the story becomes of rather a blood-curdling character.
-There is a conversation which Alonzo holds with an old monk who lies
-on his death-bed, which deserves to be quoted at some length, as it
-strikes the key-note of all the miseries of monastic life. These were,
-in Maturin’s opinion, the inevitable result of an existence stiffening
-away in brutalizing monotony, and never yet had he depicted such an
-existence in darker colours:
-
- “But to me, and to all the community, you seemed to be resigned to
- the monastic life.” “I seemed a lie--I lived a lie--I was a lie--I
- ask pardon of my last moments for speaking the truth--I presume they
- neither can refuse me, or discredit my words--I hated the monastic
- life. Inflict pain on man, and his energies are roused--condemn him to
- insanity, and he slumbers like animals that have been found inclosed
- in wood and stone, torpid and content; but condemn him at once to pain
- and insanity, as they do in convents, and you unite the sufferings of
- hell and of annihilation. For sixty years I have cursed my existence.
- I never woke to hope, for I had nothing to do or to expect. I never
- lay down with consolation, mockeries of God, as exercises of
- devotion. The moment life is put beyond the reach of your will, and
- placed under the influence of mechanical operations, it becomes, to
- thinking beings, a torment insupportable.
-
- “I never ate with appetite, because I knew, that with or without it,
- I must go to the refectory when the bell rung. I never lay down to
- rest in peace, because I knew the bell was to summon me in defiance
- of nature, whether I was disposed to prolong or shorten my repose. I
- never prayed, for my prayers were dictated to me. I never hoped, for
- my hopes were founded not on the truth of God, but on the promises and
- threatenings of man. My salvation hovered on the breath of a being as
- weak as myself, whose weakness I was nevertheless obliged to flatter,
- and struggle to obtain a gleam of the grace of God, through the dark
- distorted medium of the vices of man. _It never reached me_--I die
- without light, hope, faith, or consolation.”
-
-Under circumstances like these the most passionate contentions are
-excited by the slightest causes, and the minutest deviations from
-regularity are regarded as adventures of the most important gravity.
-Yet the liveliness thus aroused naturally becomes morbid and distorted,
-and degenerates into ‘spleen, malignity, curiosity.’ The soul is
-stunted for ever, and the mind grows impervious to every great or
-generous feeling; barbarous punishments are inflicted for the slightest
-offences. Alonzo is, from his very entrance there, the black sheep
-of this community. He is, indeed, most punctual in his religious
-performances, but it is easy to see that he is not penetrated with the
-spirit of the monastical life, and his exactness in the forms only
-‘will not do’ for the monks. They can not excite his interest about
-such matters as whether the hour for matins should be postponed ‘full
-five minutes,’ and even a sham miracle is performed for his sake in
-vain. Before long an unexpected incident gives them opportunity of
-assuming towards him an attitude decidedly hostile. One night the
-porter of the convent smuggles to Alonzo a scrap of paper, which turns
-out to be a letter from his brother Juan, whom he has seen but once and
-who is intent upon effecting his liberation from the convent.
-
-Juan, the younger son of the duke Monçada, has been educated by the
-Director and, from his earliest infancy, been taught to hate his
-brother and regard him as a bastard and usurper of his rights. In this
-the Director first succeeds, but then the impetuous and vehement nature
-which he has tried to develop in Juan, is suddenly turned against
-himself. To the monastical life Juan has an aversion as strong as that
-of Alonzo himself, and when he learns that the latter is to be made a
-monk, he cannot but think it an injustice, and begins to feel a strange
-interest in his unfortunate brother. It is a fine and touching piece
-of juvenile psychology Maturin gives in the short sketch of Juan. A
-mind naturally generous, if ever so spoiled and distorted by improper
-education, always wishes its enemy to be in a fighting condition; and
-when Juan thinks of Alonzo as a monk, an object unfit for hate and
-unable to defend himself, his feelings of hostility are replaced by a
-passion exactly opposite, only stronger, as being conformable to his
-natural instincts. He now finds out all the wrongs done to Alonzo, and
-devotes his energies to his liberation. Alonzo, he learns, can reclaim
-his vows, if he declares them to have been extorted from him by fraud
-or terror; the business can be carried on in a civil court. Juan then
-procures an able advocate and succeeds in bribing the porter of the
-convent, through whom Alonzo is to send him a written memorial to be
-used by the advocate.
-
-Having received his brother’s communication Alonzo at once proceeds
-to write the memorial, on the pretext of writing his confessions, and
-safely dispatches it to Juan. His frequent demands for paper, however,
-have excited the suspicions of the Superior, and Alonzo is accused of
-having employed the paper granted to him in some purpose contrary to
-the interests of the community. His cell and his person are searched
-with a zeal showing that the monks have, at last, got something to do.
-Nothing is found, but a few days later a copy of the memorial is sent
-by the advocate to the Superior. Now Alonzo is subjected to severe
-persecution on the part of the community, led by its brutal Superior.
-First of all he is confined in a subterranean dungeon, where he passes
-three days fighting with reptiles. Then he is removed to his cell,
-as the Superior, on account of the publicity with which the suit is
-carried on, dare not keep him actually imprisoned; still the community
-seems to have resolved that if he is to quit the convent, he is not to
-do so alive. He becomes the object of complete excommunication. He is
-excluded from the matins and from the church in general, and publicly
-pointed out as an object of the greatest abhorrence; he is never spoken
-to, every one shrinking from him as from a polluted being. At meals a
-mat is placed for him in the midst of the hall, where he is supplied
-with offal from the kitchen. The crucifix, the rosary, the vessel for
-holy water and everything else is removed from his cell so that at last
-there is nothing left except the bare walls and a miserable bed. The
-worst of all is that he is denied repose. One night he awakes to see
-his cell in flames; hideous figures have been scrawled on the walls
-with phosphorus. Another night he is aroused by a voice whispering
-to him temptations and blasphemies until he almost believes he is
-spoken to by the enemy of mankind. He cannot suppress a cry of horror;
-immediately a monk rushes in asking why he disturbs him in his sleep.
-Alonzo alleges turbulent dreams and the monk departs, but the following
-night the scenes are renewed. The voice becomes more and more horrible,
-uttering things which a good Catholic would shudder even to think of;
-once the image of the mother of God is displayed to him, and the voice
-exhorts him to spurn it and to spit upon it. Weak and delirious though
-he is, Alonzo still has power to resist these invitations. He cannot,
-consequently, be accused of obeying the temptations of Satan, but the
-news of his being subjected to them spread rapidly through the convent.
-Everybody believes, or pretends to believe it, and the general horror
-towards Alonzo increases; he is now excluded from all devotions. One
-night, when the voice again discusses the Madonna in an unutterable
-connection, the measure flows over:
-
- I could bear it no longer. I sprung from my bed, I ran through the
- gallery like a maniac, knocking at the doors of the cells, and
- exclaiming, “Brother such a one, pray for me,--pray for me, I beseech
- you.” I roused the whole convent. Then I flew down to the church; it
- was open, and I rushed in. I ran up the aisle, I precipitated myself
- before the altar, I embraced the images, I clang to the crucifix with
- loud and reiterated supplications. The monks, awakened by my outcries,
- or perhaps on the watch for them, descended in a body to the church,
- but, perceiving I was there, they would not enter,--they remained at
- the doors, with lights in their hands, gazing on me. It was a singular
- contrast between me, hurrying round the church almost in the dark
- (for there were but a few lamps burning dimly), and the group at the
- door, whose expression of horror was strongly marked by the light,
- which appeared to have deserted me to concentrate itself among them.
- The most impartial person on earth might have supposed me deranged,
- or possessed, or both, from the state in which they saw me. Heaven
- knows, too, what construction might have been put on my wild actions,
- which the surrounding darkness exaggerated and distorted, or on the
- prayers which I uttered, as I included in them the horrors of the
- temptation against which I implored protection. Exhausted at length, I
- fell to the ground, and remained there, without the power of moving,
- but able to hear and observe every thing that passed. I heard them
- debate whether they should leave me there or not, till the Superior
- commanded them to remove that abomination from the sanctuary; and such
- was the terror of me into which they had acted themselves, that he
- had to repeat his orders before he could procure obedience to them.
- They approached me at last, with the same caution that they would an
- infected corse, and dragged me out by the habit, leaving me on the
- paved floor before the door of the church. They then retired, and in
- this state I actually fell asleep, and continued so till I was awoke
- by the bell for matins. I recollected myself, and attempted to rise;
- but my having slept on a damp floor, when in a fever from terror and
- excitement, had so cramped my limbs, that I could not accomplish this
- without the most exquisite pain. As the community passed in to matins,
- I could not suppress a few cries of pain. They must have seen what was
- the matter, but not one of them offered me assistance, nor did I dare
- to implore it. By slow and painful efforts, I at last reached my cell;
- but, shuddering at the sight of the bed, I threw myself on the floor
- for repose.--
-
-With these procedures, however, the monks at last overshoot the mark.
-A closed community as the convent is, still the rumour is spread in
-Madrid, that a monk there is every night sorely harassed by the devil.
-This rumour also attracts the attention of the authorities, and the
-bishop of the diocese arrives to investigate the matter. He is a man
-calm, rigid, and passionless beyond measure, nor does he feel any
-personal sympathies for Alonzo; but when he sees the state of Alonzo’s
-cell and hears of the treatment he has been subjected to--which is
-contrary to the established rules of the convent--he sternly commands
-the Superior to restore everything to Alonzo and make him no longer an
-exception in any respect. Thus far, then, his torments now come to an
-end, but the greatest blow is yet to fall: intelligence reaches the
-convent of the failure of his appeal.
-
-Day follows day without Alonzo’s heeding them, until a new adventure
-commences, more dreadful than all the previous, as Juan once more finds
-means of smuggling a letter to him. He has been kept in the country
-almost a prisoner, but has succeeded in escaping to Madrid and settling
-everything for the escape of Alonzo, which is to be accomplished with
-the help of one of the monks. This future companion of Alonzo is not
-an agreeable character; he has entered the convent in order to escape
-the punishment following parricide, and is a man who ‘envies Judas
-the thirty pieces of silver for which the Redeemer of mankind was
-sold.’ For money he has now undertaken to assist in the liberation of
-Alonzo. In spite of Juan’s encouragements, Alonzo feels despondent and
-disconsolate. He fully understands the difficulties of his enterprise;
-even if he should manage to quit the convent in safety, where could a
-runaway Spanish monk find refuge? Nevertheless he gets into contact
-with the monk, who soon fixes the night for their escapade. He has
-procured the key of a door leading to the vaults of the convent,
-which have long been disused. From the vaults there is a trap-door
-to a remote part of the garden, whence they are to climb the wall by
-a ladder procured by Juan. Before they start it strikes Alonzo that
-his companion cannot brave that risk merely on his account, and asks
-how he is, in future, to provide for his own safety. The answer has a
-peculiarity of its own, opening a prospect the like of which none of
-the ‘terrific’ writers before Maturin had invented:
-
- “No, we must escape together. Could you suppose I would have so
- much anxiety about an event, in which I had no part but that of
- an assistant? It was of my own danger I was thinking,--it was of
- my own safety I was doubtful. Our situation has happened to unite
- very opposite characters in the same adventure, but it is an union
- inevitable and _inseparable_. Your destiny is now bound to mine by a
- tie which no human force can break,--we part no more for ever. The
- secret that each is in possession of, must be watched by the other.
- Our lives are in each other’s hands, and a moment of absence might be
- that of treachery. We must pass life in each watching every breath the
- other draws, every glance the other gives,--in dreading sleep as an
- involuntary betrayer, and watching the broken murmurs of each other’s
- restless dreams. We may hate each other, (for hatred itself would be a
- relief, compared to the tedium of our inseparability), but separate we
- must never.”
-
-With these bright prospects the pair commence their nocturnal wandering
-in the subterranean vaults, one, no doubt, of the most frightful
-wanderings ever described in literature. All difficulties which
-possibly can be encountered in such enterprises are heaped upon them,
-from their first ineffectual attempts to force the door with the
-rusty key and with lacerated hands, till the moment they sink down,
-exhausted, at the trap-door, after losing their way, after seeing their
-lamps go out, and after stumbling all night in darkness amid terrors
-real and imaginary, physical and psychical. Alonzo remembers old
-superstitious tales of demons who seduce monks into the vaults of the
-convent, and almost fancies he can hear the choir of their infernal
-sabbath; he grows giddy and stupefied, his knees and hands are stript
-of skin, and an intolerable thirst is produced by the unnatural
-atmosphere. At last human nature can endure no more; they lay down
-‘like two panting dogs’ in the darkness. When day draws nigh, a faint
-stream of light makes itself observable above their heads: they have
-arrived just at the trap-door they have been searching for. But even
-this hope is turned to despair when it appears that morning is so far
-advanced that people are already in the garden. They have to remain
-another twenty-four hours where they are. Retiring into a recess which
-the parricide seems to be acquainted with they fall asleep, but Alonzo
-is soon roused by the most hideous screams and imprecations which the
-other is uttering in his sleep. At last it becomes too much for Alonzo;
-he awakens his companion with great exertions and wildly vows he is not
-to sleep any more. The man obeys, but insists on telling a story which
-has reference to the very recess they are in and which proves to be as
-sinister as were his dreams.
-
-When the parricide was admitted into the convent, he was appointed to
-be the executioner whenever a severe punishment was to be inflicted.
-This he accepted with delight; while hating, by nature, every human
-being and especially those who seemed happier than himself, he found
-his sole satisfaction in making others miserable. Opportunities were
-seldom lacking, and to the _métier_ of executioner he united that of
-a spy. Once he was desired to keep an eye upon a young monk whose
-family had placed him in the convent in order to prevent him from
-marrying a woman of inferior rank. There was, in the air of that monk,
-something peculiarly hopeful which naturally excited suspicion. Shortly
-afterwards a young novice entered the community, and the monk and he
-immediately became inseparable. ‘They were for ever in the garden
-together--they inhaled the odours of the flowers--they cultivated the
-same cluster of carnations--they entwined themselves as they walked
-together--when they were in the choir, their voices were like mixed
-incense.’ The greater their happiness appeared, the more uneasiness
-they gave the spy, who was on his watch night and day. Little by little
-he drew the certain conclusion that the novice was a female, and one
-night, to his inexpressible joy, he perceived the novice vanish in the
-monk’s cell. He secured the door and rushed to his master; they broke
-into the cell and the Superior saw what he had never even thought of
-and never could understand. His rage was immense, and the punishment,
-in the invention of which the spy had his ample share, was to be worthy
-of the crime. The pair were conducted, under the delusion of effecting
-their escape, to the place where Alonzo is sitting now, and allured
-into a neighbouring recess which they never quitted alive. The spy kept
-watch at the door and gradually heard their love turn to hatred in the
-agonies of death. On the sixth day, when all was silent within, the
-door was unnailed; the spy now, for the first time, distinctly saw the
-features of the novice, and recognized those of his only sister.
-
-This is the story which the parricide relates to Alonzo, sparing no
-details. In the meantime evening comes, and they venture to ascend
-through the trap-door, and breathe once more the air of heaven. They
-hurry through the garden and climb the wall. Already Alonzo feels
-himself supported by the arms of his brother and even enters the
-carriage which is waiting for them, when Juan is stabbed from behind
-and falls, bathing in his blood. Alonzo falls on his dead body, losing
-consciousness; when it returns after a long time, he finds himself in
-the prison of the Inquisition.--
-
-The episode of the lovers who are immured alive was, of all the stories
-contained in _Melmoth the Wanderer_, the one which was most disapproved
-and which attracted the severest censure. The _Edinburgh Review_,[129]
-while regretting Maturin’s taste for horrible and revolting subjects,
-adds: ‘We thought we had supped full of this commodity; but it seems as
-if the most ghastly and disgusting portion of the meal was reserved
-for the present day, and its most hideous concoction for the writer
-before us,--who is never so much in his favourite element as when he
-can ‘on horror’s head horrors accumulate.’ Another critic[130] says,
-with reference to the parricide’s conversation: ‘It is no apology for
-this to say that it is the language of an atrocious villain--at war
-with society--steeped to the lips in crime--upon whose brow parricide
-is branded, and who, with a most profane license, is described by the
-author to be “_beyond the redemption of a Saviour_!” Personages should
-not be created by a novelist, whose deeds to be characteristic must be
-criminal, and whose phrase to be consistent must be blasphemous.’ It is
-not to be wondered at that the reviewers were shocked; the parricide
-is the most atrocious of all the characters of Maturin and death by
-starvation certainly a disgusting subject. Yet in their indignation
-they failed to notice the extraordinary skill and power displayed
-in this episode. Later it has been very differently judged, and, in
-fact, remained one of the best-known passages in the book. In the
-opinion of Planche[131] the death-scenes of the lovers form the most
-beautiful pages in _Melmoth_; and a modern writer[132] also declares
-the episode in question to stand artistically on a very high level
-and to show, in the conception of cruelty, a refinement surpassing
-even Poe’s in his tale of _The Cask of Amontillado_, which it slightly
-recalls in the almost scientific exactness with which the sensations
-of the victims are observed. The parricide gives this characteristic
-reason for his voluntary watch at the prison-door: ‘You will call this
-cruelty, I call it curiosity,--that curiosity that brings thousands
-to witness a tragedy, and makes the most delicate female feast on
-groans and agonies;’ and what interests him most is the moment when
-their love, annihilated by the pangs of hunger, gives way to hostility
-and rage. The man, he remarks, often accuses the woman as the cause
-of his sufferings, while she never utters a word which might pain or
-wound him: we see that the high opinion which Maturin entertained
-of feminine character asserts itself even in this gloomy instance.
-The episode of the lovers seems, upon the whole, to be but little
-influenced by any previous writers. Only the detail of the novice
-being recognized as the parricide’s sister is borrowed from the older
-school of terror, where the destroying of near relations was well-nigh
-indispensable.
-
-The continuation of the Spaniard’s tale, on the other hand, is more
-closely modelled on patterns easily discernible, and does not quite
-come up to the beginning. When Alonzo has regained some strength he
-is, in his new prison, visited by his former companion the parricide,
-who informs him that he had stabbed Juan, which it was his business
-to do, the whole escape being a comedy, undertaken with the consent
-of the Superior, who wished to get rid of Alonzo by plunging him into
-a worse place; the parricide, for his part, has become a spy and a
-creature of the Holy Office. Things being now as bad as they can be, it
-is, at last, time for Melmoth the Wanderer to interfere. Between his
-examinations Alonzo is, every night, visited by a stranger who gives
-himself out as a fellow-prisoner and entertains Alonzo with discussions
-on various topics. There is, however, something strangely suspicious
-in his behaviour, and Alonzo is frightened by the unearthly lustre of
-his eyes. The suspicions of Alonzo gain strength when he is warned by
-one of the officials to be on his guard against a person who has been
-frequenting some of the cells and set at defiance all the vigilance
-of the Inquisition. He makes a candid confession of the visits of the
-stranger, hoping by this means to make a favourable impression upon
-his judges, but in this he is totally disappointed. A prisoner whom
-the devil is supposed to be so obstinate in visiting, can expect no
-mercy from the tribunal. Before Alonzo’s last examination Melmoth then
-discloses to him the ‘unutterable condition’ upon which his liberation
-might be expected. Alonzo never thinks of accepting it, and hastens
-to make a full confession to a priest, but his doom is sealed: he is
-sentenced to be burnt in an autodafé. When the sentence is announced he
-sees Melmoth sitting at one of the tables as secretary, and feels sure
-that he has been made the dupe of the inquisitorial officials.
-
-On the morning on which the ceremony is to take place a fire breaks
-out within the walls of the Inquisition. Availing himself of the
-confusion Alonzo rushes out and finds his way to a narrow apartment in
-the end of a street. The apartment appears to belong to a Jew, known
-in Madrid as a good Catholic, but secretly clinging to the religion of
-his fathers. He is terrified almost to death at the sudden entrance
-of Alonzo--being just engaged in the initiation of a young son of his
-according to the Jewish rites--but they soon come to an understanding,
-and Alonzo remains in the house. The Jew subsequently finds out that
-Alonzo is generally believed to have perished in the fire. This piece
-of news, however, makes him incautious, and one day, during the absence
-of the Jew, he places himself in the window to watch a great religious
-procession. Among the participants he sees his former companion from
-the convent; at the moment he arrives beneath the window he is pointed
-out by some one as a parricide and a criminal of the blackest dye;
-the fury of the populace is roused, and the man is, after a fierce
-struggle, torn to pieces before Alonzo’s eyes. Alonzo stands riveted
-to the spot until the horrid spectacle is over; but the same night the
-house is searched through by the inquisitorial officials, who maintain
-that the soul of a deceased heretic has been seen hovering near it.
-The Jew has just time to conceal Alonzo under one of the boards of
-the floor, where a cavity of some dimensions seems to have been made
-for the purpose. While the Jew is invoking all the prophets, Alonzo
-plunges deeper in the recess and perceives a kind of passage running
-out from it. The passage ends in a room whither he is guided by a
-faint stream of light. In the room he finds a very old man, sitting
-at a table covered with books and globes and surrounded by skeletons
-and scientific instruments. Superstitious and inexperienced as he is,
-Alonzo takes him for an evil spirit, but is reassured by a certain
-calm dignity in the old man’s manner. He is, indeed, a Jewish sage who
-has passed nearly a life-time in the subterraneous community. He has
-even been expecting Alonzo, having learned the secret of his existence
-from the other Jew and having requested Alonzo to be sent to him to
-act as his ‘secretary.’ He places before Alonzo a manuscript, written
-in Spanish with Greek characters, which he is to copy out. During
-the interview Alonzo happens to mention that he has been tempted by
-an agent of the enemy, and stood firm. This agent the Jew rightly
-concludes to be Melmoth the Wanderer with whom, he hints, he has been
-acquainted in his youth, much to his misfortune. And the manuscript
-which he has compiled turns out to be a record of the achievements of
-Melmoth, of which a new one now succeeds the _Tale of the Spaniard_.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-That the story of Alonzo di Monçada is a Gothic Romance of the first
-magnitude, has never been denied except by its author. In the preface
-to _Melmoth the Wanderer_ Maturin says:
-
- “The Spaniard’s Tale” has been censured by a friend to whom I read it,
- as containing too much attempt at the revivification of the horrors of
- Radcliffe-Romance, of the persecutions of convents, and the terrors of
- the Inquisition.
-
- I defended myself, by trying to point out to my friend, that I had
- made the misery of conventual life depend less on the startling
- adventures one meets with in romances, than on that irritating series
- of petty torments which constitutes the misery of life in general,
- and which, amid the tideless stagnation of monastic existence,
- solitude gives its inmates leisure to invent, and power combined with
- malignity, the full disposition to practise. I trust this defence will
- operate more on the conviction of the Reader, than it did on that of
- my friend.
-
-Now, there are probably not many readers on whose conviction
-this defence has operated, and who have not felt that Maturin’s
-distinctions, as a contemporary critic[133] put it, ‘between his
-own convents and those of old are rather fanciful than real.’ The
-defence can, at the utmost, be applied to the first part of Alonzo’s
-stay in the convent, although even there we find, among the ‘petty
-torments,’ instances of monks being flogged to death; and it must also
-be admitted that this part is the most original. According as the
-torments grow decidedly serious, the points of contact with Godwin and
-Lewis become more conspicuous. As for the latter part of the story,
-it is unquestionably a perfect ‘romance of horror,’ with the horrors
-introduced solely for their own sake, only so much more powerful in
-execution than its forerunners, that one might be tempted to think
-it was Maturin’s wish to show how such a book ought to be written.
-In the art of suggestion, so important in tales of this character,
-Maturin here, as in _Montorio_, stands between Mrs. Radcliffe and
-Lewis, avoiding the excesses of both. His grasp on the subject-matter
-is always stronger than that of Mrs. Radcliffe, whose gentleness
-sometimes reduces her work to ‘a timid trifling with the world of
-phantoms and nameless terrors;’[134] while he seldom or never copies
-the coarseness of Lewis who, in fact, knows nothing of the art in
-question. This is particularly noticeable in Maturin’s treatment of
-the (very limited) supernatural element in _Melmoth_. He tells, no
-doubt, many frightful things and calls them by their names, but then
-there are also a great many circumstances which are said to be too
-horrible and unhallowed to relate. With sure artistic instinct Maturin
-forbears ever to expound the ‘incommunicable condition’ of Melmoth,
-whereas the surrender of their souls to the devil, made by Ambrosio
-and Matilda in _The Monk_, is laid down with a clearness and accuracy
-leaving nothing to be guessed. Another detail worthy of notice is the
-circumstance that the partly supernatural personality of the Wanderer
-makes an indelible impression upon those coming into contact with him,
-and marks them for life. Stanton, it will be remembered, knows no
-rest after having encountered Melmoth; his remaining days are spent in
-an indefatigable pursuit of him, the cause of which he could not even
-explain to himself; and a similar wish, it must be presumed, eventually
-drives Monçada to Ireland. Here may, indeed, be an influence from Mrs.
-Shelley’s _Frankenstein_ (1818), where the hero, in never-allayed
-anxiety, pursues the monster which he has created from one end of the
-world to the other, in order to prevent him from doing more mischief--:
-the artistic effect is, at all events, incomparably greater than
-that attained in _The Monk_, where the ghosts and spooks are treated
-with ease and familiarity, and where a Spanish nobleman relates that
-he has encountered the Wandering Jew, with a burning cross on his
-forehead, almost as nonchalantly as he would tell that he has met his
-brother. With this general difference in style and execution, many
-external motives from _The Monk_ are utilized in the Spaniard’s tale,
-as they were in _Montorio_. The most conspicuous here, again, is the
-introduction of ecclesiastical cruelty and monastical oppression; the
-case of Ildefonsa in _Montorio_ which, as we have seen, was suggested
-by the story of Agnes de Medina in _The Monk_, is here applied to
-Alonzo, with a power leaving both those romances far behind. The Domina
-of Lewis and the Superior of Maturin represent the same type: both are
-narrow-minded, hypocritical and revengeful, and pride themselves on the
-strict order and discipline maintained in their convents. Both are,
-on important occasions, surrounded by four satellites, who obey their
-every sign, and who are employed to drag recalcitrant monks and nuns
-to the subterranean dungeons, which, in both tales, are swarming with
-nauseous reptiles. A reminiscence of very unpleasant character, from
-Lewis, is also the dismal end of the parricide; in _The Monk_ the same
-fate overtakes the Domina, when her cruelty to the young nun becomes
-known. She, too, is about to take part in a religious procession, when
-suddenly she is made an object of the rage of the people. As in the
-case of the parricide, neither the solemnity of the occasion, nor the
-respect for the priests present, nor fear of the soldiers can protect
-the victim from the populace, which presses on like a storm and never
-rests until its vengeance is fulfilled. In _The Monk_ the Domina tries
-to make some sort of resistance, but ‘at length a flint, aimed by some
-well-directing hand, struck her full upon the temple. She sank upon the
-ground bathed in blood, and in a few minutes terminated her miserable
-existence;’ Maturin tells that the man does not cease to howl for mercy
-‘till a stone, aimed by some pitying hand, struck him down. He fell,
-trodden in one moment into sanguine and discoloured mud by a thousand
-feet.’ It is but just to Mrs. Radcliffe to observe that she never would
-have described scenes like these.
-
-The latter part of the story, containing the scenes in and after the
-Inquisition, is clearly influenced by Godwin. Of the examinations and
-official proceedings very little is told. Monçada, like St. Leon, is
-bound by an oath which he considers sacred, not to reveal what takes
-place under the roof of the Holy Office--an oath rather convenient
-to the author. St. Leon is, in his cell, visited by a creature of
-the Inquisition--a similar figure appears in _The Italian_ of Mrs.
-Radcliffe--who tries to ensnare him in his own answers, the like of
-whom Alonzo supposes Melmoth to be. Both are finally condemned to
-flames, from which they escape in manners so closely alike, that
-the incident itself must be considered one of Maturing most obvious
-borrowings, although his execution, here again, is so much superior to
-his model, that it well-nigh recalls Shakespeare’s way of treating his
-‘loans.’ When St. Leon is marching in the procession of the autodafé,
-some confusion arises from a horse rearing violently. This irritates
-the other horses, and the bustle becomes such that St. Leon succeeds
-in absconding and, like Alonzo, rushes down a narrow lane. All this
-is told in a few lines. In Melmoth the confusion is caused by a
-fire--an expedient less original but more acceptable--of which there
-is a description long and truly magnificent. In the end of the lane
-St. Leon, like Alonzo, forces his entrance into the habitation of a
-Jew, whom he terrifies to become his involuntary host and concealer.
-But while there are, in Godwin, no very interesting _intérieurs_ from
-the Jewish community, the corresponding passages in _Melmoth_, though
-fantastic, are depicted with a lively minuteness, and the sudden
-appearance of Alonzo even with humour, of which refreshing quality
-there is but this short flash in the Spaniard’s tale. The Jew, it has
-been mentioned, is on the point of converting his son, who has been
-brought up a Catholic, all implements being ready and the cock to be
-sacrificed on the occasion fastened at the leg of a table:
-
- There was something at once fearful and ludicrous in the scene that
- followed. Rebekah, an old Jewish woman, came at his call; but,
- seeing a third person, retreated in terror, while her master, in
- his confusion, called her in vain by her _Christian_ name of Maria.
- Obliged to remove the table alone, he overthrew it, and broke the leg
- of the unfortunate animal fastened to it, who, not to be without his
- share in the tumult, uttered the most shrill and intolerable screams,
- while the Jew, snatching up the sacrificial knife, repeated eagerly,
- “Statim mactat gallum,” put the wretched bird out of its pain; then,
- trembling at this open avowal of his Judaism, he sat down amid the
- ruins of the overthrown table, the fragments of the broken vessels,
- and the remains of the martyred cock. He gazed at me with a look of
- stupified and ludicrous inanity, and demanded in delirious tones,
- what “my lords the Inquisitors had pleased to visit his humble but
- highly-honoured mansion for?” I was scarce less deranged than he
- was; and, though we both spoke the same language, and were forced by
- circumstances into the same strange and desperate confidence with
- each other, we really needed, for the first half-hour, a rational
- interpreter of our exclamations, starts of fear, and bursts of
- disclosure. At last our mutual terror acted honestly between us, and
- we understood each other.
-
-The description of the subterranean abode is still more successful and
-entirely Maturin’s own. The old sage is indeed like a ghost of the
-past, where he sits among dusty manuscripts and the skeletons of his
-family, deceased a generation ago; and the atmosphere in which the new
-tale commence is extremely suggestive:
-
- It was a night of storms in the world above us; and, far below
- the surface of the earth as we were, the murmur of the winds,
- sighing through the passages, came on my ear like the voices of the
- departed,--like the pleadings of the dead. Involuntarily I fixed my
- eye on the manuscript I was to copy, and never withdrew till I had
- finished its extraordinary contents.--
-
-Even the person and character of the Wanderer, such as he appears in
-this tale, is less original than elsewhere in the book. His discussions
-in Alonzo’s cell, which are rather overloaded with historical
-information, may have been suggested by a passage in _The Monk_, where
-it is said of the Wandering Jew, that ‘he named people who had ceased
-to exist for many centuries and yet with whom he appeared to have
-been personally acquainted.’ Alonzo is struck by the same peculiarity
-in Melmoth, who relates anecdotes which happened during the reign
-of monarchs belonging to by-gone ages: ‘These circumstances were
-trifling, and might be told by any one, but there was a minuteness
-and circumstantiality in his details, that perpetually forced on
-the mind the idea that he had himself seen what he described, and
-been conversant with the personages he spoke of.’ To the reader,
-unfortunately, some of these anecdotes appear not only trifling but
-ridiculous, and the mysterious grandeur in which Melmoth ought to be
-veiled, is here not quite successfully sustained. His rôle during the
-fire is more impressive, and presents a parallel to the apparition seen
-by John Melmoth the night when the Spanish vessel is wrecked:
-
- At this moment, while standing amid the groupe of prisoners, my eyes
- were struck by an extraordinary spectacle. Perhaps it is amid the
- moments of despair, that imagination has most power, and they who
- have suffered, can best describe and feel. In the burning light, the
- steeple of the Dominican church was as visible as at noon-day. It
- was close to the prison of the Inquisition. The night was intensely
- dark, but so strong was the light of the conflagration, that I could
- see the spire blazing, from the reflected lustre, like a meteor. The
- hands of the clock were as visible as if a torch was held before
- them; and this calm and silent progress of time, amid the tumultuous
- confusion of midnight horrors,--this scene of the physical and mental
- world in an agony of fruitless and incessant motion, might have
- suggested a profound and singular image, had not my whole attention
- been rivetted to a human figure placed on a pinnacle of the spire, and
- surveying the scene in perfect tranquillity. It was a figure not to be
- mistaken--it was the figure of him who had visited me in the cells of
- the Inquisition.--
-
-A perfect ‘Gothic Romance’ as the Spaniard’s tale is in form, it is,
-fundamentally, a treatise against the omnipotence of the Catholic
-church, from which omnipotence all the evils and miseries directly
-arise. It is a protest against ‘a power whose influence is unlimited,
-indefinable, and unknown, even to those who exercise it, as there are
-mansions so vast, that their inmates, to their last hour, have never
-visited all the apartments;--a power whose operation is like its
-motto,--one and indivisible’--as it is a defence of another philosophy
-which values freedom, enjoyment of existence and natural affection. In
-this fight between theories the development of characters is, perhaps
-necessarily, neglected. Alonzo is but a vehicle by which the author
-gives vent to his own views; in himself he is impossible. It has
-already been pointed out that all the heroes of Maturin are very young,
-but the youth of Alonzo is a downright absurdity: he is not thirteen
-when his combat against monasticism commences; and even a precocious
-Spaniard could hardly, at that age, have conceived the idea of an
-improved Catholicism which he outlines on several occasions. For in all
-his vicissitudes he never ceases to be a good and sincere Catholic;
-it is not the religion, but its abuses, which Maturin--somewhat _post
-festum_, in 1820--is castigating.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The manuscript read by Monçada in the vault of the Jew commences with
-a narrative called the _Tale of the Indians_. In this tale--and only
-here--the Wanderer is the real hero and it is, so far, the central and
-most important part of the book. It has also been the most generally
-appreciated of all the tales in _Melmoth_ and contains, indeed,
-passages of exquisite beauty, although as a composition it is broken
-and somewhat irregular. By way of contrast it is cleverly placed
-immediately after the Spaniard’s tale; the scene of action is removed
-from subterranean recesses and noxious vapours far away amid flowers
-and sunshine.
-
-A small island in the Indian sea, where there has formerly stood a
-temple erected to the terrible goddess Seeva, has, after a series of
-earthquakes, become depopulated and totally deserted by the inhabitants
-of the mainland. Yet after some time it again has obtained the
-reputation of being the seat of a goddess, of an unknown and gentler
-character. Rumours of a vision seen there, lovely beyond description,
-spread among the natives, and young people get into the habit of
-offering fruits and flowers to the new goddess, who is supposed to be
-particularly well-disposed towards lovers. And inhabited the island
-really is. A small child, a girl, the sole survivor of the wreck of a
-Spanish vessel, has found refuge there and grows up a wild daughter of
-nature, as innocent as she is beautiful, as good as she is lovely. The
-flowers and birds are her friends; the shells are her toys; and the
-sense of fear is utterly unknown to her, there being nothing in her
-island which bears a hostile appearance. Until the great catastrophe
-there is not a cloud to disturb her paradisiacal existence. The
-catastrophe arrives in the person of Melmoth the Wanderer, who once
-chances to visit the deserted island and there finds Immalee--this is
-the name the natives have given their goddess. The few reminiscences of
-the Spanish language which she still retains are revived and developed
-in her intercourse with him, while her sentiments towards her visitor,
-at the same time, grow to an ardent attachment. When aware of this,
-Melmoth, with a generosity that does honour to an agent of the enemy,
-tears himself away and never revisits the island, nor do they meet
-again until Immalee has been discovered and taken back to her family in
-Spain.--
-
-The idea of making the fanciful Indians worship Immalee as a deity
-was poetical enough, and it is finely told how two young lovers, who
-separately set out to the island with their offerings, find each other
-in the presence of the goddess, and return, happy, in the same canoe.
-The two are so fortunate as to get a sight of the mystical being:
-
- The form was that of a female, but such as they had never before
- beheld, for her skin was perfectly white, (at least in their eyes,
- who had never seen any but the dark-red tint of the natives of the
- Bengalese islands). Her drapery (as well as they could see) consisted
- only of flowers, whose rich colours and fantastic grouping harmonized
- well with the peacock’s feathers twined among them, and altogether
- composed a feathery fan of wild drapery, which, in truth, beseemed an
- “island goddess.” Her long hair, of a colour they had never beheld
- before, pale auburn, flowed to her feet, and was fantastically
- entwined with the flowers and the feathers that formed her dress. On
- her head was a coronal of shells, of hue and lustre unknown except
- in the Indian seas--the purple and the green vied with the amethyst,
- and the emerald. On her white bare shoulder a loxia was perched,
- and round her neck was hung a string of their pearl-like eggs, so
- pure and pellucid, that the first sovereign in Europe might have
- exchanged his richest necklace of pearls for them. Her arms and feet
- were perfectly bare, and her step had a goddess-like rapidity and
- lightness, that affected the imagination of the Indians as much as
- the extraordinary colour of her skin and hair. The young lovers sunk
- in awe before this vision as it passed before their eyes. While they
- prostrated themselves, a delicious sound trembled on their ears. The
- beautiful vision spoke to them, but it was in a language they did not
- understand; and this confirming their belief that it was the language
- of the gods, they prostrated themselves to her again.
-
-This same idea, however, gave rise to some other passages which sadly
-jar against the idyllic tone, besides being very unnecessary. The
-worship of Immalee, it is told, is chiefly practised by the younger
-generation, by whom the ferocious rites of the old religion are,
-accordingly, forgotten, which circumstance does not fail to excite
-much anger and disapproval among the old devotees, who are aroused to
-opposition against the new order of things. This it would have been
-quite sufficient briefly to state; but the fact that there exist, or
-have existed, revolting and inhuman forms of religious exercise, seems
-to have been a cancer constantly preying on Maturin’s mind, nor could
-he ever say enough on the subject. The satire levelled in _Women_ at
-the rigid and bigoted Calvinism was, no doubt, well in its place, and
-the indignation with which monasticism and Inquisition are treated in
-the present work, can yet be understood; but the idea of pursuing,
-with bitter irony, the old Indian religion prescribing lacerations
-and human sacrifices, the loathsome character of which nobody would
-have dreamt of defending, is nothing short of ridiculous. The Indian
-idyll, beautiful as it is, might have afforded some surprise to those
-acquainted with Maturin’s views in general. The never-ending conflict
-between the fantastical novelist and the clergyman of the established
-church asserts itself very curiously in the whole conception of Immalee
-and her life in the island. Maturin had, more than once, strongly
-expressed his opinion, that a mode of life away from the benefits of
-civilization cannot but have a brutalizing effect upon human nature; in
-one of his sermons there is the following passage:
-
- Let us ask ourselves what is human life? The question, my brethren,
- is of some importance--we must view man under three characters--as a
- savage--as a being whose _intellectual_ faculties are cultivated--and
- lastly as acquainted with the blessedness of religion. What happiness
- do the former class know? The happiness of brutality--horrible
- felicity! if it be felicity--the happiness that may be shared with
- brutes: though some writers even of this age have struggled hard to
- prove that this is the best state of man. I would not notice them from
- this place but to notice the monstrous falsehood, which lies against
- God, and nature, and truth. The life of a brute was never intended
- to be the life of man. Yet there are writers, and some of those whom
- I address are acquainted with those writers, who would teach us that
- man in his natural state is most perfect, and that the heir of
- immortality is formed not to be above the beasts that perish.
-
-Shortly after delivering this (not very brilliant) effusion, Maturin
-was himself one of ‘those writers.’ It is true that the story of
-Immalee is a work of pure imagination and that he does not exactly try
-to prove anything by it or to lay the case down as a doctrine; but all
-the same the fact remains that here a being, while living far from
-civilization and in absolute ignorance of religion, is represented as
-angelically good and deliciously happy, and that, after her entrance
-into a society where religion, may be in a corrupted form, pervades
-life in all its phases, she becomes most wretchedly miserable. Maturin,
-like most imaginative writers of the time, could not help once, at
-least, paying his tribute to the great ideal of a return to nature,
-so vigorously and eloquently put forth in the latter part of the
-previous century. Who the writers alluded to are it is, of course,
-not difficult to point out. Immalee’s spiritual parent is Rousseau,
-through the mediation of Bernardin de St. Pierre; she is a belated
-sister of Virginie who, before her, played with birds and flowers in
-exotic, Indian surroundings, depicted in glowing colours. Yet there can
-be no question of direct imitation. Immalee is original and romantic,
-she belongs as distinctly to the 19:th century as her prototype does
-to the 18:th. Maturin, as was his wont, made the case an extreme
-one; his heroine lives wholly by herself, taught and nurtured by
-nature alone, without a parent or philosopher to point out to her the
-benefits of such an education. And the character of Immalee, in all its
-fantasticalness, has infinitely more of ‘nature’ in it than there is
-in the tedious conventionalism of Virginie; nor is, after all, the one
-impossibility more improbable than the other. As Maturin did not create
-Immalee to advocate any theories, he was freer to endow her with those
-qualities that spring from _das ewig weibliche_. Her first encounter
-with the Wanderer--which takes place in the year of grace 1680--is most
-charmingly described:
-
- The stranger approached, and the beautiful vision approached also, but
- not like an European female with low and graceful bendings, still less
- like an Indian girl with her low salams, but like a young fawn, all
- animation, timidity, confidence, and cowardice, expressed in almost
- a single action. She sprung from the sands--ran to her favourite
- tree;--returned again with her guard of peacocks, who expanded their
- superb trains with a kind of instinctive motion, as if they felt the
- danger that menaced their protectress, and clapping her hands with
- exultation, seemed to invite them to share in the delight she felt in
- gazing at the _new flower that had grown in the sand_.
-
-With true feminine talkativeness she at once begins, in her imperfect
-language, to tell her visitor of her solitary life, her companions, and
-her innocent amusements. She tells that she is older than the moon, and
-never changes, although the roses fade; that she has often tried in
-vain to catch stars and moonbeams, and that she has a friend whose face
-meets hers in the stream when the sky is clear.
-
-On this _tabula rasa_, then, is Melmoth to impress his peculiar views
-of the world and its conditions. It is stated that he regards her
-with compassion, which feeling he experiences for the first time in
-his life. His soul becomes the prey of contending passions, in the
-course of which is displayed what a critic[135] finely terms as ‘the
-naturalness and supernaturalness of it, the repulsion and attraction
-of it, the sublimity and devilry of it--not obviously balanced each
-to enhance each other, but as it were _fused_ in the white heat of
-Maturin’s imagination;’ and as his human nature finally carries off
-the victory, the conviction is brought home to the reader that Melmoth
-himself deserves something of the compassion he bestows on Immalee. At
-first, indeed, he appears as a tempter, endeavouring to corrupt her
-mind and, above all, to incite in her a contempt for religion. He has
-a telescope by him which enables her distinctly to see the adjacent
-coast of India. She reviews some of the rites of the natives, the
-repulsiveness of which she does not understand. There is also a Turkish
-mosque which does not much appeal to her, but at last she perceives a
-half-hidden Christian church, whose meaning and tenets he is forced
-reluctantly to explain, whereupon she exclaims in exultation: ‘Christ
-shall be my God, and I will be a Christian!’ Understanding that her
-nature is incorruptible, Melmoth gives up regarding her as a victim.
-He leaves metaphysics alone and confines his discussions solely to
-the phenomena of this world. The European vessels that pass by the
-island furnish him with the opportunity of describing the effects of
-European civilization, and the kind of life led in European countries.
-The description is bitter, cynical and pessimistic; the darker sides
-of modern life--war, oppression, unjust laws, religious contests,
-unequal distribution of wealth--all is laid down in a language truly
-appalling, and wound up with the remark that, among human beings, the
-sole kind parents are those ‘who murder their children at the hour of
-their birth, or, by medical art dismiss them before they have seen
-the light; and, in so doing, they give the only creditable evidence
-of parental affection.’ By enfolding this sombre picture he tries to
-terrify her from wishing ever to see the world, and thus to keep her
-for himself, for in her society alone can he hope to forget his misery.
-She is the only oasis in the desert of his existence, the only human
-being on earth who does not instinctively shrink from him, and who is
-not frightened by the lustre of his eyes:
-
- While he sat near her on the flowers she had collected for him,--while
- he looked on those timid and rosy lips that waited his signal to
- speak, like buds that did not dare to blow till the sun shone on
- them,--while he heard accents issue from those lips which he felt
- it would be as impossible to pervert as it would be to teach the
- nightingale blasphemy,--he sunk down beside her, passed his hand
- over his livid brow and wiping off some cold drops, thought for a
- moment he was not the Cain of the moral world, and that the brand was
- effaced,--at least for a moment.
-
-Yet the impression made upon Immalee by the conversations of Melmoth
-is very different from what he intended. She sheds tears and suffers
-with the sufferers, but nevertheless she is seized with a longing
-towards the world. She has tasted from the tree of knowledge, and her
-peace of mind is gone. At the same time she feels that the society of
-the stranger is far more to her than that of her mute companions; every
-time he leaves her she implores him to return, and he, on his part,
-cannot resist the temptation although he sees he is destroying her
-happiness. She loves; and the more he terrifies her with his wild laugh
-and impetuous speech which is incomprehensible to her, the stronger
-grows her love. Her idyll is at an end, and her former occupations
-interest her no longer. Now she begins to prefer ‘the rocks and the
-ocean, the thunder of the wave, and the sterility of the sands.’ This
-change fills Melmoth with rage, as the society of Immalee thus loses
-the character of a calm refuge where he may snatch a moment of rest,
-and one stormy night he even contemplates her again in the light of a
-victim. Yet the innocent belief of Immalee that she is sheltered when
-he is near her, once more appeals to his better feelings: he frightens
-her, indeed, into a state of unconsciousness, but then, with a supreme
-effort, leaves the island for ever.
-
-These are the bare outlines of this singular courtship in the Indian
-island. In point of language it contains the most magnificent passages
-in Maturin’s production, and the characterization also stands very
-high. Powerful as is the picture of the passions and emotions of
-Melmoth, it is surpassed by the art with which Immalee’s development
-from a wild and thoughtless girl into a woman who loves, and suffers
-for her love, is traced. The delineation of feminine psychology, in
-which Maturin always excelled, is here as masterly as it was in the
-case of Eva in _Women_, and there is, in Immalee, an inner truth
-quite independent of her fantastical circumstances. The very idea of
-dissimulation being foreign to her, she does not think of concealing
-her feelings, and amid the effusions of Melmoth--which sometimes come
-to the verge of the melodramatic--she is all simplicity and nature.
-As she has never seen any other human being, she can not understand or
-even surmise the exceptional character of Melmoth, nor know that he is
-not, and cannot be, a lover in the ordinary sense of the word. She only
-feels that she is ready for any sacrifice for him, and her attachment
-appears unaltered when they next meet in Spain.--
-
-To the passages in which Melmoth describes to Immalee the state of the
-world and the conditions of human life, there is this marginal note:
-
- As by a mode of criticism equally false and unjust, the worst
- sentiments of my worst characters, (from the ravings of Bertram to
- the blasphemies of Cardonneau), have been represented as _my own_, I
- must here trespass so far on the patience of the reader as to assure
- him, that the sentiments ascribed to the stranger are diametrically
- opposite to mine, and that I have purposely put them into the mouth of
- an agent of the enemy of mankind.[136]
-
-That Maturin had suffered much from this mode of criticism there is no
-doubt, and it was certainly a cautious thing to do to fix a note of
-this kind to a sentence like the following:
-
- “These people,” he said, “have made unto themselves kings, that is,
- beings whom they voluntarily invest with the privilege of draining,
- by taxation, whatever wealth their vices have left to the rich, and
- whatever means of subsistence their want has left to the poor, till
- their extortion is cursed from the castle to the cottage--and this
- to support a few pampered favourites, who are harnassed by silken
- reins to the car, which they drag over the prostrate bodies of the
- multitude.”
-
-Yet this note cannot be taken quite literally, any more than those
-prefaces of Maturin where he depreciates his works. The discussions of
-Melmoth are introduced with the remark that ‘there was a mixture of
-fiendish acrimony, biting irony, and fearful truth, in his wild sketch,
-which was often interrupted by the cries of astonishment, grief, and
-terror, from his hearer.’ What there, accordingly, is of ‘fearful
-truth’ would, at least, seem to represent Maturin’s own views; and
-what Melmoth, for instance, says about religious wars, Maturin would
-doubtless have subscribed to at any time. The tone of latent conviction
-in many of these passages has been pointed out by a critic,[137] with
-the supposition that they were dictated by the disappointments and
-bitter experiences Maturin had met with in his life, and this may
-well be the case. From the literary point of view, however, the whole
-discourse is but an echo of the school of Rousseau, which Maturin was
-in the habit of condemning, but under whose influence the first part
-of the _Tale of the Indians_ was written.[138] Sentences from the
-conversation of the old hermit in _Paul et Virginie_, like:
-
- Le meilleur des livres, qui ne prêche que l’égalité, l’amitié,
- l’humilité et la concorde, l’Evangile, a servi pendant des siècles de
- prétexte aux fureurs des Européens,
-
-are distinctly recalled:
-
- Intent on their settled purpose of discovering misery wherever it
- could be traced, and inventing it where it could not, they have found,
- even in the pure pages of that book, which, they presume to say,
- contains their title to peace on earth, and happiness hereafter, a
- right to hate, plunder, and murder each other.
-
-Apart from this, however, the tale is remarkably original as well as
-typically Maturineian. Among slight literary influences, a reminiscence
-from Ossian can be traced in a wild song of Immalee, after she has lost
-her peace:
-
- The night is growing dark--but what is that to the darkness that his
- absence has cast on my soul? The lightnings are glancing round me--but
- what are they to the gleam of his eye when he parted from me in anger?
- -- -- --
-
- Roar on, terrible ocean! thy waves, which I cannot count, can never
- wash his image from my soul,--thou dashest a thousand waves against
- a rock, but the rock is unmoved--and so would be my heart amid the
- calamities of the world with which he threatens me,--whose dangers I
- never would have known but for him, and whose dangers for him I will
- encounter.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Three years having elapsed, two persons in Madrid are, at the same
-time, exciting much interest and curiosity. One of them is a stranger
-of whom fearful rumours are abroad, although there is nothing
-extraordinary about him except the appalling lustre in his eyes; the
-other is a most beautiful female, who has recently turned up in Madrid
-as the new-found daughter of the merchant Aliaga and who lives in her
-father’s villa near the town. Once these two persons accidentally meet
-in the street, which accident is to have fatal consequences to all the
-members of the merchant’s family.
-
-The household of Aliaga, who himself is absent on a voyage in the
-Indies, consists of his wife Donna Clara, his son Don Fernan, and
-the family confessor Fra Jose. Of these none is capable in the least
-of understanding Immalee--or Isidora, as she is now called--and she
-feels deeply unhappy in her new surroundings. Her unrestrained freedom
-of yore has been replaced by the strictest etiquette prescribing her
-duties to be ‘perfect obedience, profound submission, and unbroken
-silence, except when addressed to;’ and her warm and generous feelings
-are chilled by the cold and rigid Catholicism, very different from her
-own notions of religion. These latter are, indeed, considered to denote
-sheer madness after she once expresses the hope ‘that the heretics in
-the train of the English ambassador might not be everlastingly damned.’
-Donna Clara is a woman of rigid mind and mediocrity of intellect,
-chiefly occupied in religious meditations of the narrowest kind. Her
-son is a selfish and brutal character from whom no kindness is to
-be expected. Isidora’s best friend is the priest, who, in contrast
-to his counterpart in the Spaniard’s tale, is described as a good
-and well-meaning person. Yet for the power of the church he, too, is
-prepared to sacrifice everything. Thus he, taking for pretext some
-superstitious rumours concerning the early life of Isidora, insists on
-her taking the veil, which scheme is indignantly opposed by Don Fernan,
-who calculates that the extraordinary beauty of his sister will be the
-means of the family forming, by marriage, a connection with the highest
-nobility of Spain. Before, however, either project has been realized,
-her meeting with Melmoth takes place, and he begins nightly to visit
-her under her casement.
-
-These nocturnal meetings, which form the principal contents of the
-story, are quite worthy of the corresponding scenes in the first part.
-The present desolate state of Isidora is as convincingly described
-as her longing for the Indian island, to dream of which is her only
-happiness. The image of Melmoth is united to all that is dear to her,
-and she loves him as she loves the memories of bygone days:
-
- “You were the first human being I ever saw who could teach me language
- and who taught me feeling. Your image is for ever before me, present
- or absent, sleeping or waking. I have seen fairer forms,--I have
- listened to softer voices, I might have met gentler hearts,--but the
- first, the indelible image, is written on mine, and its characters
- will never be effaced till that heart is a clod of the valley. I
- loved you not for comeliness,--I loved you not for gay deportment,
- or fond language, or all that is said to be lovely in the eye of a
- woman,--I loved you because you were my _first_,--the sole connecting
- link between the human world and my heart,--the being who brought
- me acquainted with that wondrous instrument that lay unknown and
- untouched within me, and whose chords, as long as they vibrate, will
- disdain to obey any touch but that of their first mover,--because
- your image is mixed in my imagination with all the glories of
- nature,--because your voice, when I heard it first, was something in
- accordance with the murmur of the ocean, and the music of the stars.”
-
-In her artlessness she understands him as little as ever. At the
-renewal of their intercourse she feels an innocent desire--Maturin
-was too acute a psychologist to omit this circumstance--do dazzle him
-with her newly-acquired accomplishments, without being aware that
-the more unlike she is to everybody else, the more attractive she
-must be to him--that her sole attraction, in fact, lies in her being
-something new even in his worldwide experience. Seeing, however, that
-her accomplishments do not please him, she gives up every thought of
-herself:
-
- She now had concentrated all her hopes, and all her heart, no longer
- in the ambition _to be_ beloved, but in the sole wish _to_ love.
- She no longer alluded to the enlargement of her faculties, the
- acquisition of new powers, and the expansion and cultivation of her
- taste. She ceased to speak--she sought only to listen--then her wish
- subsided into that quiet listening for his form alone, which seemed to
- transfer the office of hearing into the eyes, or rather, to identify
- both. She saw him long before he appeared,--and heard him though he
- did not speak. They have been in each other’s presence for the short
- hours of a Spanish summer’s night,--Isidora’s eyes alternately fixed
- on the sun-like moon, and on her mysterious lover,--while he, without
- uttering a word, leaned against the pillars of her balcony, or the
- trunk of the giant myrtle-tree, which cast the shade he loved, even
- by night, over his portentous expression,--and they never uttered a
- word to each other, till the waving of Isidora’s hand, as the dawn
- appeared, was the tacit signal for their parting.
-
-The mental process which Melmoth undergoes is much the same as
-before. He approaches her with withering sarcasm and torments her
-with his diabolical laugh and terrible allusions, which she bears
-with gentleness and patience. She is still the only being who does
-not _understand_ that he is to be feared, and in whose society--as
-described in the fine passage quoted above--he can obtain some rest and
-oblivion; and in these moments his human nature is again appealed to,
-and his better feelings prompt him once more to leave her. The only
-thing Isidora ever asks of him--from a sense of inborn dignity rather
-than acquired conventionality--is to discontinue his clandestine visits
-and appear before her family as her wooer. Once united to him by the
-rites of the Catholic church, she promises to follow him wherever it
-shall be. On one of these occasions Melmoth finds strength to take the
-decisive step:
-
- “Would you then consent to unite your destiny with mine? Would you
- indeed be mine amid mystery and sorrow? Would you follow me from
- land to sea, and from sea to land,--a restless, homeless, devoted
- being,--with the brand on your brow, and the curse on your name?
- Would you indeed _be mine_? my own--my only Immalee?”--“I would--I
- will!”--“Then,” answered Melmoth, “on this spot receive the proof of
- my eternal gratitude. On this spot I renounce your sight!--I disannul
- your engagement!--I fly from you for ever!” And as he spoke, he
- disappeared.
-
-Some time, however, after this disappearance of Melmoth, unexpected
-events again throw these ill-fated lovers together. Donna Clara
-receives a letter from her husband, who has landed in Spain and is
-slowly making his way homewards, to the effect that he intends to bring
-with him the destined bridegroom of Isidora, a Spanish nobleman called
-Montilla. Isidora learns this piece of news with great despair--but
-the same night Melmoth reappears beneath her balcony. Isidora assures
-him that she will be the bride of the grave rather than of Montilla,
-and that her love is unaltered; whereupon Melmoth, ‘bringing out the
-words with difficulty,’ proposes that she should be ready to wed him
-the following night. She consents, and the scheme is carried out in a
-scene which has been called one of the greatest in the book[139] and
-which indeed is saturated with the keenest suspense. The episode is
-typically ‘Gothic;’ it is like a ballad of _Lenore_ in prose. In the
-darkness they set out and travel with supernatural rapidity towards a
-neighbouring mountain where, Melmoth informs Isidora, a holy hermit
-is dwelling near a ruinous monastery. Arriving at a mountain river
-they hear foot-steps pursuing them, and a figure is indistinctly seen
-approaching. After a short struggle the pursuer, whom Isidora, by his
-voice, recognizes to be an ancient domestic of the family, is flung
-into the river. The lovers continue their way and Isidora is dragged
-up into the ruins, where a hand places hers into that of Melmoth.
-Almost unconscious as she is from terror, she feels the hand to be
-cold as death; and afterwards it is discovered that the hermit really
-had died the previous night. This is one of the few supernatural
-incidents in the story that does not directly relate to the personality
-of Melmoth.--The same night Donna Clara and the priest sit brooding
-over a new letter from Aliaga, in which he hints at some terrible and
-mysterious tidings he has learned--it appears later that he has met
-Melmoth, who, beset by pangs of conscience, has warned him that his
-daughter is in danger. They are roused by a noise in the house, and
-discover that Isidora’s casement is open and her room empty. Her mother
-passes the night in frantic anxiety, but in the morning Isidora is
-found sleeping heavily in her bed. What has happened to her nothing
-can induce her to disclose, and Donna Clara and the priest prudently
-determine also to keep the matter secret. It takes Aliaga rather a
-long time to get home, in spite of the warning he has received. In the
-meantime Melmoth keeps on visiting his wife, but cannot be prevailed
-upon to appear before the family. Otherwise his tenderness towards
-Isidora increases, as there is evidence of her becoming a mother. The
-night before the event is expected to take place, Melmoth has the news
-that her father and Montilla will arrive that very day, and in the
-evening a great masquerade is to be held in honour of the betrothed.
-Melmoth promises to be there at midnight to take her away. The news
-appears to be true, and Isidora is forced to take part in the feast.
-The costume of the time fortunately conceals her altered figure, as the
-mask covers her pale and haggard countenance. When the clock strikes
-twelve Melmoth is beside her. They prepare to leave the assembly, but
-are detected by Don Fernan, who steps into their way. A fight ensues
-which ends with the death of Don Fernan, whereat the dreaded figure
-of Melmoth the Wanderer is disclosed to all the guests, some of whom
-recognize him with a terror unspeakable. Isidora throws herself upon
-the corpse of her brother, and Melmoth departs alone and unmolested,
-nobody daring to lift a hand against him. The house is rapidly
-deserted and its horrified inmates left alone. The same night Isidora
-is delivered of a daughter, and, on admitting that she is married to
-Melmoth, conveyed into the prison of the Inquisition. Her parents
-shortly afterwards die of grief, but the good priest is allowed to
-visit her, and to him she makes a full confession of her marriage. The
-Holy Office condemns her to lifelong imprisonment, but she dies, after
-having strangled her child when the officials have come to take it
-from her. Before expiring she yet confesses to Fra Jose that Melmoth
-has been with her in the prison and offered to effect her liberation
-on a fearful and unutterable condition. With her last strength she has
-rejected it, although her love for him is unabated.--
-
-The end of the _Tale of the Indians_ calls for a few remarks from a
-logical point of view--if logic is to be applied to a composition like
-this. It never becomes quite clear why Melmoth brings Isidora back to
-her home after their wedding, all the world being open to him; nor it
-is easy to understand why he should delay the second elopement until
-the house is full of guests and the disappearance of Isidora most
-difficult to bring about. As he, after the failure of this enterprise,
-completely loses his human character and only appears in that of the
-tempter, it might be inferred that Isidora’s last calamity is of his
-own contrivance; but this, again, is contradicted by what he says after
-the duel with Don Fernan: ‘Would that breathless fool had yielded to my
-bidding, not to my sword--there was but one human chord that vibrated
-in my heart--it is broken to-night, and for ever!’ Those critics that
-derided the clumsiness with which the schemes of Melmoth are, in
-general, executed, were not entirely wrong in this instance; the lack
-of plausibility in these incidents--the supernatural power of Melmoth
-once taken for granted--is here of a character injurious to the tale as
-a work of art.--In the descriptions of everyday life in Aliaga’s house
-Maturin does not give of his best, in spite of his having recourse to
-his humorous vein. The personages themselves are depicted in rather a
-conventional fashion, and the stupidity and narrow-mindedness of Donna
-Clara, and the confessor’s excessive fondness for food and drink, can
-bear no comparison with the humorous passages in _Women_. Only the
-characterization of Isidora is carried out with the same unfailing
-power to the very last.
-
-The end of the _Tale of the Indians_, especially the unravelling of
-the plot, contains, no doubt, some hints from Goethe’s _Faust_.[140]
-The parallels are but details of secondary importance, yet too distinct
-to be quite overlooked. Margarete and Isidora are equally anxious about
-their respective lovers’ relations to church and religion, and propose
-the same questions to them. Margarete:
-
-    Nun sag, wie hast du’s mit der Religion?
-    -- -- -- -- -- --
-    Du ehrst auch nicht die heil’gen Sacramente.
-    -- -- -- -- -- --
-    Zur Messe, zur Beichte bist du lange nicht gegangen.
-
-Isidora expresses her fear that Melmoth does not believe in what the
-Holy Church requires, and asks, further: ‘Do you ever visit the church?
--- -- Do you ever receive the Holy Sacrament?’--Faust fights a duel
-with Margarete’s brother under similar circumstances and with the
-same consequence as Melmoth with Don Fernan; Margareta, like Isidora,
-dies in prison, after having put her child to death in a state of
-partial insanity, and both refuse to follow their lovers out of the
-prison.--With Mephistopheles, Melmoth has in common the power of
-arresting, with a look, the hands raised to seize him.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The _Tale of the Indians_ is once interrupted by two other tales of
-considerable length. While Aliaga is travelling homeward he passes a
-night at a wretched inn, where a fellow-traveller reads to him the
-_Tale of Guzman’s Family_, to the following effect.
-
-Guzman is an old merchant of Seville, who has made an enormous fortune
-out of nothing, and risen from an obscure birth to a position of
-respect. As he lives alone, the question of his eventual heirs excites
-much curiosity; his circumstances are carefully investigated, and
-it is discovered that he has a sister in life. This sister has, in
-early youth, married a German musician of the name of Walberg, turned
-a Protestant, been rejected by her brother, and since then lived
-in Germany. This appears to be true; for once when Guzman is seized
-with a dangerous illness and even given over by his physicians, he
-remembers his sister and sends for the family of Walberg, that he
-might be reconciled to his only relatives. At the same time he alters
-his will in favour of the family. Contrary to all expectation, he
-recovers before they arrive, yet the will remains as he has fixed it,
-in spite of the efforts of the priests to have it cancelled.[141]
-The only point in which Guzman accedes to their representations, is
-that he determines to refrain from all personal intercourse with his
-heretical relations. This intelligence is brought to the family, at
-their arrival in Seville, by Guzman’s confessor, who acts as his agent
-and afterwards proves to be a man of kindness and honour. The family
-consists of Walberg, his wife Ines, and four children; later they are
-joined by Walberg’s aged parents, whom he has summoned from Germany
-to pass the remainder of their life with them. Sinister forebodings
-fill the mind of Ines when she learns her brother’s resolution never
-to see her or any member of the family. As they are, however, amply
-provided for and generally considered the sole heirs of Guzman, the
-displeasing resolution makes but a slight impression on Walberg, who
-will not listen to his wife’s advice that the children should be
-taught some profession. So they live on in ease and comfort, until
-Guzman dies--and then it is announced that he has left everything to
-the church. This a blow that completely changes the conditions of the
-family; their fine house is sold, and they move into a humble abode
-in the suburbs, where Ines and her daughter once more resume the
-domestic duties. The good priest, who feels certain that a fraud has
-been committed, does everything in his power to help them. Through
-his means the matter is brought to legal arbitration, but though the
-best advocates are resorted to, Walberg loses the case. The family is
-gradually plunged deeper and deeper into misery, and soon hovers on the
-brink of starvation. Being strangers and heretics they can obtain no
-work, but are solely reduced to what the children can get together by
-begging. The eldest son, Everhard, hits upon the expedient of selling
-some of his blood to a surgeon, and well-nigh expires; the daughters
-are beginning to be accosted by strangers in the street; the old
-grandmother dies for want of food, and the grandfather loses his reason
-from the same cause. When the family has been reduced to this stage of
-wretchedness, Walberg, every night he goes out to supplicate relief
-from passers-by, is addressed by a stranger,
-
- a middle-aged man, of a serious and staid demeanour, and with nothing
- remarkable in his aspect except the light of two burning eyes, whose
- lustre is almost intolerable. He fixes them on me sometimes, and
- I feel as if there was fascination in their glare. Every night he
- besets me, and few like me could have resisted his seductions. He
- has offered, and proved to me, that it is in his power to bestow all
- that human cupidity could thirst for, on the condition that--I cannot
- utter! It is one so full of horror and impiety, that even to listen to
- it, is scarce less a crime than to comply with it!
-
-The same night Walberg relates this to his wife, he is seized with a
-fit of insanity and proceeds to kill his children, when, at the last
-moment, the priest enters with the news that the right will is found
-and the family once more the heirs of Guzman. In a short time they are
-restored to health--even the grandfather recovers his reason before he
-dies--and the tale ends happily:
-
- The family then set out for Germany, where they reside in prosperous
- felicity;--but to this hour Walberg shudders with horror when he
- recalls the fearful temptations of the stranger, whom he met in the
- nightly wanderings in the hour of his adversity, and the horror of
- this visitation appears to oppress his recollection more than even the
- images of his family perishing with want.--
-
-That Godwin’s _St. Leon_ makes itself remembered also in connection
-with the _Tale of Guzman’s Family_, is chiefly due to its being, upon
-the whole, the book which _Melmoth_ probably is most indebted to. St.
-Leon is, no doubt, several times plunged into great poverty which
-he tries to bear as best he can, with the assistance of a brave and
-faithful wife and good and amiable children; but a detailed comparison
-would show little else than that these scenes, in Godwin, are dull
-and powerless, whereas Maturin’s story is just the reverse. So far
-from considering the _Tale of Guzman’s Family_ an imitation, one
-would rather be inclined to imagine that it has sprung from personal
-recollections. Both in his father’s home and his own, Maturin had
-seen ease and affluence replaced by penury and want. The situation
-into which the family of Walberg is reduced--which leads to death
-and insanity--was, of course, extreme beyond anything in Maturin’s
-experience, and a product of furious and unrestrained imagination;
-but the first intimations of disappearing wealth are brought forth
-with a force and accuracy quite convincing, and among the best pages
-in the tale are those treating of the horrible suspense in which the
-family lives from the moment of Guzman’s death till the publication
-of his will. Yet another circumstance would go to show that the _Tale
-of Guzman’s Family_ had no need of literary models. In the preface to
-_Melmoth the Wanderer_ Maturin states that ‘the original from which the
-wife of Walberg is imperfectly sketched is a living woman, and _long
-may she live_;’ whence it is not unnatural to infer that it is his own
-wife he is describing. So the phrase seems to have been understood by
-the critic in the _London Magazine_ 1821, who adds that he would be
-inclined to drop his pen and ‘weep over the misfortunes of a man of
-genius, instead of scrutinizing his errors.’ The picture which Maturin
-draws of the wife of Walberg is beautiful indeed. She is the good
-genius of her family, as prudent as she is gentle. She is secretly
-saving when her husband only thinks of spending; when he is seized with
-despair, she heroically tries to encourage him. She starves gladly
-herself, as long as there is a morsel left for her children and for the
-aged parents of her husband; and when he is beset by the tempter, she
-exerts her last energy to support him. The wife of Walberg is one of
-the incarnations of the idea of the superior moral strength of woman,
-so often recurring in Maturin’s works, and there is no reason to doubt
-that this idea originated in the partner of his life.--Another figure
-worthy of particular notice is the priest, with whom Maturin makes full
-amends for the attacks he delivers, in _Melmoth_, upon the dignitaries
-of the Catholic church. The confessor in the _Tale of the Indians_ is
-too much of a buffoon to be taken seriously, but here, at last, is
-a Catholic prelate to whom the interests of humanity are more than
-those of the church, and who is ready to expose the crimes of his own
-colleagues in order to save the life of a heretical family.
-
-The style of writing, in this tale, is hardly so fine as in the next
-one, although there are passages extremely characteristic of Maturin.
-He was the only one of the ‘terrific’ writers of the time capable of
-purely aesthetical enjoyment, almost perverse, from scenes of bodily
-suffering. The description of the boy who has been selling his blood to
-a surgeon could have been made by no one else:
-
- The moonlight fell strongly through the unshuttered windows on the
- wretched closet that just contained the bed. Its furniture was
- sufficiently scanty, and in his spasms Everhard had thrown off the
- sheet. So he lay, as Ines approached his bed, in a kind of corse-like
- beauty, to which the light of the moon gave an effect that would have
- rendered the figure worthy of the pencil of a Murillo, a Rosa, or any
- of those painters, who, inspired by the genius of suffering, delight
- in representing the most exquisite of human forms in the extremity of
- human agony. A St. Bartholomew flayed, with his skin hanging about
- him in graceful drapery--a St. Laurence, broiled on a gridiron, and
- exhibiting his finely-formed anatomy on its bars, while naked slaves
- are blowing the coals beneath it,--even this were inferior to the form
- half-veiled, half-disclosed by the moonlight as it lay. The snow-white
- limbs of Everhard were extended as if for the inspection of a
- sculptor, and moveless, as if they were indeed what they resembled, in
- hue and symmetry, those of a marble statue. His arms were tossed above
- his head and the blood was trickling fast from the opened veins of
- both,--his bright and curled hair was clotted with the red stream that
- flowed from his arms,--his lips were blue, and a faint and fainter
- moan issued from them as his mother hung over him.
-
-All the personages actually appearing in the _Tale of Guzman’s Family_
-are good and noble; there is no display of revolting crimes or depraved
-characters, and horrible and even disgusting as are the sufferings of
-the family, the tale has little to do with the school of terror. The
-fact, moreover, of its being the only one that is brought to a happy
-ending, probably made it a favourite with readers. An admiring critic
-in _Blackwood’s Magazine_[142] says that this tale, before all others,
-shows ‘what Mr. Maturin is capable of doing in his best moments of
-inspiration.’
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Shortly after the stranger has read to Aliaga the tale related
-above, Melmoth himself appears at the inn. He causes--in a way
-unexplained--the death of the stranger who has dared to investigate
-into his achievements, and the next day associates himself with Aliaga.
-The merchant is not at all charmed with his obtrusive companion, but
-cannot well get rid of him; and as they slowly ride onward, Melmoth
-narrates what is called _The Lovers’ Tale_.[143]
-
-This time Spain is left behind, and the reader is conducted to the
-England of the Restoration. The tale opens with a short chronicle of
-the fortunes of the Mortimer family, one of the oldest and noblest
-in the kingdom. At the time of Charles the First the then head of
-the house, Sir Roger Mortimer, ‘a man lofty alike in pride and in
-principle,’ distinguishes himself as one of the most fervent supporters
-of the royal cause. After the defeat of the monarch he is subjected to
-the reprisals, in form of fines and sequestrations, of the victorious
-rebels, in addition to which his domestic felicity is completely
-destroyed. His eldest son has fallen for his king at the battle of
-Newbury, while his second son has embraced the Puritan cause, married
-accordingly, and finally died, having ‘fought all day at the head of
-his regiment, and preached and prayed to them all night.’ The only
-daughter of the old loyalist also goes the wrong way and marries an
-Independent preacher of the name of Sandal, whom she survives. The
-daughter of the eldest son, Margaret, is made the heiress of the
-castle, where she resides with her grandfather and his old sister, Mrs.
-Ann Mortimer, who leads the household after the death of his brother’s
-wife. The daughter of the apostate son, Elinor, is, after the death
-of her mother, also received at the castle and educated there, though
-without expectations. Young John Sandal, the son of the rejected
-daughter, is recognized by his grandfather on the express condition of
-henceforth fighting for the royal family; he has, at his own request,
-been sent to sea at a very early age. At the return of Charles the
-Second old Sir Roger dies of joy, but the sacrifices of the family in
-the royal cause are amply compensated, and they are once again raised
-among the foremost in the country. At that period the widow Sandal
-takes up her residence in the neighbourhood of the castle and sometimes
-visits it, although the relations between her and her aunt Mrs. Ann
-never become very cordial. From her intrigues subsequently follows the
-fall of the house of Mortimer.
-
-Through the re-acquired importance of the family a distinguished
-position in the navy is procured for John Sandal, and during the Dutch
-war he has the opportunity of showing that the spirit of his ancestors
-is not dead within him. News of valorous deeds achieved by John reaches
-even the remote castle, where the gentle Elinor, who remembers him with
-feelings of love in early childhood, is, more than others, occupied
-in thoughts of him. When the widow Sandal makes her appearance in
-the vicinity, she calls on her every day to talk about her son, and
-when John arrives to pay a visit to his mother, she is the first to
-meet him. John Sandal turns out to be as good as he is brave, and his
-friendship to his cousin Elinor swiftly ripens to love. Their betrothal
-is greeted with joy by all except the widow, who determines to prevent
-the union by any means. She has obtained a knowledge of Sir Roger’s
-will, which is to the effect that if his granddaughter Margaret marries
-John Sandal, all the immense estates are to fall to her, whereas
-John, in case of his marrying Elinor, is entitled only to a small
-fortune.--The wedding-day, however, is fixed; the church is filled with
-guests from far and near and everything is ready, yet the bridegroom,
-for some inexplicable reason, fails to appear. Tired and anxious at the
-delay Elinor retires to the vestry, from the casement window of which
-she sees a rider approaching at full speed. The rider, John Sandal,
-gallops past the church, casts a look of horror upon Elinor, and
-disappears.
-
-After the frustration of her hopes Elinor quits the castle and takes up
-her abode in Yorkshire, at the house of a strictly Puritan sister of
-her late mother. Peace of mind, however, is denied her, and she lingers
-on in a pitiable state, when, one day, she receives a letter from
-Margaret, of surprising contents. Both old Mrs. Ann and Margaret have
-assured that the faithless bridegroom shall never darken their doors
-again; now Margaret announces to Elinor that John Sandal has returned
-to the castle and invites her to join them, dropping some ‘mysterious
-hints relative to the interruption of the marriage.’ With a vague hope
-Elinor sets out to the castle and is tenderly received by both her
-cousins; the manner of John, however, clearly evinces that there can be
-no question of other sentiments than a calm friendship between them.
-As the betrothal of Margaret and John is made public, her stay at the
-castle becomes too painful to Elinor; she returns to Yorkshire where
-she leads a life in utter seclusion, her Puritan aunt having died in
-the meantime. Yet she is once more summoned to the castle by a message
-from Margaret, who, now in confinement, implores Elinor’s presence
-at her hour of danger. Elinor obeys, but the gloomy forebodings of
-Margaret are fulfilled: twins are born dead, and a moment afterwards
-the mother also expires. Amid general despair the widow Sandal now
-makes a confession to her son, with the result that his reason is
-extinguished for ever. Solicitous to secure for her son the family
-estates, she had invented a story which she had imparted to him the
-night before his intended nuptials with Elinor, according to which
-he was not her son, but the offspring of an ‘illicit commerce of her
-husband the preacher with the Puritan mother of Elinor’--and this story
-she had bound her son by oath never to disclose to Elinor.
-
-After this catastrophe the life of Elinor is devoted to the tending
-of the patient, whom she never leaves. It then befalls that they
-are, on one of their evening walks, approached by a stranger, who
-introduces himself by showing them some slight attentions and speaking
-on indifferent subjects. Their acquaintance continues some time,
-till it suddenly ends by the stranger saying something that causes
-Elinor wildly to rush to a neighbouring clergyman for assistance. The
-clergyman happens to be the identical friend of Melmoth the Wanderer
-who witnessed his apparent death in Germany, which strange event he
-now discloses to Elinor; as for Melmoth, he departs on recognizing the
-clergyman, and troubles Elinor no longer. Her time passes on in the
-same occupation, until her ward dies, and, in his last moments knows
-her, nor does she survive him long.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-This beautiful story, though little noted by commentators, is inferior
-to none in the book, except the opening chapters describing the death
-of the old Irish miser; on the contrary, it seems rather the best of
-all the longer tales. Maturing favourite period in English history was
-sure to become to him a source of highest inspiration, whenever he
-turned to it, and to his other good qualities is here added that of
-an impartial historian. When Elinor, as a child, is taken up at the
-castle, she is said to come to the conclusion ‘that there must be good
-on both sides, however obscured or defaced by passion, where so much
-intellectual power, and so much physical energy, had been displayed by
-both;’ and in this spirit the controversies are treated throughout the
-story. That the author’s sympathies rest with the cavaliers is evident
-enough, but the errors of Puritanism--fortunately--do not irritate
-him so much as to prevent him from speaking of them with calmness,
-mingled with an almost imperceptible tinge of humour. And the peculiar
-spirit of the period he catches by the forelock and never leaves hold
-of it; Maturin had penetrated to the very soul of that wonderful
-time, when furious contests, religious and political, splintered
-family ties and shook the foundations of the empire, and when the last
-remnants of ancient chivalry clashed against growing democracy and
-sturdy Puritanism. Yet as the principal part of the tale takes place
-_after_ the Restoration, when the wounds of the civil war are already
-beginning slowly to heal, he contrives to make those turbulent events
-felt through the pages as the after-rolls of a mighty storm. And as
-the plot consists of the tragical downfall of a great and illustrious
-house, there is, in the style, something like the glow of an autumnal
-sun setting over a rich and glorious landscape. It is, in fact, in
-autumn--the season Maturin loved best--that most of the incidents
-occur, and the pages abound in magnificent descriptions of nature, like
-the following:
-
- Elinor took the path through the park, and, absorbed in new feelings,
- was for the first time insensible of its woodland beauty, at once
- gloomy and resplendent, mellowed by the tints of autumnal colouring,
- and glorious with the light of an autumnal evening,--till she was
- roused to attention by the exclamations of her companion, who appeared
- rapt into delight at what he beheld. -- -- -- -- As they approached
- the Castle, the scene became glorious beyond the imagination of a
- painter, whose eye has dreamed of sunset in foreign climes. The vast
- edifice lay buried in shade,--all its varied and strongly charactered
- features of tower and pinnacle, bartizan and battlement, were melted
- into one dense and sombrous mass. The distant hills with their conical
- summits, were still clearly defined in the dark-blue heaven, and their
- peaks still retained a hue of purple so brilliant and lovely, that
- it seemed as if the light had loved to linger there, and, parting,
- had left that tint as the promise of a glorious morning. The woods
- that surrounded the Castle stood as dark, and apparently as solid as
- itself. Sometimes a gleam like gold trembled over the tufted foliage
- of their summits, and at length, through a glade which opened among
- the dark and massive boles of the ancient trees, one last rich and
- gorgeous flood of light burst in, turned every blade of grass it
- touched into emerald for a moment,--passed on its lovely work--and
- parted. The effect was so instantaneous, brilliant, and evanishing,
- that Elinor had scarce time for a half uttered exclamation, as she
- extended her arm in the direction where the light had fallen so
- brightly and so briefly.
-
-This style is sustained throughout the narrative, but instead of
-rendering it monotonous, it only makes the ‘atmosphere’ intense
-and harmonious in the extreme, which is the chief merit of _The
-Lovers’ Tale_. The characters, if not exactly conventional, are less
-originally conceived. Margaret and Elinor are a pair of heroines known
-from countless romances of all ages: the former high-spirited and
-vivacious, demanding homage and obtaining it at the same moment; the
-latter tender, pale, soft and contemplative, yet not without traits
-of distinct individuality. The characterization of John Sandal is not
-successful--it is the only thing in the tale which is not--he is too
-gentle, too ‘milky’ to be a young sailor and warrior, and is depicted
-with a considerable amount of sentimentality. He appears, however, but
-little; the principal personage is Elinor, whose hopes and sufferings
-are delineated with a psychological insight recalling corresponding
-passages in _Women_. Like Zaira, in the last-named romance, Elinor in
-vain seeks forgetfulness in philanthrophy and religion. In her aunt’s
-house nothing is changed since her earliest childhood. The Puritanic
-ideals and the memories of celebrated preachers are still cherished
-by the old maid with undiminished force; but Elinor cannot, in spite
-of desperate endeavours, find consolation in what once was all in all
-to her, too. It is not only that her heart is broken; she belongs to
-a new time, and her views have been enlarged during her life in the
-castle. The difference between two generations, in the persons of these
-two women, is brought forth with exquisite fineness, and the great and
-heroic qualities in Puritanism are freely admitted:
-
- An old non-conformist minister, a very Saint John for sanctity of
- life, and simplicity of manners, had been seized by a magistrate while
- giving the word of consolation to a few of his flock who had met at
- the cottage of her aunt.
-
- The old man had supplicated for a moment’s delay on the part of the
- civil power, and its officers, by an unusual effort of toleration or
- of humanity, complied. Turning to his congregation, who, amid the
- tumult of the arrest, had never risen from their knees, and only
- changed the voice of supplication from praying with their pastor to
- praying for him,--he quoted to them that beautiful passage from the
- prophet Malachi, which appears to give such delightful encouragement
- to the spiritual intercourse of Christians,--“Then they that feared
- the Lord, spoke often to one another, and the Lord heard it,” etc. As
- he spoke, the old man was dragged away by some rougher hands, and died
- soon after in confinement.
-
- On the young imagination of Elinor, this scene was indelibly written.
- Amid the magnificence of Mortimer Castle, it had never been effaced or
- obscured, and now she tried to make herself in love with the sounds
- and the scene that had so deeply touched her infant heart.
-
- Resolute in her purposes, she spared no pains to excite this
- reminiscence of religion--it was her last resource. Like the wife of
- Phineas, she struggled to bear an heir of the soul, even while she
- named him _Ichabod_,--and felt the glory was departed. She went to the
- narrow apartment,--she seated herself in the very chair that venerable
- man occupied when he was torn from it, and his departure appeared to
- her like that of an ascending prophet. She would _then_ have caught
- the folds of his mantle, and mounted with him, even though his flight
- had led to prison and to death. She tried, by repeating his last
- words, to produce the same effect they had once had on her heart, and
- wept in indescribable agony at feeling those words had no feeling now
- for her.
-
-The faint hope wakened in her half-benumbed heart by Margaret’s first
-letter is soon extinguished. Gradually she loses her beauty and her
-strength, and when addressed by Melmoth she is, bodily, almost as weak
-as her ward. It has been said[144] that it is not clear why he tempts
-Elinor; it must be presumed that he would have the power to restore the
-mind of John, though his chance of succeeding with Elinor is certainly
-slight, she being altogether resigned to her fate.--
-
-That _The Lovers’ Tale_ is told by Melmoth himself, and told in such
-a way as it is, belongs to those curiosities in the composition of
-the book, which simply must be accepted as freaks of a careless yet
-self-conscious imagination that follows laws of its own. Aliaga,
-naturally enough, is at a loss to comprehend how this tale could be
-applied to him; but the next day, as they continue their journey
-together, Melmoth briefly recapitulates the early history of
-Isidora--the details of the shipwreck and her discovery later are
-now first revealed to the reader--adding that Aliaga should not lose
-a moment to save his daughter. Notwithstanding this warning, Aliaga
-allows concerns of business to detain him, and in the meantime the
-fatal nuptials of Melmoth and Isidora take place. After the Indians’
-tale then has been brought to an end, the thread of the original
-narrative is at last resumed and the reader once more conducted to
-where young John Melmoth and the Spaniard Monçada are sitting in the
-desolate Irish country-house. Their conversation is interrupted by the
-sudden appearance of the subject of all these adventures. The term of
-his supernaturally prolonged existence is drawing to a close, and the
-terrible lustre of his eyes is already extinguished. He assures the
-horrified youths that there is nothing to fear; his wanderings are
-finished, and the reason for these wanderings need no longer be kept
-secret, any more than the failure of all his pursuits:
-
- No one has ever exchanged destinies with Melmoth the Wanderer. _I have
- traversed the world in the search, and no one, to gain that world,
- would lose his own soul!_ Not Stanton in his cell--nor you, Monçada,
- in the prison of the Inquisition--nor Walberg, who saw his children
- perishing with want--nor--another--
-
-After this confession the Wanderer asks for a moment’s repose, to
-sleep for the last time in his human existence. His dreams, however,
-are filled with a grand and awful vision of the realm of death which
-is awaiting him and which he has no hope of escaping. During the night
-mysterious voices issue from the room in which he has shut himself. In
-the morning the room is empty, but footsteps can be traced up to a rock
-overlooking the sea. John and Monçada follow the steps until they gain
-the last summit of the rock:
-
- The ocean was beneath--the wide, waste, engulphing ocean! On a crag
- beneath them, something hung as floating to the blast. Melmoth
- clambered down and caught it. It was the handkerchief which the
- Wanderer had worn about his neck the preceding night--that was the
- last trace of the Wanderer!
-
- Melmoth and Monçada exchanged looks of silent and unutterable horror,
- and returned slowly home.--
-
-The conclusion of _Melmoth the Wanderer_ is very impressive; the
-descriptions are well-balanced, suggestive, and not too furious,
-although, in certain details, not decidedly original in invention. As
-in the transformation of Melmoth by an apparent death an influence
-from a contemporary work of the school of terror can be discerned, his
-real death can be traced back to the _Faustus_ of Marlowe.[145] The
-preparations of Faustus and Melmoth for the dreadful last night are
-carried on in the same way:
-
- _Faustus._ Aye, pray for me--pray for me--and whatever noise soever
- you hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.
-
-Melmoth says:
-
- Leave me--I must be alone for the few last hours of my mortal
- existence--men retire--leave me alone--whatever noises you hear in
- the course of the awful night that is approaching, come not near this
- apartment, at the peril of your lives.
-
-The final fulfilment of the bond, however, is only suggested by
-Maturin, while in Marlowe the devils who come to fetch Faustus are
-actually brought to the stage. In this respect the end of _Melmoth the
-Wanderer_ differs, much to its advantage, from the end also of _The
-Monk_,[146] where the enemy in person takes hold of Ambrosio, soars
-with him in the air and dashes him to pieces against a sharp point of
-rock.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-When the story of _Melmoth_, on one of the last pages of the book,
-turns back to the Irish country-house, the author expresses a fear
-that the reader has, perhaps, forgotten the existence of young John
-Melmoth. If he has not, he would at least have had plenty of time
-to do so; for the whole fabric of the work is nothing but a gigantic
-digression from the first action, in the form of tales within tales,
-told and read and read and told by somebody to somebody else, in an
-exceedingly intricate way rendering a general view of them a matter of
-considerable difficulty. The construction of _Melmoth the Wanderer_ is
-extravagant beyond any degree reached by _Montorio_ or _The Wild Irish
-Boy_, and has been subjected to severe criticism. Saintsbury[147] calls
-the arrangement ‘execrably bad,’ wondering ‘how anything quite so bad
-in form can have been put forth by anybody so clever.’ One explanation
-would be that this form implies an intentional disregard of the rules
-of composition, rather than a failure of ability to adhere to them,
-in other words, that the general effect is not calculated to rest
-upon regularity of construction, any more than in, for instance, the
-second part of _Faust_. But even if--which is more probable--Maturin
-really sat down to compose a story of ‘ordinary’ proportions and
-was unconsciously carried away on the wings of his ungovernable
-imagination, the general impression left by the book is such as to
-make the defects in its arrangement decidedly appear a question of
-secondary importance, just as the many literary reminiscences which
-present themselves during the perusal, cannot detract anything from
-the originality of the hero. Little as he actually appears, he is the
-locomotive power without which the whole would collapse, and he is
-remembered still when everything else is forgotten. From behind the
-various and manifold scenes of this amazing labyrinth, there arises the
-pale figure of the Wanderer, terrible and diabolical, yet suffering and
-despairing, to bear witness to his own defeat and the victory of human
-nature, so weak and yet so invincible, the object of at once his hatred
-and his adoration; and is it not, when we stand face to face with this
-wonderful creation of a great genius, indifferent where and when and
-by whom the separate tales are related? That the Wanderer, however,
-is capable of making so powerful an impression, is due to this curious
-fact, that the book, in its most essential feature, does not at all
-correspond to the passage in Maturin’s sermon which he maintains to
-have inspired it.
-
-Several writers, from the most worthless to the most competent, have
-expressed their wonder at the very poor success Melmoth, with all
-his supernatural endowments, can boast of. The savage critic in the
-_Quarterly Review_[148] sneers that Melmoth ‘during his peregrination
-of two centuries, does less mischief than a clever mortal would
-have done;’ and Edgar Allan Poe[149] observes that Melmoth ‘labours
-indefatigably, through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the
-destruction of one or two souls, while any common devil would have
-demolished one or two thousand.’ The common devils certainly are more
-fortunate, and their difference from Maturin’s hero is conspicuous
-enough. In Balzac’s half-parody, _Melmoth Reconcilié_ (1835), the
-Wanderer is delivered of his curse by a criminal, a cashier who
-has committed a fraud and is desirous to escape his sentence, and
-afterwards it passes from hand to hand among similar individuals.
-In Stevenson’s story of _The Bottle Imp_ (1893); which has the same
-motive, the miracle-working and soul-destroying imp is at last, without
-subsequent repentance, purchased by a drunken boatswain who reckons
-he is going to hell anyway. The cause of Melmoth’s failure, and the
-precise character of his uncleverness, which consists in his strange
-ignorance whom to address, is in obvious contradiction to the sermon,
-where the final sin is declared to be too frightful even to those who
-have ever so much
-
- departed from the Lord, disobeyed His will, and disregarded His word.
-
-Now the persons who are subjected to the temptations of Melmoth the
-Wanderer have done nothing of the kind: on the contrary, most of them
-come as near perfection as poor human nature can possibly do. The
-tempter invariably takes care to accost those with whom he is least
-likely to succeed. He leaves unnoticed a character like the parricide,
-who is said to be beyond the redemption of a Saviour, and who, it must
-be assumed, would most joyfully accept the bond--to waste his time and
-energy on Alonzo di Monçada, whom he perceives to be as firm as any
-rock. Of Stanton, of Walberg, of Isidora, of Elinor, not one single
-wrong deed is recorded which would speak for the probability of their
-succumbing to his seductions. To all the tales, it has finely been
-observed,[150] can be applied a motto from _Faust_: ‘ein guter Mensch
-in seinem dunkeln Drange ist sich des rechten Weges wohl bewusst;’
-but it is not the good instinct in the good, but the good instinct
-in the bad, which Maturin, in the preface, promises to demonstrate.
-In consequence, however, of this ‘blunder,’ the character of Melmoth
-the Wanderer becomes so impressive, so impassioned, so distinct from
-all common men and common devils. The attraction exercised upon him
-by the good has its root in what there is human in him; what causes
-him his keenest sufferings is not that he is shut out of paradise but
-that he is shut out of the community of the good among human beings;
-and what he insists on trying, amid rage and despair, is that some
-one of those _good_ would voluntarily share his fate and relieve his
-bitter loneliness. The relation of Melmoth to mankind is marked by that
-intense sense of loneliness, that sense of being ‘among them, but not
-of them,’ or, as Maturin says, ‘mingling with, yet distinct from all
-his species’--which goes through the romantic literature of the period
-and which indeed is genuinely romantic in its implication of something
-exceptional, something outside the common rules of life. The anguish
-of loneliness is shared alike by good and bad, by all whom adverse
-circumstances or else their own bodily or mental deformities have
-placed in a solitary position in the world. In _Montorio_, Ippolito is
-undeservedly overtaken by the fate which Melmoth deliberately invokes
-upon himself; but their anguish is the same. It is felt by St. Leon,
-the moment he attains earthly immortality and understands that those
-whom he has loved can mean nothing to him any longer; it is felt by the
-Black Dwarf when he contemplates the happiness of the strong and the
-beautiful, which he is never to share; and even the miserable monster
-created by Frankenstein prays for one being of the same species as
-himself, who might smile upon him and not answer his approaches with
-curses and maledictions. It was Maturin’s desire to dwell upon this
-emotion that in the long run decided the mould of the characters in
-_Melmoth the Wanderer_ in a way, perhaps, not intended by him from
-the first. Viewed in the light of this same emotion, the contempt of
-Melmoth for his victims is only half-real, nor is it probable that
-Maturin meant him to appear so superior to humanity as he is shown by
-Baudelaire[151] in his well-known _Essay de l’essence du rire_:
-
- Quoi de plus grand, quoi de plus puissant relativement à la pauvre
- humanité que ce pale et ennuyé Melmoth? Et pourtant, il y a en lui un
- côté faible, abject, antidivin et antilumineux. Aussi comme il rit,
- comme il rit, se comparant sans cesse aux chenilles humaines, lui si
- fort, si intelligent, lui pour qui une partie des lois conditionelles
- de l’humanité, physiques et intellectuelles, n’existent plus! Et ce
- rire est l’explosion perpétuelle de sa colère et de sa souffrance.
- Il est, qu’on me comprenne bien, la résultante nécessaire de sa
- double nature contradictoire, qui est infiniment grande relativement
- à l’homme, infiniment vile et basse relativement au Vrai et au Juste
- absolus.
-
-The members of this _pauvre humanité_ still represent the power of
-absolute Justice and Truth, the power so infinitely stronger than
-Melmoth. Theirs is the ultimate triumph.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-_Melmoth the Wanderer_ created, at its first appearance, a greater
-sensation than any of Maturin’s previous novels. Economically it also
-was something of a success: the profits it brought to the author are
-said[152] to have amounted to 500 pounds. A second edition appeared
-the following year as well as a French translation, _Melmoth, ou
-l’Homme errant_, by J. Cohen, and a ‘free’ German translation called
-_Melmoth der Wanderer_.--All the works of Maturin, except _Manuel_ and
-_Fredolfo_, were translated into French soon after their appearance in
-English, and with the rendering of _Melmoth_ his fame became definitely
-established in that country, where, in fact, it has always been
-greater than in England. A. A. Watts says[153] that his father, while
-travelling in France, possessed a passport to the romantic circles as
-the friend of that ‘triste et terrible Maturin.’--In 1823 the romance
-was published in the form of a melodrama in three acts, by B. West.
-This production is a combination of the _Tale of Guzman’s Family_ and
-the _Tale of the Indians_; Isidora is represented as the daughter of
-Walberg, and has loved Melmoth in her youth. Walberg and Isidora are
-both, through the machinations of Melmoth, thrown into the prison of
-the Inquisition, whence they are rescued by another lover of hers,
-while Melmoth is killed by thunder. The play is without any literary
-value whatever, but shows clearly which two tales were most appreciated
-by the public.--The principal periodicals of the time also reviewed
-_Melmoth_ at a considerable length, although, for the most part, with
-a negative result. In the _Quarterly Review_ Croker raged against the
-book even more furiously than he had done against _Women_, pronouncing
-it to be the very acme of all that is execrable:
-
- Indeed, Mr. Maturin has contrived, by a ‘_curiosa infelicitas_,’ to
- unite in this work all the worst particularities of the worst modern
- novels. Compared with it, Lady Morgan is almost intelligible--The
- Monk, decent--The Vampire, amiable--and Frankenstein, natural. We
- do not pronounce this judgment hastily, and we pronounce it with
- regret--we honour Mr. Maturin’s profession even when he debases it,
- and if ‘Melmoth’ had been only silly and tiresome, we should gladly
- have treated it with silent contempt; but it unfortunately variegates
- its stupidity with some characteristics of a more disgusting kind,
- which our respect for good manners and decency obliges us to denounce.
-
-After declaring, in italics, that the hero of the book is _the Devil
-himself_, the reviewer solemnly accuses the author of nonsense,
-want of veracity, ignorance, blasphemy and brutality, and a dark,
-cold-blooded, pedantic obscenity; and finishes his article with
-a hint that it certainly is quite right that the Church does not
-provide subsistence for him.--That critics, upon the whole, spoke
-unfavourably of _Melmoth_ is not to be wondered at. The school of
-terror had irrevocably had its day, and very different literary ideals
-were being established. The magic art of Scott held a strong sway
-over all minds, while the well-bred drawing-room adventures of Maria
-Edgeworth and Jane Austen were now, in their turn, felt as a relief and
-a liberation from the wilder forms of romanticism. The extravagances
-and horribly startling incidents in Maturin’s romance were enough to
-cover its powerful originality and lasting merits--which probably
-would be the case did the book appear to-day. Yet the author’s genius
-was unreservedly admitted even by most of those who disapproved of
-the style and contents of _Melmoth_; the end of the article in the
-_Edinburgh Review_ is characteristic, its tone being as dignified as
-that of the _Quarterly Review_ is base:
-
- Let it not be imagined, from any thing we have now said, that we
- think meanly of Mr. Maturin’s genius and abilities. It is precisely
- because we hold both in respect that we are sincerely anxious to
- point out their misapplication; and we have extended our observations
- to a greater length than we contemplated, partly because we fear
- his strong though unregulated imagination, and unlimited command
- of glowing language, may inflict upon us a herd of imitators who
- ‘possessing the contortions of the sybil without her inspiration’ will
- deluge us with dull, turgid, and disgusting enormities;--and partly
- because we are not without hopes that our animadversions, offered in
- a spirit of sincerity, may induce the Author himself to abandon this
- new Apotheosis of the old Raw-head-and-bloody-bones, and assume a
- station in literature more consonant to his high endowments, and to
- that sacred profession to which, we understand, he does honour by the
- virtues of his private life.
-
-The _Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany_ writes essentially to
-the same purport:
-
- There is one point of resemblance between this author and his hero.
- They both, in a different way, possess very considerable powers,
- which seem to have some invisible and mysterious limit, beyond which
- they cannot pass. The wild and wonderful, the odd and eccentric,
- seems to be Mr. Maturin’s chosen province;--into the regions of
- nature and probability he is either unable or unwilling to penetrate.
- Perhaps this is saying too much, but, if he does make an advance into
- these quiet precincts, his love of extravagance and exaggeration
- immediately leads him back into his wonted path. -- -- It is difficult
- to understand the construction of a mind so pregnant with every
- aggravation of mental and bodily suffering, that it seems absolutely
- to luxuriate, not only in the pain it describes, but in that which he
- produces in his readers. Surrounded as he is with terrible objects,
- and gleams of sulphureous flame, which his hero is ever and anon
- presenting to our view, the reverend author appears to our imagination
- like some Vulcan of the anvil, assiduously labouring and forging
- shackles, bolts, and instruments of torture, with this difference,
- that with the poor mechanic it was not matter of choice, whereas
- Mr. Maturin, with all the flowery paths of fiction open to him, has
- preferred this tortuous and gloomy one.
-
-The only one who expresses himself with unrestrained admiration is the
-critic in the _Blackwood’s Magazine_--also referred to once above.
-Even he, it is true, points out that there are faults and errors in
-Maturin’s writings; but he admits that they are more than atoned for by
-the merits:
-
- And yet, where is the lover of imaginative excitement, that ever
- laid down one of his books unfinished--or the man of candour and
- discrimination, who ever denied, after reading through any of them,
- that Maturin is gifted with a genius as fervently powerful as it is
- distinctly original--that there is ever and anon a truth of true
- poetry diffused over the thickest chaos of his absurdities--and that
- he walks almost without a rival, dead or living, in many of the
- darkest, but, at the same time, the most majestic circles of romance?
-
-This critic, however, could hardly be taken seriously by the author,
-inasmuch as he places _Montorio_ before the present work:
-
- We are far from saying that Mr. Maturin should write less--but we do
- say, that he should write a great deal more--observe a great deal
- more--and correct a great deal more. If he does not, he may depend
- upon it he will never fulfil the rich promise of his _Montorio_; for
- that, we rather think, was his first--and, we are quite sure, is the
- best of all his performances.
-
-It is of interest to notice these opinions; for, however slight their
-authority, they seem to have had the desired effect of checking
-the ‘extravagances’ of Maturin’s genius--so much the worse for
-literature. His desire to please--for such desire there was in his
-temperament, quite apart from all pecuniary considerations--was once
-more discouraged, and he began to grow weary of being told the same
-things over and again. It was several years before he again produced
-a novel, and when he did, he painfully strove to adhere to patterns
-universally accepted, and avoid displaying those peculiarities which
-were distinctly his own, but the absence of which to a production of
-his irreparably meant the loss of vital power, notwithstanding a small
-temporary success. A sense of ultimate failure and disappointment has,
-among other things, its share in the unmistakable gloom cast over
-Maturin’s last years.
-
-
-
-
-V.
-
-1821-1824.
-
-    When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’,
-    Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’;
-    An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’,
-                           An’ social noise;
-    An’ fareweel, dear deluding woman!
-                           The joy of joys!
-
-  Burns.
-
-
-Maturin’s last period opens with a poetical enterprise which is
-bound up with a mystery exactly opposite to that appertaining to the
-publication of the _Waterloo_ prize poem in 1815. In 1821 appeared a
-lengthy poem in blank verse, called _The Universe_, under the name of
-the Rev. C. R. Maturin, received--very undeservedly--with something
-like acclamation. The real authorship of the poem was, even at the
-time, claimed by Mr. James Wills, a name afterwards not quite--though
-nearly--unknown in the world of letters; but it was not until 1874 that
-the case was brought before the public. For the sake of the composition
-itself it would be unnecessary long to dwell upon the question, had not
-the controversy called forth the publication of a manuscript of Wills,
-which throws an interesting, if not entirely agreeable, light upon his
-acquaintance with Maturin and the circumstances connected with the
-origin of _The Universe_.
-
-A correspondent in the _Notes and Queries_[154]--who was a great
-admirer of the poem--happened, in the year mentioned above, to allude
-to its disputed authorship and utter some doubts as to the statements
-of Wills. Against this view the surviving family of that writer
-energetically protested; two sons of Wills, referring to a note in the
-second edition of Lord John Russell’s biography of Moore,[155] and
-producing two or three utterances of some of their father’s friends
-who were initiated into the secret, put about the following statements
-concerning _The Universe_. Maturin was engaged by Colburn to compose
-for him a poem consisting of a thousand lines. The renumeration--500
-pounds--was paid in advance; but, having spent it, Maturin found the
-fulfilment of his engagement to be encumbered with insurmountable
-difficulties. Being at a loss how to get on with the work, he was shown
-a poem of Wills, then a very young man. Maturin pathetically entreated
-him to lend it to him for use, promising, first, to let Colburn know of
-the transaction, and secondly, to reveal the real authorship after the
-publication; neither of which promises was kept, the poem being read
-and reviewed as a production of Maturin’s.
-
-In the polemics in the _Notes and Queries_ the Wills family--who also
-considered the _Universe_ a work of uncommon merit--had the last word,
-and their assertions were, a little later, supported by the _Dublin
-University Magazine_,[156] whose editor had received a record in the
-handwriting of Wills, found between the covers of an old copy of the
-poem and sent to Dublin by Messrs. Chatto & Windus, the well-known
-London publishers. In this record, which the editor supposes to have
-been written for the benefit of Lord Russell before the publication
-of the second edition of his life of Moore, Wills relates that he had
-composed the poem in the years 1819 and 1820,[157] while residing at
-Bray, the then most fashionable watering-place in the neighbourhood of
-Dublin. He intended it to be a very great work which was to fill up all
-his life-time; but having written upwards of 800 lines, he made a new
-acquaintance of whose appearance he gives the following description:
-
- There was an accession of guests (at the table d’hôte), and among them
- a very remarkable-looking gentleman attracted my attention, and I was
- struck by the extreme precision of his dress, his handsome and well
- sitting black wig, which, on a first glance, looked like a splendid
- head of hair, his silver spectacles, neatly cut features, and the
- imposing modulation of his deep voice. Had he been some years younger,
- I should have said there was a little shade of the clerical dandy in
- his appearance. As it was I thought I could discern the air of one who
- aimed to be very _recherché_ in his manners and conversation, and that
- all his personal advantages were a little overdone. Who he could be I
- had no notion.
-
- I was seated at a side table: but when the cloth was removed he
- beckoned to me, and I went and took a seat next to him. He pushed his
- bottle to me, and asked me to join him in his wine, and addressed
- his conversation entirely to me. I presently took exception to some
- fallacy which he let drop: and as he seemed disposed to contest the
- point (whatever it was) the conversation degenerated into argument.
- The gentleman I soon found, though extremely pointed, witty and
- epigrammatic, and very happy in allusion, had very little power in
- disputation, and he presently gave in with a good grace.
-
-In the course of the same day Wills was formally introduced to his
-opponent, who he had learnt, was Maturin. Their acquaintance soon
-ripened into intimacy. The fascinating personality of the novelist cast
-a strong spell over Wills, although he received the impression that
-Maturin was ‘a little too flattering’ and not quite sincere. When the
-transaction as to the poem was then proposed to him, Wills felt extreme
-reluctance, but at last yielded, overcome by Maturin’s persuasions
-and the consideration that Maturin’s family, to whom he had been
-introduced, would be ruined if the money had to be refunded to Colburn.
-The accomplishment of this great work is told by Wills with a naive
-open-heartedness, amusing indeed when regarded in the light of the
-controversy in _Notes and Queries_, where his sons seriously maintain
-that both Scott and Campbell considered _The Universe_ the best thing
-produced by Maturin, and the other party as seriously declares it to
-contain passages equal to Milton:
-
- I then went stoutly to work and as I had engaged to expand my poem
- into 2,000 lines within the next month, without the materials which
- the original plan required, I diluted it with whatever came uppermost.
- It was thus easily completed within the time, and copied from my
- own first draught by different transcribers as I had insisted on
- preserving my own M. S., which I still have. I also wished to keep
- possession of my plan and the original passages, all of which had been
- carefully elaborated, though the filling up was carelessly done.
-
-The poem being completed and sent to the publisher, it became clear to
-Wills that Maturin was determined not to reveal the secret. It came
-out, however, ‘with a celerity truly surprising;’ the literary circles
-of Dublin were divided in two contesting parties, the one standing
-by Maturin, the other by Wills, and the matter was eagerly discussed
-in the drawing-rooms of Lady Morgan and the Mrs. Smith mentioned by
-Moore. The former was also deeply impressed by the production; when
-assured by Wills that Maturin never wrote a line of it, she answered,
-‘well, then, you must do something very considerable to convince the
-world you could have written it.’ Nevertheless Wills seems to have
-succeeded in convincing Lady Morgan, for it was she who, according to
-him, communicated the particulars to Colburn. When Wills some time
-afterwards met the publisher in London, he presented Wills with all
-the remaining copies of the stock, hinting that the affair ‘had been
-injurious to Mr. Maturin in his relations with him as a publisher.’--
-
-In connection with this version of Wills it is not out of place to
-quote a passage from an unpublished letter of Maturin to Sir Charles
-Morgan, dated 1821:
-
- -- -- Apropos to the _cursed_ booksellers, you can render me a most
- essential service by simply making an inquiry. I have Mr. Colburn’s
- written engagement to give £ 500 for my present work. I wrote to
- Charles Phillips three months ago to request he would inform C. that
- the work was more than half completed, that I was willing to place
- the M. S. in his hands and depended on his fulfilling his engagement.
- I have never had a line from Phillips in answer, though I stated my
- distress to him repeatedly and in the most urgent terms. Now, my dear
- friend, if without _committing me_ you could make C. speak out, it
- would relieve me from considerable anxiety.
-
-This seems to prove that the £ 500 was not paid in advance, and
-that Maturin had written a large part of some work agreed upon with
-Colburn, before he received anything for it. Whether the manuscript
-here referred to was published as a constituent part of _The Universe_
-it is hazardous to decide; if it was, Maturin had probably lost
-all interest in the poem and entreated Wills to complete it--the
-alternative being that the manuscript was deemed unfit, and Wills
-supplied all the materials. The poem itself gives little clue to the
-mystery. When speaking of _The Universe_, Wills more than once alludes
-to the ‘effective passages’ and the ‘filling up;’ but to a modern
-reader it is not easy to distinguish which is which, the whole being
-extraordinarily ineffective. The subject resolves itself into something
-that cannot possibly be firmly grasped. A contemporary critic[158]
-says not inappropriately: ‘Where in the name of criticism and common
-sense, could he begin with a subject that had no beginning, or finish
-with that which, being infinite and eternal, can have no end? He has
-followed no plan--he has given his fancy the rein. His flight is wild
-and discursive, but indicates a bearing in no particular direction. --
--- -- His poem is not a _whole_: any man might as well have tried to
-cram the solar system into a cockle-shell as to produce a complete and
-finished poem on such a subject.’ The following passage belongs, in the
-critic’s opinion, to the happiest in the poem:
-
-                                                  So array’d
-    In manifold radiance, Earth’s primeval spring
-    Walk’d on the bright’ning orb, lit by the Hours
-    And young exulting Elements, undefil’d,--
-    And circling, free from tempest, round her calm
-    Perennial brow,--the dewy Zephyrs, then,
-    From flower-zon’d mountains, wav’d their odorous wings
-    Over the young sweet vallies, whispering joy--
-    Then goodliest beam’d the unpolluted--bright--
-    Divine similitude of thoughtful man,
-    Serene above all creatures--breathing soul--
-    Fairest where all was fair,--pure sanctuary
-    Of those sweet thoughts, that with life’s earliest breath,
-    Up through the temperate air of Eden rose
-    To Heav’n’s gate, thrilling love!--Then, Nature,--then,
-    Thy Maker looked upon his work and smiled--
-    Seeing that it was good!--And gave thee charge
-    Thenceforth for evermore with constant eye
-    To watch the times and seasons, and preserve
-    The circling maze, exact.
-
-These lines are, as a matter of fact, neither better nor worse than any
-others of the two thousand of which this sorry production consists.
-There are no traces of the rugged beauty of _Bertram_ and _Fredolfo_,
-and it is really difficult to imagine that Maturin had any part in the
-work. On the other hand it must be admitted that it is equally inferior
-to the poetry later produced by Wills.[159] The matter ought to have
-been taken very quietly by those whom it concerned, nor did it, to
-judge from the record of Wills, stop their friendly intercourse. It may
-lastly be mentioned that Maturin dedicated _The Universe_ to his old
-antagonist Samuel Taylor Coleridge; which must have happened either in
-a fit of Christian forgiveness or of deliberate irony.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The picture which Wills draws of Maturin is, it will be observed,
-totally different from the description quoted in connection with his
-mode of composing _Melmoth_. It also differs from what other scanty
-records there are preserved of Maturin, which all agree that he was,
-at that time, beginning to lead a retired life and appear but little
-in society. His pecuniary embarrassments were extremely distressing;
-the profits he had reaped by _Melmoth_ and _The Universe_ had probably
-been swallowed up by the old debt he had contracted some time about
-1815, besides which he undoubtedly was something of a spendthrift
-and unpractical in business-transactions. His home had undergone a
-melancholy change since the success of _Bertram_, as depicted by the
-writer in _Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine_ 1846:
-
- The inside of the house was gloomy and melancholy in the extreme: just
- the house for the romancist who penned “Melmoth.” The dull kitchen
- candle of the servant threw but a faint light; and my feet struck
- with a lonely sound on the naked flags of the hall, which was barely
- furnished with two chairs surmounted by his crest, a galloping horse;
- the stairs were without carpets. On entering the drawing-room, it
- almost appeared to be unfurnished. A single drugget partly covered
- the floor, and a small table stood in the centre: but the entire end
- nearest the door was occupied by a divan covered with scarlet, which
- appeared strangely out of character with the general meagreness of the
- apartment; beside the folding-doors was a square piano; at the fire
- was placed an old armchair, in which I afterwards saw him sit for many
- a weary hour, till three or four o’clock in the morning, while writing
- the “Albigenses;” and on a small work-table between the windows lay a
- very ancient writing-desk. Such was my first glimpse of the author’s
- domicile, which had once been a witness of very different scenes.
-
-The gloominess of Maturin’s existence was brightened by the return
-of Lady Morgan to her native country in 1821, after an absence of
-several years abroad. The little governess who had earned her first
-laurels with _The Wild Irish Girl_ was now transformed into one of the
-foremost literary celebrities of the day. In 1812 Miss Owenson had
-become the wife of Dr. Thomas Charles Morgan, physician to the Marquis
-of Abercorn, who had shortly before been ‘knighted by the viceroy--at
-a hint, it is said, from the doctor’s enterprising fiancée. She had,
-since then, published numerous novels, amongst others the Irish story
-_O’Donnel_ (1814). Her greatest fame, however, was due to the extensive
-work on _France_ (1817), the strongly liberal views of which had roused
-the fury of the _Quarterly Review_ and caused the fierce contest of
-which Maturin also had borne his share of the brunt in the vehement
-attacks upon his best romances. From the rare and brief political
-utterances in Maturin’s works, sermons, and letters, it may be gathered
-that he rather inclined to toryism; but uninterested as he was in
-politics, his opinions did not in any way bias his regard for Lady
-Morgan, of whom he used to speak ‘in terms of the most extravagant
-admiration.’[160] Though the two were the only authors of repute
-residing in Dublin, there was no kind of jealousy between them. The
-character of Lady Morgan was broad-minded and generous, and her desire
-to help Maturin was sincere beyond any doubt. Her weekly _réunions_ in
-Kildare Street, pleasantly described by her biographer,[161] were among
-the few relaxations Maturin allowed himself in his later years:
-
- In this agreeably situated mansion there was regularly held for a long
- series of years, a still more voluminous series of most delightful
- and select literary réunions, which are remembered by the surviving
- few who had the privilege of access, with enthusiastic feelings of
- pride and pleasure. A constant guest was the brilliant, eccentric,
- and almost forgotten Charles Robert Maturin. Domestic sorrows
- and pecuniary reverses threw a gloom over the later years of his
- existence; and, as a contemporary record informs us, every inducement
- failed to make him desert his melancholy hearth save the intellectual
- circle which Lady Morgan illuminated by her sparkling wit, or the
- romantic solitudes of Wicklow wherein some of his richest veins of
- inspiration had been caught in happier bygone days.
-
-Among the domestic sorrows was the loss of a child, in 1821,
-immediately after its birth. When Lady Morgan called to inquire after
-Mrs. Maturin during her confinement, Maturin sent her this reply: ‘My
-angel is better, The Cherub is flown’--which words she noted down on
-a letter she received from him shortly afterwards.--That there were
-troubles also of another kind can be inferred from some lines in the
-above-mentioned letter to Sir Charles: ‘You terrify me by saying
-there is a _prejudice_ against me amongst the Catholics; what have
-I done? I have never been a partizan--my voice was never heard at a
-meeting--I am not a public man in the least--what _can_ I have done?’
-Whatever this may have reference to, the answer obviously would have
-been, that he had written _Melmoth_. Although he had never meant to
-offend his Catholic townsmen, their resentment was not altogether
-inexplicable, and it is certainly curious that it should have come
-to him so unexpectedly. If the Methodists had not been favourably
-disposed towards him after the publication of _Women_, he now got the
-Catholics against him; but as it was only the errors of both creeds he
-had wished to attack, he must have suffered much from the feeling of
-having, perhaps, given personal offence.--Yet in all this dreariness
-there would occasionally be outbursts of the old eccentricity and the
-invincible desire sometimes to assume the rôle of a _grand seigneur_,
-which he, in his harmless way, imagined best to suit him. The following
-anecdote[162] has a characteristic ring about it:
-
- Sir Charles raised a subscription for him, amounting to fifty pounds.
- The first use he made of it was to give a grand party. There was
- little furniture in the reception room, but at one end there had been
- erected an old theatrical property throne under a canopy of crimson
- velvet, where he and Mrs. Maturin sat to receive their visitors.--
-
-That Maturin did not greatly care about the completion of _The
-Universe_ is evident from the fact that he was, so early as 1821,
-engaged on a new play. In a note to Lady Morgan he mentions that it
-will be acted at Hawkins’--‘the profits will be far inferior to those
-of Covent Garden, but they will be something.’ Still the play was,
-later on, sent to Covent Garden, Sir Charles undertaking to use his
-influence with Kean who appears, from the very first, to have been
-unwilling to accept it. In a letter dated Dec. 16, 1822, Maturin writes
-to Sir Charles:
-
- I never felt my “lack of words” so great as at this moment when they
- altogether fail me in adequately expressing my gratitude for your
- kindness. Matters are not however so bad as it is _Elliston_, not
- _Kean_, who has rejected the play. I have written to Kean to beg him
- to read over the play _himself_, and to assure him I will acquiesce in
- his judgment, whatever it be.
-
- I need not say how much it would enhance my numerous obligations to
- Lady Morgan were she to write to Kean merely to _enforce my request_,
- to beg he will read over the play (which he has not done) and
- determine _for himself_ whether it is worthy of his powers or not.
-
- No decision of his can diminish my gratitude to Lady M---- and to you.
-
-Whether there was an intervention on the part of Lady Morgan or not,
-the play was doomed never to see the light. It can hardly have been
-any other than the one to which Watts refers in his autobiographical
-notes:[163]
-
- He had another tragedy in the hands of Edmund Kean, but on this he
- could obtain no decision whatever. It was entitled _Osmyn_, and is
- said to have been the most careful and effective of his dramatic
- compositions. I made many attempts to obtain its restitution, but in
- vain. On one occasion I attacked Kean before a large party, and dwelt
- upon the cruel injury which Maturin had sustained from his persistent
- disregard of the matter. Finally, I obtained from him a promise that
- the M. S. should be forthcoming, if I could call in Clarges Street for
- it on the ensuing day. This of course I did, but was denied access to
- Mr. Kean, who was said to be too ill to see me.
-
-The only person who has been able to give an account of and publish
-some extracts from the play is the writer in the _Irish Quarterly
-Review_ 1852. He states that a completed tragedy called _The Siege of
-Salerno_ was found among Maturin’s manuscripts after his death, without
-explaining when and how he had an opportunity of seeing it. He states
-further that the plot bears, in conception, some resemblance to Byron’s
-_Siege of Corinth_--the hero in both works being, in fact, a renegade
-who leads Turkish forces against a Christian town. The passage quoted
-in the _Irish Quarterly Review_ consists of a scene where Osmyn--the
-copy sent to Kean apparently bore the name of the hero--relates the
-story of his life. He has formerly been the prince of Salerno, the very
-town which he now attacks as a Turkish captain. He lived in happiness
-with his wife Matilda, when suddenly his enemy
-
-    Manfred, the terror of the neighbouring states;
-    Plunderer of all, and tyrant of his own,
-
-invaded his country. Osmyn was thrown into the dungeon of his own
-castle, where he was kept for years. A time came when his prison walls
-were destroyed by a tempest--that is, an earthquake--and he gained his
-liberty. Being recognized by no one he wandered about in the streets
-and became witness of a procession where Matilda, now the wife of
-Manfred, was borne in solemn festival. In despair he left the country:
-
-    On the last shore of Italy I kissed
-    A cross my mother bound about my neck,
-    And flung it towards these towers. On Asia’s coast
-    I grasped the crescent.
-
-The story, we see, is rather improbable, and the deliverance of Osmyn
-from his prison belongs to the most hackneyed tricks of the older
-school of terror. The hero is, however, typically Maturineian. He is a
-kind of Bertram in Ottoman costume; the one returns as a robber-chief,
-the other as the leader of an infidel army, and the speech of Osmyn is
-a distinct echo from Maturing first play:
-
-    If thou would’st make man wretched, make him vile:
-    Sear up his conscience--make his mind a desert,
-    His heart an ulcer, and his frame a stone;
-    Countryless, friendless, wifeless, childless, Godless;
-    Accused of heaven, and hated.--Make him Osmyn.
-    Thus have they dealt with me.
-
-The writer in the _Irish Quarterly Review_ assures his readers that
-the play ‘abounds in passages of great power and beauty;’ the extracts
-which he communicates, however, do not rise to the level of the best
-pages in _Bertram_ or _Fredolfo_.--
-
-One more tragedy contemplated by Maturin in his last years may yet
-be mentioned. A motive from the recent history of France had been
-suggested to him, to which he refers in a letter[164] of Oct. 20:th
-1823:
-
- I feel myself flattered by the reference to me contained in your
- letter.--I am not disposed to think favourably of the French Tragedies
- which are rather declamatory than impassioned but will do my utmost
- with the subject you have sent me.
-
- The allusion to Buonaparte, appears to me to constitute the _forte_
- of the story, and as he is (fortunately for Europe) now dead, I
- cannot think that the most inveterate Jacobin would be offended by a
- representation of him on the stage to which I am convinced Mr. Kean’s
- powers would give the most distinguished effect.
-
-The recipient of this letter is not known, nor anything else
-connected with the matter, with which all the biographers seem to be
-unacquainted. Among other unfulfilled projects is said[165] to have
-been a poem the scene of which was ‘to be laid in Ireland during the
-period of harps and minstrels;’ besides which Maturin wrote,[166] some
-time before his death, a short tale founded upon the family legend
-quoted in the first chapter of the present study.
-
-A determination of Maturin ‘to devote himself more exclusively to
-the service of his calling’[167] led to the publication, in 1824,
-of _Five Sermons on the Errors of the Roman Catholic Church_. These
-controversial sermons were preached during the Lent of the same year
-before an audience unparalleled in number. ‘Never since Dean Kirwan’s
-time,’ it is stated in a contemporary memoir,[168] ‘were such crowds
-attracted to the Parish Church as during the delivery of these sermons;
-neither rain nor storm could subdue the anxiety of all classes and
-all persuasions to hear them.’ The sermons are explicitly said to be
-directed, not against Catholics, but Catholicism; Maturin endeavoured
-earnestly to avoid a tone of personal offensiveness, although it is
-much to be questioned whether he did not, in the following passage,
-underrate the attachment of the Irish Catholics to their faith:
-
- I will add, that of all the Protestant Ministers in Dublin, I have
- happened to have the most extensive and intimate intercourse with
- Roman Catholics, and that I have found many of them so truly amiable
- and excellent, that I could heartily have wished myself, and all I
- loved, to be “almost and altogether like unto them, _except their
- bonds_”--but amongst all of them I have remarked such an obvious,
- though tacit admission, of the errors of their Church--such an
- earnest wish for scriptural instruction and mental enlargement--such
- a desire for the only true _Catholic Emancipation_, the emancipation
- of the intellect and the conscience, that though I would have felt it
- unfit to turn the stream of social conversation into the channel of
- controversy, I did most anxiously wish for an opportunity of pointing
- out to them in a public address, those errors of which they themselves
- appeared so deeply conscious.
-
-The volume was received very favourably and reprinted in 1826.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-In autumn 1824 appeared the last of Maturin’s lucubrations, a
-historical novel called _The Albigenses_. Though of imposing
-length--four volumes, together about 1500 pages--it was intended to be
-but the first series of a great trilogy, ‘illustrative,’ as stated in
-the preface, ‘of European feelings and manners in ancient times, in
-middle, and in modern.’ How the second and third parts had been planned
-is thus described:
-
- The more subtle policy, improved system of government, and commencing
- diffusion of literature in the second period,--and the still more
- enlightened political system, confirmed knowledge, and popular
- influence, that distinguish times nearer to our own,--give obvious
- room for all that is picturesque, intelligent, and interesting in
- description.
-
-There is little doubt that Maturin was induced to turn to the
-historical romance by the immense popularity of Scott, whose fame now
-stood at its zenith. He knew that this _genre_, at any rate, would not
-be objected to as obsolete or offensive to good feeling, as had been
-the case with his previous work. An outward success, moreover, was
-now more imperative than ever before, and everything could be hoped
-from the public rage for historical novels. This field of fiction
-was entirely new to Maturin; in _The Lovers’ Tale_ only the general
-‘atmosphere’ is historical--the incidents might have taken place in
-any age. The experiment, if praiseworthy, was decidedly hazardous; to
-outdo Mrs. Radcliffe and Lewis had been easy enough, but to enter
-into competition with the Author of _Waverley_ was a serious matter
-for a writer whose powers lay in depicting what was passing before
-his own eyes, or else, what never could have happened at all. That
-most contemporary critics nevertheless hailed _The Albigenses_ as
-Maturin’s best work only proves their partiality for the style in
-which it was written; of later judges even his greatest admirer admits
-that Maturin’s attempt to ‘marry history to fiction’ turned out a
-failure.[169]--
-
-The action of the story commences in 1216, at a time when the forces
-of the Albigenses are threatening the castle of Courtenaye. The sect
-is alternately headed and abandoned by count Raymond of Toulouse,
-who, though Catholic himself, occasionally wishes to save his vassals
-from complete destruction. His present designs are unknown; he has
-travelled to Rome to seek reconciliation with the Pope, and is expected
-back at any hour. In the meantime the persecuted Albigenses live in
-great misery among the mountains of Languedoc. Their leader is an old
-and venerable pastor of the name of Pierre, whom the cruelty of the
-crusaders has deprived of sight. He is tended by his granddaughter
-Genevieve, as good and gentle a being as himself, and constantly
-exhorts his followers to mildness and forgiveness; in this he is
-fiercely opposed by a fraction of wild fanatics, represented, among
-others, by the deacon Mephibosheth, a man of ‘intolerant zeal, and
-intolerable pretentions,’ who subsequently turns renegade.--The
-lord of Courtenaye, a savage and cowardly cripple, who fears the
-vicinity of the Albigenses but is unable to defend himself, summons
-the chief crusaders to his aid. The summons is very willingly obeyed,
-and a great army of knights and crusaders is, at the opening of the
-tale, marching towards the castle. The most eminent leaders of the
-Catholic forces are count Simon de Montfort, the ‘champion of the
-church,’ a rude and powerful soldier--and the bishop of Toulouse, a
-vigorous-minded sceptic, who in everything pursues his own advantage
-and aims at the increase of his own influence, ‘a man of power and
-might, body and soul, whose strong mind clung to his strong frame
-like the human part of the centaur of old to the animal part, making
-but _one_ between them.’ There is a great deal of jealousy between
-these two warriors, and their army is split with discord and mutual
-suspicion. The majority are for attacking the heretics at once and
-crushing them at a single blow, while others advise waiting till the
-result of count Raymond’s negotiations with the Pope is known. From a
-message brought to the bishop it appears that the court of Rome has
-sent a monk of uncommon sanctity to mediate between the two hostile
-armies; the mediator has already visited the Albigenses and is now on
-his way to the castle. This simple and honest monk, who is chosen by
-the Pope with a view to ‘diminish the power and mortify the ambition’
-of the bishop of Toulouse, has been received with hostility by the
-zealous fraction among the Albigenses, and only after great exertions
-on the part of Pierre has the arrangement been brought about that
-they consent to hear an exhortation from the bishop, on a promise
-of safety. The day being fixed, the crusaders set out with pomp and
-splendour to the meeting-place. The bishop delivers a magnificent
-sermon, but without effect; the Albigeois preachers reply with spirit,
-and reconciliation is found impossible. They are to resort to arms the
-following day. The crusaders retire to the castle of Courtenaye; the
-night is spent in carousals, during which De Montfort proposes that
-he and the knights alone would ride the heretics down; the proposal
-is eagerly accepted, in spite of the warnings of an old knight called
-Sir Aymer de Chastelroi.--The Albigenses are prepared for the worst,
-but the same night count Raymond returns with a great army. Besides
-the political, he has a personal cause against the crusaders: the late
-lord Courtenaye, the brother of the present one, has once surprised
-his castle and slaughtered his wife and children, for which outrage he
-has sworn eternal vengeance. He now takes command of the Albigenses;
-it is decided to wait till the crusaders are enclosed in a valley,
-and then beset them from all sides. The stratagem is easily carried
-out, and the knights are completely defeated. De Montfort is wounded
-almost to death, while the bishop succeeds in making his way out of
-the ambuscade, and arrives at the castle with a few surviving knights.
-De Montfort also is afterwards brought to the castle, where he slowly
-recovers.--Count Raymond, understanding that his victory is entirely
-due to the temerity of the vanquished, commands the whole band of the
-Albigenses to set out for the kingdom of Arragon, whither, indeed, it
-is the bishop’s intention immediately to pursue them. De Montfort being
-disabled for a long time, the bishop assumes the title of the champion
-of the church and places himself at the head of the crusading army. His
-enterprise, however, meets various difficulties; the followers of the
-knights who have perished in the recent battle begin to desert, when
-no longer commanded by their individual leaders, besides which king
-Philip refuses to recognize the bishop as the champion of the Church,
-before the title is admitted by the Pope. Under these circumstances the
-bishop proceeds to lead his forces to his own castle in the city of
-Beaucaire. On the road he lights upon a veiled lady who travels with
-one single attendant and turns out to be no less a person than queen
-Ingelberg. King Philip, being violently in love with Agnes of Moravia,
-has deserted the queen and even planned against her life, for which
-reason she tries to escape to her brother the king of Denmark. The
-bishop at once resolves to carry her as a prisoner to his castle; he is
-anxious to preserve the life of the queen, in order to be able to annul
-the king’s adulterous marriage, should he deny him future aid.--The
-queen subsequently makes her escape and is reconciled to the king.--A
-new crusade is soon determined upon, and the bishop, with a great
-number of nobles and dignitaries whom he has won to his side, marches
-to Nismes, which is this time fixed as meeting-place for the Catholic
-leaders. Among these is prince Lewis, who is very desirous to take the
-lead, and hates the bishop as cordially as he hates De Montfort. The
-latter has not yet recovered his strength, but shows no inclination
-to resign his title, and thus the old discord again prevails in the
-crusading army:--The Albigenses have once more been abandoned by the
-vacillating count Raymond, but some others of the most potent lords of
-Languedoc have taken up arms in their cause, and entrenched themselves
-in Tarascon. The crusaders now march against that city, outside whose
-walls a long and furious battle is fought. De Montfort, weakened by
-his illness, falls; still the issue of the battle would be uncertain,
-should not count Raymond again arrive at the critical moment. The
-crusaders, indeed, seize the castle of Tarascon, but their army is
-defeated by count Raymond, who pitches his camp in the vicinity. The
-next day he makes a new attack and easily occupies the town. The
-Albigenses triumph once more.--
-
-These two battles form the historical framework, around which is
-woven the romantic plot of the story, intricate and duly based on
-chivalry and love. The principal hero is a youthful knight called Sir
-Paladour de la Croix Sanglante, who, at the very end, is discovered
-to be the son of count Raymond of Toulouse. He has been saved at the
-general slaughter of the count’s family, is brought up in obscurity,
-but knighted by the king after a siege in which he has distinguished
-himself. The only person who knows of his descent is an old, half-crazy
-woman, who has seen better days. She was, in fact, once a rich and
-beautiful lady of the name of Marie de Mortemar; being accused of
-heresy, she was attacked by count Raymond, the late brother of the
-lord of Courtenaye, and the bishop of Toulouse, who ‘despoiled her of
-lands and power, and burnt her castles, and made of her people serfs,
-and misused her in such sort that she wandered a maniac for a time,
-and then was heard of no more.’ The ill-usage she has undergone has
-so changed her that she is recognized by no one, yet she pursues,
-with relentlessness and dexterity, a scheme of vengeance against her
-former persecutors. The late lord of Courtenaye, who afterwards became
-the enemy of count Raymond, is suspected to have been murdered at the
-instigation of his brother the present lord; but Marie de Mortemar is
-intent upon the destruction of the whole house of Courtenaye. This
-destruction is to be executed by the hand of Sir Paladour, whose
-fortunes she continually follows. When he is hastening, in the first
-chapter of the book, to join the crusading army, she guides him over
-a lake and directs him towards the castle of Courtenaye. She lives,
-for the most part, in the vaults of this castle, where she is, in
-association with a few other hags, occupied in all sorts of dark and
-necromantic pursuits, ostensibly in the service of the superstitious
-lord, but secretly meditating his ruin.--At the castle resides also
-lady Isabelle, the daughter of the late lord of Courtenaye; she and
-Paladour fall in love at first sight. He hardly dares to address
-her, though energetically urged thereto by the merry Sir Aymer de
-Chastelroi--but before long he has opportunity of rendering her an
-essential service. On arriving at the castle, count Simon de Montfort
-informs Isabelle that king Philip, whose ward she is, has promised her
-hand to a man whom she is very unwilling to accept. Her despair at last
-touches even De Montfort; he hints that there may be found a way of
-extricating her from the matter--namely, if some champion of hers can
-unhorse him, ‘or draw blood from between the joints of his harness.’
-Paladour at once accepts the challenge, and really overthrows the
-dreaded warrior. After this he is regarded as the avowed champion of
-the lady Isabelle, and takes but little notice of his rivals, two very
-foolish knights called de Verac and de Semonville.--The great battle
-that ends so unfortunately for the crusaders is watched by Isabelle
-from an adjacent hill. When the defeat becomes evident she starts, with
-her maidens, at full speed for the castle. Suddenly she is accosted by
-a knight in black armour, who says he has a message from Sir Paladour,
-and offers to conduct the party by a secret path, the main road to
-the castle being intercepted by the heretics. While still speaking,
-the knight seizes her rein and gallops along. After a while they are
-joined by men in vizards, and the ride finally terminates at the coast
-of the Mediterranean. The frightened females are conveyed to a small
-isle where there stands the impregnable castle of a bold outlaw, the
-terror of all the neighbourhood.--Sir Paladour is among the knights
-who survive the battle; when told of the disappearance of Isabelle,
-he immediately sets out in quest of her. On a dark heath he meets his
-mysterious guide, the maniac woman, who informs him where Isabelle is
-taken and points out to him the distant tower of the outlaw’s castle.
-He follows the direction, and at the very moment he is approaching, a
-party of pilgrims passing along the coast is attacked by the robbers.
-Paladour rushes to their aid, but is severely wounded, and dragged to
-the castle as a prisoner.--Isabelle is, at first, treated with a kind
-of rude courtesy; the outlaw has seized her in hopes of a large ransom,
-but struck by her beauty he soon begins to make love to her, and, being
-rejected, assumes a threatening tone. As for Paladour, but little heed
-is taken of him, and he is left to recover from his wounds as best he
-can. He is much worried by a raging lycanthrope living in the vaults;
-once the latter assaults him while he is sleeping, and only by exerting
-his utmost strength can Paladour knock him down. In his last moments,
-however, the lycanthrope regains his reason and shows Paladour a secret
-passage leading to the terrace at the sea, from where he can hold
-converse with the lady. When it is discovered that he is the lover and
-champion of Isabelle, their situation becomes extremely precarious; but
-one night, when the terrace happens to be deserted, Isabelle and her
-maidens manage to descend from their window to the terrace. Here they
-are received by Paladour, and the whole party sets out in a boat. Their
-flight is soon discovered; the outlaw, pursuing them in another boat,
-reaches them as they touch the shore. At the moment when he is about
-to stab Paladour, a dark figure rushes between and plunges a dagger in
-the outlaw’s heart: it is again the maniac woman, Marie de Mortemar.
-Taking Paladour aside she reminds him of a vow he has made, as a
-child, to sacrifice the last survivor of his enemy’s race. Paladour
-is still ignorant who his enemies are, but the woman promises to let
-him know in due time. Without further adventure the party then arrives
-at the castle. The lord of Courtenaye is not delighted; his state and
-wealth depend on Isabelle’s continuing unmarried, and he has secretly
-hoped, that both she and her bridegroom would perish. He cannot avoid
-celebrating their nuptials with a grand feast, but contemplates all
-the time means for their destruction; calling the maniac woman to
-his presence he declares himself ready to enter an alliance with the
-devil, whom he, in his superstition, believes her able to conjure. She
-answers with mysterious threats, having decided in the bridal night to
-wreak her vengeance on the house of Courtenaye. The night comes, and
-as it grows late the lord retires into his secret chamber among the
-vaults, where the other hags are awaiting their leader. Through their
-imprudence the chamber catches fire, and the lord of Courtenaye who,
-in a fit of impatient rage, has thrown the key in a cauldron, perishes
-with his attendants. At the same time the news spreads in the castle
-that the bride has been murdered and the bridegroom has disappeared.
-The maniac has now informed Paladour that his destined victim is no
-other than his bride. He conceives that the only way of escaping the
-fulfilment of his vow is to stab himself; Isabelle, thinking him mad,
-tries to prevent him, and during the grapple the dagger is plunged
-into her breast. Paladour rushes away half-deranged and runs till
-he falls down exhausted, being then taken care of by the maniac, who
-at last relents towards him. She dresses up Isabelle--whose wound is
-not mortal--as a page and gives her to Paladour; in this capacity she
-follows him without daring to reveal herself so long as his reason
-is not quite restored.--Being indifferent to everything and seeking
-only death, he joins the count’s army as a mysterious ‘black knight,’
-unknown to all. After the victory of Tarascon his relationship to count
-Raymond is discovered with the help of a monk; on the same occasion
-Isabelle reveals her identity, and they are happily re-united.--
-
-The story, however, contains yet another love-intrigue. Paladour has
-a younger brother of the name of Sir Amirald, who also appears to
-have been saved from the massacre. He is brought up at the castle of
-Courtenaye and very badly used by its lord. When Paladour and Amirald
-meet in the crusading army, a close friendship springs up between
-them, and they find, to their wonder, that they bear a similar mark
-on the shoulder. Amirald has seen Genevieve, the granddaughter of
-the old Albigeois pastor, and fallen in love with her. Once when he
-is wandering in the vicinity of the castle, he is roused by cries
-for help; they proceed from Genevieve, whom two robbers are carrying
-away, deeming her ‘no unacceptable prize’ to the crusaders. Amirald
-overcomes the ruffians and accompanies Genevieve to the Albigenses. In
-the first great battle a stone from a sling smites him down; as the
-Albigenses move on, Genevieve stumbles over his body. She recognises
-her preserver and, perceiving there is life, removes him into a cave,
-with the reluctant assistance of an unsuccessful lover of hers, a young
-man called Amand. She then visits Amirald regularly and tends him till
-he is restored to health. When count Raymond commands the Albigenses
-to move still farther into the mountains, Amand demands her promise to
-abandon Amirald; on her refusing, he in jealousy informs the chiefs
-of the sect that Genevieve has saved the life of an enemy, with the
-result that she is banished from the community. Two men are sent to
-convey her to Toulouse, but, having lost their way, they both perish,
-and Genevieve herself is, in a senseless state, carried into a convent
-by some monks who chance to find her. Yet when she is discovered to be
-a heretic, she is instantly expelled. Pursuing her way alone, she is
-now seized by the same ruffians from whom Amirald had rescued her. They
-drag her into the abbey of Normoutier where she falls into the hands
-of the bishop of Toulouse and is taken with his party to Beaucaire.
-Here she is sumptuously clad and treated with mildness, the bishop’s
-intention being to make her his mistress; but she firmly resists his
-temptations. Subsequently she succeeds not only in escaping but in
-effecting the escape of the queen, whose life she saves at the risk of
-her own, thus earning her gratitude and protection. They travel onward
-with a party of knights who have been in quest of the queen in order
-to bring her back to the king, he being now willing to receive her as
-his spouse again. Among the knights is Amirald, who openly avows his
-love to Genevieve. He is commissioned to conduct her to Toulouse, but
-this time their journey is intercepted by the army of prince Lewis.
-He also is enraptured by the beauty of Genevieve and compells her
-to follow him to Nismes, where the new crusade is being prepared.
-Being told by Genevieve that she has saved the life of his mother,
-the prince promises to protect her from every injury, yet determines
-to keep her for himself and refuses to surrender her to Amirald. The
-bishop, however, who is filled with a deadly hatred against her, urges
-that she be delivered into the hands of justice, to be condemned to
-death as a heretic. When the prince tries to protect her a riot breaks
-out--the house where she is kept is burnt down, but at the last moment
-Amirald saves her and they escape to Tarascon where he, now turned an
-Albigeois, joins the army of the lords of Languedoc. In the battle of
-Tarascon, Amirald and Genevieve are among a party of Albigenses who
-remain captives in the town. All prisoners are, at the command of the
-bishop, to be burnt alive; they are already bound at the stake when
-the army of count Raymond rushes into Tarascon. Paladour, remembering
-the mark on their shoulders, immediately hastens to liberate his
-brother.--At the same time the bishop falls a victim to the vengeance
-of Marie de Mortemar. She has also been brought to the city as a
-prisoner, and being kept in custody in a solitary chamber near the
-chapel, she manages to poison the holy water a moment before the bishop
-celebrates the mass. He rushes into his room where he applies strong
-antidotes, all in vain. Suspecting the maniac he calls her to his
-presence; she reveals herself as Marie de Mortemar, declaring the aim
-of her life to be fulfilled: while the bishop is expiring, she throws
-herself out of the casement and is dashed to pieces.--The heroes and
-heroines live in happiness ever afterwards; ‘The difference of birth
-and creed was never known to disturb the affection that subsisted
-between the high-born Lady of Courtenaye and the humble bride of
-Amirald.’
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Considering the inordinate length of _The Albigenses_, it must be
-admitted that the story is fairly well constructed, and the rich
-materials--although of little originality--not unskilfully arranged.
-In this respect there certainly can be detected a sort of improvement
-on Maturin’s earlier romances; but it is a very poor compensation for
-the loss of their peculiar charm in style and description. In _The
-Albigenses_ there is hardly a page which could not have been written
-by somebody else; the personal note in the diction, the keenness of
-psychological insight, and the characteristic boldness of imagination
-which distinguished _Women_ and _Melmoth_, and even _The Milesian
-Chief_, have completely disappeared. And this change, it is painful
-to observe, has been brought about by the attacks of injudicious
-reviewers, as clearly stated in the preface:
-
- How far I may have succeeded, is not for me to judge. I put forwards
- my present work with diffidence. No one can think more moderately
- of his powers than I do of mine; but I must demand of my reader’s
- consideration, that the opinions and errors of my imaginary characters
- shall not be transferred to my own. In what singularly severe and
- injurious spirit this has been hitherto done, I need not say. No man
- less disregards public opinion; no man is less disposed to offer
- an insolent defiance to sincere criticism: but if an unoffending
- life cannot protect a writer from those dangerous imputations, I
- disdain defence, and leave them to their judgment by all generous and
- unprejudiced minds.
-
-Maturin’s journey to Canossa was graciously acknowledged by all critics
-except one. In the newly established _Westminster Review_[170] there
-appeared an uncommonly intelligent and well-written article, showing
-an understanding of Maturin and a penetration into his talent, which
-far surpasses that of all other contemporary critics. To the general
-verdict of this unknown writer on _The Albigenses_ nothing could be
-added, nor can its rightfulness be questioned by any one acquainted
-with Maturin’s works:
-
- We are a little disappointed in finding that Mr. Maturin’s new work
- is not of a character that either entitles or entices us to make it
- the occasion of a general examination of his literary pretensions.
- For we could not do this effectually, without adducing various
- examples of the faults and the good qualities that are peculiar to his
- writings; and it so happens, that the work now before us is almost
- entirely deficient in either of these. It is, perhaps, not very
- difficult to account for this. Mr. Maturin, though now a tolerably
- practised writer, is far from having acquired that command over the
- efforts of his pen which the time that he has exercised it would,
- under ordinary circumstances, have given him: for his mind is not
- one that will submit to be “constrained by mastery,” either in its
- strengths or its weaknesses. It may be _led_, we sincerely believe,
- to perform very valuable services to the republic of letters; but
- it may not be _driven_ to do either good or evil. And if it _be_
- driven, the results will be a something between the two, and bearing
- no distinctive character whatever. Now, we conceive the work before
- us to have proceeded from an artificial and ill-considered impetus of
- the above kind. Mr. Maturin has publicly stated, as an excuse (_that_
- is the form under which he most unnecessarily puts it) for writing
- Romances at all, that his necessities oblige him to do so; and yet
- all the Romances he has hitherto written have subjected him to the
- most virulent abuse from several of those critical tribunals, on whose
- fiat the popularity of works of this class mainly depends--or, at all
- events, by which that popularity can be greatly advanced, and still
- more greatly retarded. And this abuse, too, when it has descended to
- detail, has, in almost every instance, been levelled at precisely
- those portions of the work in question in which the author must have
- felt, and every one else must have admitted, that the beauties, if
- beauties the work contained, were to be found. What could a writer,
- but little acquainted with the nature of his own powers, and avowedly
- employing them with a view to present distinction, be expected to do
- under such circumstances, but resolutely set himself to avoid the
- errors that seemed to lay in the way of his object? And in doing
- so, what could be expected as the first result of this effort, but
- what we, in fact, meet with in the work, the title of which stands
- at the head of this paper?--namely, a production in which all the
- most glaring faults that existed in his previous ones are in a great
- degree absent; and in which all the beauties which more than redeemed
- those faults, are absent too. The truth is, Mr. Maturin did not seek
- instruction from the right source. Instead of feeling contempt for
- those who expressed a contempt which they did _not_ feel towards him,
- he flew to _them_ for that counsel which he should have taken of his
- own good sense, and his own heart.
-
-That Maturin did not take counsel of his own heart means that he wrote
-without inspiration; and that is why the adventures and hair-breadth
-escapes fail to excite, and the characters appear so hopelessly
-conventional. The characterization is, in fact, the weakest side of
-_The Albigenses_, and that of the principal personages the least
-worthy of Maturin’s powers. Paladour and Amirald simply possess every
-chivalrous virtue imaginable, neither being subject to any faults
-whatsoever, nor is there one single individual trait to distinguish
-them from others. The description of these two paragons is pervaded
-by a deadly seriousness and an unbroken solemnity, all the more
-causeless as both are destined to become perfectly happy in the end.
-The influence of Scott, which otherwise is perceptible throughout the
-story, in no instance extends itself to the treatment of the heroes.
-The different methods of the two novelists can be compared in the
-openings of _The Albigenses_ and _Quentin Durward_ (1823). Both works
-begin with a brief account of the state of France in the respective
-periods--after which the heroes are introduced as solitary travellers
-and knight-errants. Quentin Durward, a merry light-hearted youth,
-appears on a bright summer morning, carelessly joining company with
-the first people he encounters, committing various indiscretions,
-being on the point of getting hanged, and going through it all with
-imperturbable good-humour. Paladour travels through an autumnal night,
-engaged in sombre thoughts, recollections and anticipations, meeting
-beings unearthly and mysterious and preserving all the time the same
-sepulchral gravity. The one way, of course, can in itself be as good
-as the other, and the beginning of _The Albigenses_ is not without
-merit; but as the story advances it would not be out of the place
-to make a counterpoise to this lugubrious hero in the person of the
-younger Sir Amirald. Yet he is but a repetition of his brother, as
-grave and as blameless. There is nothing of the contrast so finely
-brought forth in _Montorio_ between Hippolito and Annibal, and in _The
-Milesian Chief_ between Connal and Desmond: Amirald, no more than
-Paladour, does anything rash or thoughtless; they never laugh; they
-are never even present in comical situations. Now one of the secrets
-of the perennial freshness of the _Waverley_ novels is a manner the
-author has of ‘dealing sly digs at his own stateliest heroes.’[171] He
-never takes them too seriously; he exposes their human weaknesses with
-obvious satisfaction, and finally allows them to be united with their
-lady-loves much because he does not think them worth writing tragedies
-about. This method being extremely foreign to Maturin, his surest way
-of succeeding with his heroes is to make them really tragic and treat
-them with the terrible pathos and passionate sympathy which breathes
-from the pages of _The Milesian Chief_. In _The Albigenses_ neither
-condition is fulfilled, and the personages, consequently, do not live.
-The same is equally true of the heroines; there are no traces of the
-psychological mastery which had created Eva and Immalee. Isabelle and
-Genevieve are as superlative with regard to exalted qualities as are
-their lovers: the former, being a high-born lady, is supplied with a
-just amount of pride, while the latter, as suits her station, is all
-humbleness and self-denial. How horribly fustian and melodramatic the
-description occasionally becomes, can be seen from the scene where the
-outlaw, whose prisoner Isabelle is, makes her a proposal of marriage:
-
- Isabelle sprang on her feet--both hands were compressed on her left
- bosom, as if _expecting_ her heart would burst, and her eyes inflamed
- and dilated seemed starting from their sockets. She directed them
- right onward for some moments, as if they could have pierced her
- prison-walls; at length she turned them full on the outlaw and that
- look said as audibly as language, “Begone this moment, or stay and see
- me driven to frenzy!”
-
-The comic figures in the story--most of whom are invariably comic--are
-hardly less stereotyped and without charm. An exception must be
-made for the well-drawn Sir Aymer, an old knight who continually
-affects a tone of youthful gallantry but is, at bottom, a man of
-honour and delicacy. The drunken abbot of Normoutier with his eternal
-mal-a-prop Latin quotations, and the foppish Sir Ezzelin de Verac,
-are, on the other hand, very heavy and tiresome. The best drawn
-character in _The Albigenses_ is the bishop of Toulouse. There is
-something truly imposing in his ambitious schemes, and his scepticism
-and clear-headedness form a salutary contrast to the superstitious
-fanaticism of his fellow-crusaders. The speech with which he tries
-to dazzle and seduce the inexperienced Genevieve, while she is his
-prisoner in Beaucaire, is one of the most eloquent passages in the
-book, and shows once more what Maturin was capable of achieving on his
-favourite topic, the unlimited power and the soul-destroying influence
-of the Catholic church:
-
- The vast system of which I am no feeble or inert engine, hastens to
- the summation of its working--the conquest of the world. That old
- and mighty Rome, of whom pedants prate, subdued but the meaner part
- of man--his body; but our Rome enslaves the mind--that mind, which,
- once enslaved, leaves nothing for opposition or for defeat. Look
- round thee--a peevish dotard in the seven-throned palace tramples
- with his palsied foot on the necks of the crowned kings of earth,
- from the shores of the Orcades to the cliffs of Calpe. He stamps with
- it, and their blood, their treasures, and their vassals are poured
- on Asia, making the eastern world tremble to its centre: for ours
- is the power that not only binds the spirit but makes it clasp its
- chain; ours are the powers of the world to come; all that is potent
- in life, all that is mysterious in futurity, the fears, the hopes,
- the hearts of mankind, all are ours; and shall we not wield the
- weapon their credulity has put into our hands for our own behoof? --
- -- -- All knowledge is ours--to the laity the book is closed--the
- key is lost--every avenue to science, every loophole through which
- light might wander, is barred up or sternly sentinelled; the tomes
- of ancient wisdom are buried in monkish libraries, unfolded, save by
- daring hands like mine. Under the old tyrants of the earth the decree
- of a senate might desolate a province, and the frolic of an emperor
- consume a city; but when did it chain up the arm of man, or wither
- his soul within him, like a papal interdict, at whose reported sound
- the bridegroom drops the hand of the betrothed, the mourner quits the
- unburied corse, and the priest flies from the altar? I tell thee,
- maiden, the eagles of Ancient Rome would be blasted if they dared to
- grasp the thunder that is now wielded by the hand of every busy legate.
-
-The best things in _The Albigenses_ are to be found in certain vividly
-narrated episodes and brilliant descriptions, which are quite other
-than the hackneyed adventures of the actual _dramatis personæ_. Among
-them is the story of the heretic deacon Mephibosheth. He is taken, by
-some Catholic travellers, to the abbey of Normoutier, where the monks,
-in the absence of the abbot, have elected an ‘abbot of misrule’ and
-arranged a carousal on a large scale. The deacon is compelled to become
-one of the company and take part in a wild dance; he first refuses, but
-then, being sufficiently drunk, he for a while becomes the jolliest
-of them all, until his feelings as suddenly reverse themselves and he
-starts smashing costly windows and figures of saints. The monks decide
-to hang him, but the cord breaks, and he is finally spared on condition
-of procuring them a beautiful heretic damsel. The deacon, remembering
-Genevieve, readily complies, but she is brought there by the two
-robbers before he has time to fulfil his promise. The deacon, however,
-remains at the abbey and, having turned Catholic, becomes a follower
-of the bishop and is, at last, hanged in good earnest by the men of
-count Raymond, after the battle of Tarascon. The feast of the abbot of
-misrule, which presents a phase of monastic life seldom described,[172]
-is depicted with superabundant vivacity and humour, and in a true
-mediaeval spirit:
-
- -- -- “Surely I will not dance,” quoth the deacon, whose courage rose
- with opposition; “it is an abomination more befitting the daughter
- of the harlot Herodias than a deacon of the holy congregation. All
- dancing is evil, exceedingly evil, and not good--but to dance in
- the tents of Kedar and the tabernacles of the idolaters, to be set
- up on high among the ungodly, and dance in the high places, were an
- utter abomination:--wherefore I say, Down with the filthy squeaking
- of pipes, and the lewd jarring of crowds, and--” “So please you,
- my lord abbot,” said one of the monks, “let us drown this peevish
- fellow’s noise, and cause him to dance with us:--your true sour
- heretic (and your lordship perceives he is no better, though I shame
- to name such vermin before your lordship) needs no other martyrdom
- than the sight of free honest mirth.”--“Thou sayest well,” said
- the abbot; “he shall dance and die the death of the spleenful: for
- the rest, let such of the nine worthies as be sober, lead forth
- Deborah, Judith, and Queen Dido--the three children in the furnace
- shall dance with Nebuchadnezzar to make up their old grudge--Susanna
- shall pace with one of the elders, and the goddess of Chastity with
- the other--ourself, the Abbot of Misrule, will lead the lady of
- loose-delight, with her paintings and her pouncings, her mincings and
- her mockings--and the heretic shall dance with the devil, and there
- is a company meetly sorted. Strike up, my masters.”--Here the hapless
- Mephibosheth was seized on by a hideous figure enveloped in a black
- garment, with cloven feet of flame colour, a tail that swept the
- ground, a mask equipped with “eyes that glow and fangs that grin,” and
- a huge pair of horns starting from the forehead. All his struggles
- availed nothing with his frightful partner: he was dragged into the
- circle, compelled to perform numerous pirouettes, which were more
- remarkable for velocity than grace, and if he relaxed for a moment in
- his exertions, a swinge of his partner’s tail, a kick of his cloven
- foot, or a blow with his horns, set him prancing again with pain and
- terror till his strength was exhausted, and he fell to the ground.
- At this moment the cook was seen entering the hall, attended by the
- lay-brothers groaning under the heavy dishes they bore, and shouting
- in unison the monastic chorus--
-
-    Caput apri defero,
-    Reddens laudes Domino;
-    Qui estis in convivio,
-    Plaudite cum cantico. -- -- --
-
-
-A fine chapter is also one describing a night at the castle of
-Courtenaye before the first battle. A frightful tempest is raging,
-and most of the guests have retired; at last only a few of the chief
-crusaders are sitting in the dimly illuminated hall, passing their time
-in telling ghost-stories. Sir Aymer, in his humorous way, relates an
-adventure which happened to his uncle, whereupon De Montfort tells a
-very dismal one which happened to himself, as he once beheld the ghosts
-of a large congregation of Albigenses whom he had slaughtered some ten
-years before. The right note is here struck by simple means, and the
-uncomfortable sensations of the superstitious company are skilfully
-transferred to the reader.--Scenes like these are, no doubt, filled
-with the real spirit of the time in question; but as a historical novel
-in the usual sense of the word _The Albigenses_ has no great claims
-to distinction. The historical facts which underlie the plot are but
-meagre, and, moreover, treated with considerable freedom. Imagination
-often makes up for accurate information. Even one of those critics[173]
-who admired _The Albigenses_ as a romance, thinks the author deficient
-in a ‘minute and extensive acquaintance with the antiquities of the
-middle ages,’ declaring his descriptions to be of a cast that ‘may
-be executed by any one moderately read in Froissart, and tolerably
-conversant with the less recondite sources of information contained in
-the common English and German romances.’
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The picture of the merry life led in the abbey of Normoutier strikes
-one by its perfect novelty in Maturin’s work, nor are there, in _The
-Albigenses_, any instances of ecclesiastical cruelty or monastic
-oppression; the monks are, upon the whole, no worse than other people.
-Nevertheless the Radcliffe school reappears in some of the adventures
-of the heroines, especially in the escape of Isabelle from the clutches
-of the outlaw, and that of Genevieve from the palace of the bishop of
-Toulouse. The secret passages, happily detected at the right moment,
-the inevitable subterranean vaults and concealed doors have their
-origin in that style of fiction which Maturin now had disavowed. The
-design of Marie de Mortemar to have her vengeance on the last survivor
-of the house of Courtenaye executed by the hand of Sir Paladour,
-leads back to the idea upon which _Montorio_ is founded. Otherwise
-_The Albigenses_ is but too clearly modelled on Scott; most of the
-characters have their prototypes in the _Waverley_ novels, and a
-great many of the situations likewise bear a resemblance to the same
-distinguished patterns. _Quentin Durward_, _Old Mortality_ (1817),
-_Ivanhoe_ (1820), _The Monastery_ (1820) and others are constantly
-called to mind, all the comparisons being to the disadvantage of _The
-Albigenses_. To mention some of the most conspicuous likenesses, count
-Simon de Montfort has a counterpart in duke Charles of Burgundy in
-_Quentin Durward_; both are men of a fierce and uncontrollable temper
-and unrefined habits, accustomed only to consult their own will and
-pleasure. Duke Charles has the same message to Isabelle of Croye as De
-Montfort to Isabelle of Courtenaye, namely, of a marriage which appears
-to be against the inclinations of the heroines, and the language of
-these powerful lords, when contradicted, is very offensive to a young
-lady of rank. Duke Charles threatens to drag the lady to the altar
-with his own hands, contemptuously speaking of her ‘baby face,’ while
-De Montfort, in the corresponding scene, flies out against Isabelle,
-calling her a ‘gaudy, delicate, disdainful toy.’ At last the matter is,
-in both cases, referred to the skill and valour of the champions of
-the fair ones.--The capture of Isabelle by the outlaw resembles much
-the seizure of Rowena, in _Ivanhoe_, by Reginald Front-de-Boef. Both
-prisoners are, as a token of respect, shown into the best rooms; ‘the
-apartment to which the Lady Rowena had been introduced was fitted up
-with some rude attempts at ornament and magnificence, and her being
-placed there might be considered as a peculiar mark of respect not
-offered to the other prisoners. -- -- -- The tapestry hung down from
-the walls in many places, and in others was tarnished and faded under
-the effects of the sun, or tattered and decayed by age.’ Maturin’s
-description of the chamber of Isabelle is exactly similar: ‘It was to
-this apartment the lady Isabelle ascended, and it was evident that it
-had been furnished with a kind of rude and hasty splendour. Tapestry
-was hung on the walls by wooden pegs stuck between the interstices of
-the stones, but in many places those walls of ragged stone were totally
-bare.’ Then the ladies are the object of love-making by persons odious
-to them, while their real lovers lie prisoners in the same castles.
-Rebecca, in _Ivanhoe_, obviously served as a model to Genevieve. Their
-goodness and mildness is the same, and the one, being the daughter
-of a Jew, as well as the other being a heretic, is in a defenceless
-and dangerous position. The speech of the templar to Rebecca, when he
-persuades her to fly with him to the Orient and become a partner in his
-bold plans has, no doubt, influenced the speech which the bishop makes
-to Genevieve, quoted above:
-
- The Templar loses, as thou hast said, his social rights, his power
- of free agency, but he becomes a member and a limb of a mighty body,
- before which thrones already tremble,--even as the single drop of
- rain which mixes with the sea becomes an individual part of that
- resistless ocean, which undermines rocks and engulfs royal armadas.
- Such a swelling flood is that powerful league. Of this mighty Order
- I am no mean member, but already one of the Chief Commanders, and
- may well aspire one day to hold the batoon of Grand Master. The poor
- soldiers of the Temple will not alone place their foot upon the necks
- of kings--a hempsandall’d monk can do that. Our mailed step shall
- ascend their throne--our gauntlet shall wrench the sceptre from their
- gripe. -- -- --
-
-The likeness of the bishop to the templar is, however, but slight;
-the latter is a fantast, with nothing of the cold deliberateness
-of the former.--In the abbot of Normoutier critics believed they
-recognized the prior of Jorvault. Neither is, indeed, over-eager in
-discharging his sacerdotal duties, yet the prior is a man of the world,
-while the abbot is a coarse boar and never would have wit enough to
-compose a letter like that sent by the prior to the templar--however
-heartily he would approve of the contents.--Sir Ezzelin de Verac
-would scarcely have been born but for the existence of Sir Piercie
-Shafton in _The Monastery_; but of all imitations in _The Albigenses_
-he is the least successful. His only interest is the state of his
-wardrobe, and his only accomplishment to dress fashionably, while
-Sir Piercie--one of the most delightful creations of Scott--is a
-master also of other arts, knowing how to recite poetry and play lute
-and viol-de-gamba. The ‘euphuistic’ conversation of Sir Piercie is
-feebly copied by Sir Ezzelin; the epithets which the former bestows
-on Halbert Glendinning--‘Good goatbearded apostle! Good fellow! Good
-selvaggio!’--are echoed in the terms of address of the latter to an
-Albigeois whose prisoner he once happens to be: ‘Good villagio! kind
-rustic!’ and so on.--
-
-A very characteristic figure in the romantic literature of the time is,
-finally, Marie de Mortemar. A personage of this kind had once before,
-through the influence of Scott, occupied Maturin’s imagination; the
-old Irishwoman in _Women_, as we have seen, was pronounced to be drawn
-after Meg Merrilies, and the same observation was made by critics[174]
-about Marie de Mortemar: ‘--an old woman, who is a sorceress, a
-conspirator, a preserver, and a perpetual meddler; such are the sins
-for which the maker of Meg Merrilies has to answer.’ The type certainly
-was, if not actually invented, at least made fashionable by Scott.
-His old women appear as champions of some great cause which they with
-might and main try to advance, or else endeavour to revenge personal
-injuries to which they have been subjected and which have reduced them
-to their pitiable state. Marie de Mortemar belongs to the latter class,
-possessing, however, all the strength and energy of the former. With
-Meg Merrilies she has but little in common, except the miraculous skill
-with which she pursues her aim; she guides the ways of Paladour much
-as Meg guides young Bertram, never resting till punishment has reached
-the guilty. Magdalena Greame, in _The Abbot_ (1820) has devoted her
-life to Queen Mary and the Catholic faith, and as mysteriously and
-unflinchingly conducts the adventures of her kinsman Roland, whom she
-has chosen to be a promoter of her schemes. Yet another meddler is
-Norna in _The Pirate_ (1822). She, like Marie de Mortemar, has been
-ill-used in her youth and partially lost her reason; and although
-she is not revengeful and her meddling is only for the good, she has
-the same gift of omnipresence and omniscience which appeals to the
-superstition of her neighbours and which has been acquired in a way
-suggested, perhaps, by the Radcliffe heroes: ‘It was one branch of
-various arts by which Norna endeavoured to maintain her pretensions to
-supernatural powers, that she made herself familiarly and practically
-acquainted with all the secret passes and recesses, whether natural
-or artificial, which she could hear of, whether by tradition or
-otherwise, and was, by such knowledge, often enabled to perform feats
-which were otherwise unaccountable.’ Marie de Mortemar, it is needless
-to say, is perfectly acquainted with the caves and the rocks, the
-high-ways and by-ways of all Languedoc.--The other variation of this
-character is personified by Ulrica in _Ivanhoe_: a deeply-wronged
-woman, a prisoner, who once ‘was free, was happy, was honoured, loved,
-and was beloved’ while yet being ‘the daughter of the noble Thane of
-Torquilstone, before whose frown a thousand vassals trembled’--just
-as her counterpart in _The Albigenses_ was ‘a noble, beautiful lady,
-heiress of Mortemar.’ As the prototype of Ulrica we may perhaps regard
-Queen Margaret in Shakespeare’s _Richard III_, who walks about, a ghost
-of her former self, cursing the murderer of her son and her husband:
-
-    Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?--
-    Why, then give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!
-    -- -- -- -- --
-    If heaven have any grievous plague in store,
-    Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
-    O, let them keep it, till thy sins be ripe,
-    And then hurl down their indignation
-    On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace!
-    The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul!
-    Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest,
-    And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!
-    No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,
-    Unless it be whilst some tormenting dream
-    Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
-
-Like Queen Margaret, Ulrica is unable actively to work for the
-destruction of her malefactor, having to content herself with
-ineffective wailings and execrations; while Marie de Mortemar--who also
-most terribly curses her oppressors--finds opportunity of ‘meddling’ as
-much as she pleases. Yet Ulrica, by accident, succeeds in setting fire
-to the magazine of fuel beneath the castle of Reginald Front-de-Boef
-and thus has, like Marie de Mortemar, the satisfaction of witnessing
-the dying agonies of her enemy. Their gloomy triumph is the same;
-Ulrica cries to the perishing Reginald: ‘Summon thy vassals around
-thee, doom them that loiter to the scourge and the dungeon--But know,
-mighty chief -- -- -- thou shalt have neither answer, nor aid, nor
-obedience at their hands.’ Marie de Mortemar exults at the death-scene
-of the bishop of Toulouse: ‘Hark -- -- -- hark to thy knell. Thine
-enemies are around thee--thine allies in blood and crime are perishing.
-Chain me to the stake: burn me an’ ye will; but, ere I am in ashes,
-thou wilt be in flames.’ The unhappy women willingly perish themselves
-at the moment their vengeance is fulfilled.
-
-The picture drawn of the life and manners of the Albigenses is, in some
-essentials, inspired by the descriptions of the Covenanters in _Old
-Mortality_--a circumstance which, besides being pointed out by critics
-both contemporary and modern,[175] was admitted by Maturin himself; he
-observes, when introducing the sect for the first time: ‘It is -- -- --
-a curious, but indisputable matter of fact, that the majority of them
-were as tenacious of certain texts and terms of the Old Testament, as
-their legitimate descendants, the English Puritans, were some centuries
-later; and that, like them, they assumed Jewish names, fought with
-Jewish obduracy, and felt with Jewish hostility, even towards those of
-their community who differed from them in a penumbra of their creed.’
-Hence the speeches and opinions of Boanerges--the leader of the sterner
-Albigenses--are the same, only less poignantly expressed, as Balfour’s;
-they quote the Old Testament as their chief authority, evince a mind
-equally relentless and unforgiving, and Boanerges rejects the appeals
-of Pierre to common humanity on the same arguments which Balfour uses
-in his dispute with Morton. The passages treating of the Albigenses
-are, however, vividly written and not wholly lacking in originality.
-The deacon Mephibosheth has no counterpart in Scott, and the little
-love-story of Amand is both natural and skilfully introduced, while the
-character of Pierre is entirely conventional.--
-
-This last romance of Maturin was soon forgotten, nor was it ever
-reprinted, notwithstanding the benevolent critiques.[176] What the
-renumeration amounted to is not known, but Maturin’s last months
-were, by all accounts, about the gloomiest in his existence. Cares
-and anxieties had already begun to prey upon his health--never
-very robust--and the unfavourable circumstances under which _The
-Albigenses_ was composed, at the expense of the night’s rest during
-a long time, completely broke it down, his pecuniary difficulties
-remaining as threatening as ever. There are, in Mangan’s article, a few
-recollections relative to the closing period of Maturin’s life; and
-although the writer, no doubt, shares the old tendency of his subject
-‘of darkening the gloomy, and of deepening the sad,’ it is clear enough
-that there was, at this time, very little left of the well-dressed
-dandy who had once so greatly excelled in quadrille-parties and private
-theatricals:
-
- The second time I saw Maturin he had been just officiating, as on
- the former occasion, at a funeral. He stalked along York Street
- with an abstracted, or rather distracted air, the white scarf and
- hat-band which he had received remaining still wreathed round his
- beautifully-shaped person, and exhibiting to the gaze of the amused
- and amazed pedestrians whom he almost literally _encountered_ in his
- path, a boot upon one foot and a shoe on the other. His long pale,
- melancholy, Don Quixote, out-of-the-world face would have inclined
- you to believe that Dante, Bajazet, and the Cid had risen together
- from their sepulchres, and clubbed their features for the production
- of an effect. But Maturin’s mind was only fractionally pourtrayed, so
- to speak, in his countenance. The great Irishman, like Hamlet, had
- that within him which passed show, and escaped far and away beyond
- the possibility of expression by the clay lineament. He bore the
- ‘thunder-scars’ about him, but they were graven, not on his brow, but
- on his heart.
-
- The third and last time that I beheld this marvellous man I remember
- well. It was some time before his death, on a balmy autumn evening, in
- 1824. He slowly descended the steps of his own house -- -- -- and took
- his way in the direction of Whitefriars Street, into Castle Street,
- and passed the Royal Exchange into Dame Street, every second person
- staring at him and the extraordinary double-belted and treble-caped
- rug of an old garment--neither coat nor cloak--which enveloped his
- person. But here it was that I, who had tracked the footsteps of
- the man as his shadow, discovered that the feeling to which some
- individuals, rather over sharp and shrewd, had been pleased to ascribe
- this ‘affectation of singularity,’ had no existence in Maturin. For,
- instead of passing along Dame Street, where he would have been ‘the
- observed of all observers,’ he wended his way along the dark and
- forlorn locality of Dame Lane, and having reached the end of this not
- very classical thoroughfare, crossed over to Anglesea Street, where
- I lost sight of him. Perhaps he went into one of those bibliopolitan
- establishments wherewith that Paternoster Row of Dublin then abounded.
- I never saw him afterwards.
-
-In the beginning of October 1824 Maturin was seized by an acute malady
-which the physicians, considering his impaired health in general,
-apprehended to be mortal. On the 5:th Sir Charles Morgan wrote to Cyrus
-Redding:[177]
-
- My dear R.--Poor Maturin is ill, severely ill; we (the Drs.) have
- sent him into the country, I fear, to die. Not contented with drawing
- the ‘saints’ down upon him, he has attacked the ‘papishes’ and is
- now in the condition somewhat of a nut between the two blades of a
- nutcracker. If the poor fellow should live, and the two parties abuse
- him into a good living, there might be some good for it, for he has a
- family of fine children. I fear, however, there is little chance of
- either.
-
-These forebodings were, indeed, soon fulfilled: Maturin died on October
-30:th in his home in Dublin whither he, for some reason or other, had
-returned from the country. There was a story afloat of his having
-caused, or at least precipitated, his death by some mistake about his
-medicine;[178] however this may have been, it is evident from the
-letter of Sir Charles that the case was sufficiently alarming already
-some four weeks before.--The death was briefly announced by the local
-papers; in _The Morning Star_ of Nov. 3 there was this necrology:
-
- In him the poor have lost a kind friend; our religion a firm
- supporter; and literature one of its brightest ornaments.--
-
-In the summer of 1825 Walter Scott made his journey to Ireland, which
-he had long been planning. He had looked forward, with pleasure, to
-the prospect of becoming personally acquainted with Maturin, and had
-intended to invite the latter to accompany him during the tour. Now he
-could only pay a visit to the family,[179] for whose profit he is said
-to have contemplated a new edition of Maturin’s works, as well as the
-publication of some manuscripts found among his literary remains,[180]
-to which he would have prefixed a biography of his deceased friend;
-but his own pecuniary embarrassments, commencing just at this time,
-prevented him from realizing the project--and Maturin’s works soon
-began to fall into oblivion. _Montorio_ was, in 1841, republished by
-William Hazlitt as vol. I in the _Ballantyne’s Romancists and Novelists
-Library_ which he edited; _Bertram_ appeared in _The British Drama_ in
-1865 and in Dick’s _Standard Plays_ in 1884; and, lastly, _Melmoth the
-Wanderer_ was reprinted in 1892, with no very distinct success.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-To Charles Robert Maturin’s life and to his works, as such, the present
-study must be confined; his influence on later literature, above all
-on French romanticism, can here only be pointed out as a subject not
-yet exhaustively inquired into.[181] The work through which this
-influence was exercised is _Melmoth the Wanderer_, chiefly, yet not
-exclusively, inasmuch as _Bertram_ also was immoderately admired in
-France and hailed as one of the foremost productions of contemporary
-literature. _Melmoth_, the great and concluding outburst of the English
-school of terror, stands there as at once its lasting monument and
-an outlet through which some of its peculiarities were, directly
-or indirectly, revived by the movements succeeding the downfall of
-19:th century naturalism. The place in literary history of _Women_,
-Maturin’s other masterpiece, is more isolated. So far from belonging
-to any definite movement of the time it foreshadows, in a striking
-manner, the school of Dickens in its descriptions of middle class life,
-manners and characters, while its minute researches in the abysses
-of the human heart anticipate the analytic fiction of the very latest
-periods. In Maturin’s production _Women_ is of an importance equal to
-that of _Melmoth_, nor is his literary physiognomy complete if _The
-Milesian Chief_ is not remembered for its purely romantic qualities
-and its patriotic enthusiasm. These three works, which are Maturin’s
-best, afford ample illustration of the versatility of his genius,
-which versatility itself is an exponent of the spirit of freedom and
-experiment prevailing during the romantic revival. What they all have
-in common is the style of writing, the art of dealing with language
-as the sculptor deals with clay. Maturin’s part in the renewal
-of the imaginative English prose has been asserted by the latest
-authorities,[182] and the excellence of his style doubtless did much
-to obtain for him the appreciation of his brothers in the trade. It
-was the custom of contemporary reviewers to speak of Maturin’s novels
-as something particularly suited to the frequenters of circulating
-libraries, and it is true that with the large bulk of respectable,
-educated readers Maturin never was very popular; but then there was
-a small fraction of the public whose taste, in this respect, closely
-coincided with that of the former: most of those writers, great or
-small, whom Maturin admired, eagerly repaid the compliment. Lewis used
-to revel in the gloomy pages of _Montorio_[183] and was, as has been
-seen, pleased even with _Manuel_. Godwin, to whom so many of Maturin’s
-writings are indebted, is recorded[184] to have uttered: ‘if there be
-any writer of the present day, to whose burial-place I should wish
-to make a pilgrimage, that writer is Maturin.’ _The Confessions of a
-Justified Sinner_ (1824) of James Hogg--one of the favourite poets of
-Maturin--seems to be not uninfluenced by _Melmoth the Wanderer_. The
-high opinion which Scott and Byron entertained of Maturin has more than
-once appeared in the foregoing pages--and among later romancists who
-are known to have delighted in the adventures of the Wanderer, or upon
-whose work he has even left an unmistakable print, we find names such
-as Balzac, Hugo, De Vigny, Baudelaire, Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Poe,
-Thackeray, Rossetti, Stevenson, Oscar Wilde. Thus, if Maturin is not
-always--as he would deserve to be--remembered on his own account, he
-is at least mentioned in connection with, as he was acknowledged by, a
-great many of those writers who unquestionably form the ‘upper ten’ in
-the world of 19:th century letters.
-
-
-
-
-Notes.
-
-
-The references to pages after names of reviews and magazines indicate
-the page on which the respective article begins.
-
-
-I.
-
-[1] Henry A. Beers, _A History of English Romanticism in the Eighteenth
-Century_, London 1899, p. 222.
-
-[2] William Monck Mason, _The History and Antiquities of the Collegiate
-and Cathedral Church of St. Patrick_, Dublin 1820, note p. 445.
-
-[3] _Registers of the French Conformed Churches of St. Patrick and
-St. Mary, Dublin_, edited by J. J. Digges La Touche, Dublin 1893
-(_Publications of the Huguenot Society of London_, vol. VII).
-
-[4] Mason, p. 445; Henry Cotton, _Fasti Ecclesiae Hibernicae_, Dublin
-1848, vol. II p. 105.
-
-[5] _Two Centuries of Irish History 1691-1870_, edited by R. Barry
-O’Brien, London 1907, p. 98.
-
-[6] In all notes and biographies the year of Maturin’s birth is given
-as 1782, which is probably founded upon an indirect statement made by
-himself in the preface to his first romance _Montorio_, dated December
-15, 1806, where he says that he is twenty-four years of age. Yet in
-the Matriculation Book of Trinity College, as may still be seen, his
-entrance is marked in 1795 and his age given as fifteen, whence it
-would appear that he was born in 1780. It has also been communicated
-to me that in a pedigree of the family, issued by Sir William Betham,
-Ulster King-at-Arms, in 1845, it is stated that C. R. M. was born in
-1780.
-
-[7] _New Monthly Magazine and Literary Journal_ 1827, vol. XIX pp. 401,
-570; vol. XX pp. 146, 370.
-
-[8] According to a family pedigree, particulars of which have kindly
-been communicated to me by Miss Sybil Maturin, he had two brothers:
-William and Henry, and three sisters: Fidelia, Emma, and Alicia.--It is
-said in an article in _Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine_ (1846, vol.
-III p. 125), with reference to Maturin’s early love of the stage, that
-‘no similar abilities, however, were shown by his brothers, whose lots
-in life were very different;’ whereas the writer in the _New Monthly
-Magazine_ 1827, who also claims to have been an intimate friend of
-Charles Robert Maturin, maintains that the latter was the ‘only child
-of many who lived beyond the term of boyhood’--which goes to show that
-the information furnished by the Magazines is, in general, to be taken
-with some reserve.
-
-[9] _New Monthly Magazine_ 1827.
-
-[10] _British Review_ 1818, vol. XI p. 37; an article written by
-Maturin.
-
-[11] ibid.
-
-[12] _New Monthly Magazine, or Universal Register_ 1819, vol. XI p.
-165; an article, on Maturin, by Alaric Watts.
-
-[13] ‘W,’ _Ireland Sixty Years ago_, Dublin 1851, p. 86 (3:rd ed.).
-
-[14] _The Life of William Carleton:_ being his autobiography and
-letters; and an account of his life and writings, from the point at
-which the autobiography breaks off, by D. J. O’Donoghue, Dublin 1896,
-p. 194.
-
-[15] _Irish Quarterly Review_, March 1852, p. 140; _New Monthly
-Magazine_ 1827.
-
-[16] ‘License was granted -- -- -- to solemnize marriage between the
-Rev^d Charles Robert Maturin of Camden Street -- -- -- & Henrietta
-Kingsberry -- -- -- dated October the 7:th 1803.’
-
-[17] _Cumberland’s British Theatre_, with remarks, biographical and
-critical, by D.-G., London 18(?), vol. XLIII; cf. also Charles A. Read,
-_The Cabinet of Irish Literature_ (new edition by Katharine Tynan
-Hinkson), London 1909, vol. II p. 44.
-
-[18] Letter in the British Museum MS collections.
-
-[19] That Maturin’s stay in Loughrea was but of short duration
-is proved by the absence of all references to him in the parish
-register--a fact of which I have kindly been informed by the Rev. Canon
-Eccles.
-
-[20] _Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine_ 1846; the writer adds that
-Maturin ‘was an enthusiastic lover of antiquity, and had a strange
-passion for exploring old and desolate houses; in so much so, that when
-I have been walking with him through some decayed parts of the city,
-if any house particularly attracted him, about which he imagined some
-history to attach, or fancied it had an air of mystery, he would knock
-at the door, and find some excuse for examining the interior.’
-
-[21] ibid.
-
-[22] In the _Irish Quarterly Review_ 1852, and elsewhere, Maturin’s
-residence is given as 41 York Street; but in all letters of Maturin
-which I have seen and where he mentions the number at all, he writes 37
-York Street.
-
-
-II.
-
-[23] _Irish Quarterly Review_ 1852.
-
-[24] _Dublin and London Magazine_ 1826, p. 248.
-
-[25] The Gothic Romance has been a subject for thorough investigation
-on the part of German scholars. There is an extensive study of it in
-Helene Richter, _Geschichte der Englischen Romantik_, Halle 1911,
-vol. I pp. 160-300 (_Die Schauerromantik_), as well as in Wilhelm
-Dibelius, _Englische Romankunst_, Berlin und Leipzig 1922, pp. 285-346
-(_Der Sensationsroman_). Maturin’s connection with the movement is
-treated of in Willy Müller, _Charles Robert Maturin’s Romane “The fatal
-Revenge” und “Melmoth the Wanderer.” Ein Beitrag zur Gothic Romance_,
-Weida 1908--and the work of Walpole, Clara Reeve and Mrs Radcliffe in
-Hans Möbius, _The Gothic Romance_, Leipzig 1902. Of recent English
-publications three must be particularly mentioned: Oliver Elton, _A
-Survey of English Literature 1780-1830_, London 1912, vol. I pp.
-202-226 (_The Novel of Suspense_); the _Cambridge History of English
-Literature_ 1914, vol. XI pp. 285-310 (by G. Saintsbury); and Dorothy
-Scarborough, _The Supernatural in Modern English Fiction_, New York and
-London 1917 (chapter I: _The Gothic Romance_).
-
-[26] Richter, p. 164.
-
-[27] ibid. p. 161.
-
-[28] Scott, Introduction to the _Castle of Otranto_, prefixed to the
-edition in the _Kings Classics_, edited by Professor I. Gollancz,
-London 1907.
-
-[29] ibid.
-
-[30] _British Review_ 1818.
-
-[31] _The Cabinet of Irish Literature_, vol. II p. 44.
-
-[32] James Wills, _Lives of illustrious and distinguished Irishmen_,
-Dublin, Edinburgh and London 1847, vol. VI p. 453.
-
-[33] _Quarterly Review_ 1810, vol. III p. 339; a critique, by Scott, of
-_Montorio_; cf. also introduction to the _Castle of Otranto_.
-
-[34] _Melmoth the Wanderer_, London 1892, vol. I p. LVIII (a note on
-Charles Robert Maturin, by the editors).
-
-[35] Müller, p. 40.
-
-[36] _British Review_ 1818.
-
-[37] Richter, p. 167.
-
-[38] Müller, p. 29.
-
-[39] _The Irishman_ March 24, 1849; an article, on Maturin, by James
-Clarence Mangan.
-
-[40] Richard Sinclair Brooke, _Recollections of the Irish Church_,
-London 1877, p. 6.
-
-[41] _Irish Quarterly Review_ 1852.
-
-[42] Francis Rawdon, Earl of Moira, afterwards Marquis of Hastings
-(1754-1826) had, in 1797-98, appeared as a defender of Irish rights
-before the House of Lords, and become a subject for the gratitude of
-Irish patriots; Moore had, in 1806, dedicated to him his volume of
-_Epistles, Odes, and other Poems_.
-
-[43] _British Review_ 1818.
-
-[44] _Melmoth the Wanderer_ 1892, p. LVI.
-
-[45] Richter, p. 288.
-
-[46] _Don Juan_, canto XV.
-
-[47] _Melmoth the Wanderer_ 1892, p. XXXIII.
-
-[48] According to a popular tradition, Ireland was, in the dawn of
-history, invaded by a colony of _Milesians_, coming from Spain, but
-being originally of Phoenician descent. Hence the lineal descendants of
-the great and old, purely Irish families, were all called Milesians,
-though the island was, from earliest times, inhabited by different
-races, of which the invaders came to form but one; cf. George Sigerson,
-_Bards of the Gael and Gall_, London 1907, p. 377.
-
-[49] _Irish Quarterly Review_ 1852.
-
-[50] _New Monthly Magazine_ 1827.
-
-[51] The writer in _Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine_ 1846 says
-that ‘Maturin from the first knew him (Scott) to be the author of “The
-Waverley Novels,” from a letter which he received shortly after the
-publication of one of them, containing a peculiar Scotch proverb which
-Sir Walter had put into the mouth of one of his characters--“We keep
-our own fish-guts for our own sea-maws.”’--I regret not to have had the
-opportunity of seeing Maturin’s letters to Scott, which are still said
-to be in the Abbotsford archives.
-
-[52] _New Monthly Magazine_ 1827.
-
-[53] D. J. O’Donoghue, _Life of James Clarence Mangan_, Dublin 1897.
-
-[54] Richter, p. 291.
-
-[55] Müller, p. 93.
-
-[56] T. N. Talfourd, _Critical and Miscellaneous Writings_,
-Philadelphia 1848, vol. VII p. 18.
-
-[57] _Melmoth the Wanderer_ 1892, p. XXXIV.
-
-[58] Edmund Downey, _Charles Lever, His Life in his Letters_, London
-1906, vol. II p. 370.
-
-[59] O’Donoghue, _Life of Mangan_, p. 145.
-
-[60] In 1814 appeared a second edition of _The Wild Irish Boy_, but
-Maturin evidently received nothing for it, as he appears to have been
-ignorant of its publication: in the preface to _Women_ (1818) he states
-that none of his former novels have been reprinted.
-
-[61] J. Lockhart, _Life of Sir Walter Scott_, Edinburgh 1837, vol. III
-p. 312.
-
-[62] Thomas Moore, _Life of Lord Byron_, London 1851, p. 287.
-
-[63] ibid.
-
-[64] Samuel Smiles, _A Publisher and his Friends_. Memoirs and
-correspondence of the Late John Murray, with an account of the origin
-and progress of the house, 1768-1843, London 1891, vol. I p. 288.
-
-[65] Moore, p. 347.
-
-[66] Barry Cornwall, _Life of Edmund Kean_, London 1835, vol. I p. 152.
-
-[67] The name is spelled _Shee_ on the title-page of the little volume
-in which the poem was published.
-
-
-III.
-
-[68] _Cambridge History of English Literature_, vol. XI p. 257.
-
-[69] _Quarterly Review_ 1817, vol. XVII p. 248; a critique, by Maturin,
-of Sheil’s _Apostate_.
-
-[70] Elton II, p. 310.
-
-[71] _New Monthly Magazine and Universal Register_ 1816, vol. V p. 451.
-
-[72] _Edinburgh Review_ 1818, vol. XXX p. 234; a critique, by Scott, of
-Maturin’s _Women_.
-
-[73] In his letter to Terry, alluded to above, Scott says that Maturin
-‘had our old friend Satan (none of your sneaking St. John Street
-devils, but the archfiend himself) brought on the stage bodily. I
-believe I have exorcised the foul fiend, for, though in reading he
-was a most terrible fellow, I feared for his reception in public.’
-In the passage however which he quotes, the demon is only described
-by Bertram, and it is just this description whose beauty Scott, in
-his article in the _Quarterly Review_, is commending. The letter was
-apparently composed in a moment of absent-mindedness.
-
-[74] _Melmoth the Wanderer_ 1892, p. LIII.
-
-[75] Elton I, p. 218.
-
-[76] _British Review_ 1816, vol. VIII p. 64.
-
-[77] _Monthly Review_ 1816, vol. 80 p. 179.
-
-[78] _Eclectic Review_ 1816, vol. VI p. 379.
-
-[79] _New Monthly Magazine_ 1827.
-
-[80] _Bertram, ou le Château de St. Aldobrand_, tragédie en cinque
-actes traduite librement de l’Anglais, par M. M. Taylor et Charles
-Nodier, Paris 1821. The quoted sentence is from the preface by the
-translators.
-
-[81] Gustave Planche, _Portraits Littéraires_, Paris 1836, p. 33 foll.
-
-[82] _Cambridge History of English Literature_, vol. XI p. 273.
-
-[83] _Irish Quarterly Review_ 1852; cf. also _Melmoth the Wanderer_
-1892, pp. XVI-XVII.
-
-[84] In _Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine_; the article is reprinted in
-_Biographia Literaria_, Oxford 1907, vol. II p. 193 foll.
-
-[85] Moore, p. 367.
-
-[86] Coleridge’s irritation at the play may have been partly due to
-the above-mentioned article in the _British Review_, which presents
-a critique at once upon _Christabel_ and _Bertram_ and comes to the
-conclusion that ‘the poem which has been denominated (by Lord Byron)
-“wild and singularly original and beautiful” is, in our judgment, a
-weak and singularly nonsensical and affected performance; but the play
-of Bertram is a production of undoubted genius.’
-
-[87] _Goethe-Jahrbuch_ 1891, vol. XII p. 23; quoted by Richter, p. 299.
-
-[88] John Genest, _Some account of the English Stage from the
-Restoration in 1660 to 1830_, Bath 1832, vol. VIII p. 534.
-
-[89] _Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine_ 1846.
-
-[90] _New Monthly Magazine_ 1827.
-
-[91] _The Irishman_ 1849.
-
-[92] _Gentleman’s Magazine_ 1825, vol. I p. 84.
-
-[93] _Dublin and London Magazine_ 1826.
-
-[94] _Life of Carleton_, vol. I p. 226.
-
-[95] _Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine_ 1846.
-
-[96] _New Monthly Magazine_ 1827.
-
-[97] Smiles, p. 295.
-
-[98] Moore, p. 358.
-
-[99] ibid., p. 362.
-
-[100] _New Monthly Magazine or Universal Register_ 1819.
-
-[101] _Monthly Review_ 1817, vol. 83 p. 391.
-
-[102] Smiles, p. 293.
-
-[103] W. Torrens McCullagh, _Memoirs of the Rt. Hon. Richard Lalor
-Sheil_, London 1855, p. 95.
-
-
-IV.
-
-[104] Lockhart, _Life of Scott_, vol. V; the letter is reprinted in the
-_Irish Quarterly Review_ 1852 and in _Melmoth the Wanderer_ 1892, pp.
-XVIII-XXI.
-
-[105] _London Magazine_ 1821, vol. III p. 96.
-
-[106] It may be mentioned that the writer in _Douglas Jerrold’s
-Shilling Magazine_ 1846 recollects Maturin ‘once arguing that suicide
-was not positively and expressly condemned in any passage of Scripture,
-and declaring that he conceived to pass away from the sorrows of earth
-to the peace of eternity by reposing on a bed of eastern poppy flowers,
-where sleep is death, would be the most enviable mode of earthly exit.’
-
-[107] Francis Hovey Stoddard, _The Evolution of the English Novel_, New
-York 1913, p. 11.
-
-[108] Allan Cunningham, _Biographical and Critical History of the
-British Literature of the last fifty years_, Paris 1834, p. 403 foll.
-
-[109] _Monthly Review 1818_, vol. 86 p. 403.
-
-[110] _Quarterly Review_ 1818, vol. XIX p. 321.
-
-[111] Alaric Alfred Watts, _Life of_ (his father) _Alaric Watts_,
-London 1884, vol. I p. 62 foll.
-
-[112] Talfourd, op. cit.
-
-[113] _Melmoth the Wanderer_ 1892, p. XXXIX.
-
-[114] A. A. Watts, op. cit.
-
-[115] ibid.
-
-[116] _New Monthly Magazine or Universal Register_ 1819, vol. XI p. 236
-foll.
-
-[117] _New Monthly Magazine_ 1827.
-
-[118] _Scots Magazine_ 1820, vol. VII p. 21.
-
-[119] _Cambridge History of English Literature_, vol. XI p. 305.
-
-[120] _Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine_ 1846.
-
-[121] This preface is, strangely enough, not reprinted in the 1892
-edition.
-
-[122] Elton I, p. 219.
-
-[123] Müller, p. 70.
-
-[124] _Die Rosenkreutzer_ formed a secret society founded in Germany
-in the 17:th century. Confessedly they aimed at bringing about certain
-reforms in Church and State, but the mystery in which they were
-shrouded gave rise, later, to the popular belief that they were chiefly
-occupied in alchemical pursuits. Among English writers interested in
-the ‘Rosecrucian idea’ were Godwin (_St. Leon_), Shelley (_St. Irvyne;
-or, The Rosicrucian_, 1811), and Mary Shelley (_Frankenstein; or, The
-Modern Prometheus_, 1818).
-
-[125] This story was published under the name of Lord Byron, who is
-said to have invented the idea.
-
-[126] There existing a comparatively new and available edition of
-_Melmoth the Wanderer_, the contents of each tale is here given with
-the utmost brevity.
-
-[127] Richter, p. 294; Scarborough p. 32.
-
-[128] _Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany_ 1821, vol. VIII p.
-412.
-
-[129] _Edinburgh Review_ 1820, vol. XXXV p. 353.
-
-[130] _London Magazine_ 1821, vol. III p. 514.
-
-[131] Planche, p. 54.
-
-[132] Gunnar Bjurman, _Edgar Allan Poe_. En litteraturhistorisk studie,
-Lund 1916, pp. 207-208.
-
-[133] _Monthly Review_ 1821, vol. 94 p. 81.
-
-[134] E. A. Baker, Introduction to _The Monk_ of M. G. Lewis, London
-1907, p. VIII.
-
-[135] _Melmoth the Wanderer_ 1892, p. LIX.
-
-[136] Cardonneau is the name of the atheistic philosopher in _Women_.
-
-[137] Müller, p. 91.
-
-[138] The bitter irony with which the state of Europe is described in
-Melmoth’s discourse rather recalls also certain passages in _Gulliver’s
-Travels_ (part II ch. VI; part IV ch. V-VII).
-
-[139] Walter Raleigh, _The English Novel_, London 1907 (fifth ed.), p.
-237.
-
-[140] Dr John Anster’s excellent translations of the first part
-of _Faust_ appeared in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ in 1820, about the
-time when Maturin was finishing _Melmoth the Wanderer_. There is no
-evidence of Maturin’s having been able to read German, nor are there
-many allusions, in his writings, to German literature.--The points of
-contact with _Faust_ are pointed out by Müller, pp. 98-99.
-
-[141] In _The Fortunes of Nigel_ (1822) the tale of Lady Hermione
-begins with this statement: ‘In Spain you may have heard how the
-Catholic priests, and particularly the monks, besiege the beds of the
-dying, to obtain bequests for the good of the Church’--which possibly
-is a hint from the Tale of _Guzman’s Family_.
-
-[142] _Blackwood’s Magazine_ 1820, vol. VIII p. 161.
-
-[143] Both in the preface and in a marginal note Maturin states that
-_The Lovers’ Tale_ is a record of actual experience, although he
-mentions no sources.
-
-[144] Müller, p. 103.
-
-[145] This resemblance has been pointed out already by the critic in
-the _London Magazine_ 1821.
-
-[146] Müller, p. 107.
-
-[147] Introduction to _Tales of Mystery_ (Mrs
-Radcliffe--Lewis--Maturin), edited by George Saintsbury, London 1891.
-
-[148] _Quarterly Review_ 1821, vol. XXIV p. 303.
-
-[149] Poe, Introduction to _Poems_ 1831 (Letter to Mr B----).
-
-[150] Richter, p. 292.
-
-[151] Charles Baudelaire, _Oeuvres Complètes_, Paris 1869, vol. II p.
-366 foll.
-
-[152] _Lady Morgan’s Memoirs_: Autobiography, Diaries and
-Correspondence, edited by W. H. Dixon, London 1862, vol. II p. 154.
-
-[153] A. A. Watts, p. 297.
-
-
-V.
-
-[154] _Notes and Queries_ 1874, vol. II p. 428; 1875 vol. III pp. 20,
-172, 240, 280, 340.
-
-[155] Lord John Russell, _Memoir, Journal, and Correspondence of Thomas
-Moore_, London 1860, p. 303.--In the first edition (1853) there is the
-following extract from the diary of Moore: Oct. 12:th, 1821,--‘Called
-on Mrs Smith; told me that the poem of _The Universe_ is not Maturin’s,
-but a Mr. Wills’, who induced Maturin to lend his name to it by giving
-him the profit of the sale.’ The additional note in the second edition,
-which was included at the special request of Wills, is to the effect
-that it was Maturin who entreated Wills to allow him to publish the
-poem, as a production of his own.
-
-[156] _Dublin University Magazine_, October 1875, p. 409.
-
-[157] Whenever the skeleton of the work was composed, the transaction
-now in question must, if the record is at all to be relied upon, have
-taken place in the summer of 1821. Until September 1820 Maturin was
-closely occupied with _Melmoth_ and could not have undertaken any other
-engagement, besides which it is evident from Moore’s diary that _The
-Universe_ was published and brought under discussion in autumn 1821.
-
-[158] _Scots Magazine_ 1821, vol. IX p. 38.
-
-[159] A fair specimen of the poetry of Wills is e. g. _The Idolatress:
-and other Poems_ (1868). On the cover of this volume was advertised a
-new edition of _The Universe_, ‘with its true history,’ which however
-does not seem to have appeared.
-
-[160] _Dublin and London Magazine_ 1826.
-
-[161] William John Fitzpatrick, _Lady Morgan_: her career, literary and
-personal, with a glimpse of her friends and a word to her calumniators,
-London 1860, p. 238.
-
-[162] _Lady Morgan’s Memoirs_, vol. II p. 154. The anecdote is told by
-the editor, not by Lady Morgan.
-
-[163] A. A. Watts, op. cit.
-
-[164] A copy of this letter has kindly been communicated to me by Mr
-Daniel Edwards Kennedy, M. A., Chestnut Hill, Mass. U. S. A.
-
-[165] _New Monthly Magazine_ 1827.
-
-[166] ibid.
-
-[167] _Cabinet of Irish Literature_, vol. II p. 45.
-
-[168] _Gentleman’s Magazine_ 1825.
-
-[169] Mangan, in _The Irishman_ 1849.
-
-[170] _Westminster Review 1824_, vol. I p. 550.
-
-[171] William Everett, _The Italian Poets since Dante_, London 1905, p.
-78. The writer is comparing the humour of Ariosto with that of Scott.
-
-[172] Chapter XIV in _The Abbot_ contains a description of a feast led
-by an ‘Abbot of Unreason,’ which description, however, is in quite a
-different style from that in _The Albigenses_.
-
-[173] _Scotch Magazine, and Edinburgh Literary Miscellany_ 1824, vol.
-XIV p. 209.
-
-[174] _Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine_ 1824, vol. XV p. 192.
-
-[175] Elton I. p. 219.
-
-[176] In France, also, _The Albigenses_ did not enjoy the same
-popularity as Maturin’s other works. It was translated in 1825, but
-Planche testifies that is ‘à peu près ignoré de ceux qui ne croient
-pas, avec Gray, que le paradis consiste dans un bon fauteuil et un
-roman pendant l’éternité.’ It ought to be mentioned, however, that
-one scene, in which lady Isabelle is lulled to sleep by the chant of
-her maidens, was paraphrased into French verse by Amable Tastu, under
-the name of _La Chambre de la Chatelaine_ (Mme A. Tastu, _Poésies
-complètes_, Paris 1858, p. 78).
-
-[177] Cyrus Redding, _Yesterday and To-Day_, London 1863, vol. III p.
-53.
-
-[178] _Melmoth the Wanderer_ 1892, p. XXVII; Mangan also alludes to the
-circumstance.
-
-[179] D. J. O’Donoghue, _Sir Walter Scott’s Tour in Ireland_, Dublin
-1905, pp. 39, 57.
-
-[180] It is generally maintained that Maturin’s unpublished manuscripts
-and his correspondence were destroyed by his son, the Rev. William
-Maturin, who disapproved of his father’s connection with the stage.
-This story has, as far as I know, never been definitely proved; it
-will be remembered that the writer in the _Irish Quarterly Review_
-was, in 1852, in a position to communicate several extracts from
-_The Siege of Salerno_, which he states to have been found among the
-manuscripts in question. That Maturin’s correspondence contained, as
-has sometimes been alleged, letters from Goethe and Balzac, I think
-very unlikely.--Another son, Edward Maturin, emigrated to America and
-subsequently published several romances both in prose and verse, which,
-however, do not evince any traces of his father’s genius.
-
-[181] Maturin’s influence in France has been treated of in Charles
-Bonnier, _Milieux d’Art_, Liverpool 1910. This privately printed book
-I know only from a reference in Elton I p. 438. The points of contact
-between Balzac and Maturin are briefly mentioned in J. H. Retinger, _Le
-conte fantastique dans le romantisme français_, Paris 1909.
-
-[182] Elton I p. 209.
-
-[183] _Life of Matthew Gregory Lewis_ (anonymous), London 1839, vol. II
-p. 140.
-
-[184] _The Irishman_ 1849.
-
-
-Index.
-
-
-  _Abbot_, Scott’s, 304, 321 _note_ 172
-
-  _Adelaide, or the Emigrants_, Sheil’s, 100
-
-  _Albigenses_, Maturin’s, 84, 283-307
-
-  _Alexander_, Lee’s, 6
-
-  _Anacreon_, Moore’s, 49
-
-  _Ancient Mariner_, Coleridge’s, 3
-
-  _Apostate_, Sheil’s, 140, 179
-
-  _Arabian Nights_, 17
-
-  Austen, Jane, 268
-
-
-  Baillie, Joanna, 108
-
-  Balzac, Honoré de, 264, 311, _note_ 180
-
-  Banim, John, 70
-
-  Baudelaire, Charles, 266, 311
-
-  Beckford, William, 13, 17
-
-  _Belinda_, Edgeworth’s, 49
-
-  _Bertram_, Maturin’s, 60, 101-103, 104, 107-124, 132, 133, 134, 139,
-        140, 142, 143, 173, 177, 211, 276, 277, 281, 309
-
-  _Black Dwarf_, Scott’s, 266
-
-  _Bottle Imp_, Stevenson’s, 264
-
-  _Bride of Lammermoor_, Scott’s, 91, 97-98
-
-  Brocas, 130
-
-  Brown, Charles Brockden, 21
-
-  Burns, Robert, 1
-
-  Byron, George Noel Gordon, Lord, 59, 101 foll., 109, 114 foll., 123,
-        132, 134, 135, 181, 280, 310
-
-
-  _Caleb Williams_, Godwin’s, 39, 40, 120, 184
-
-  Campbell, Thomas, 273
-
-  Carleton, William, 9, 63, 131
-
-  _Cask of Amontillado_, Poe’s, 224
-
-  _Castle of Otranto_, Walpole’s, 6, 17, 18
-
-  _Castle Rackrent_, Edgeworth’s, 9
-
-  Catalani, 10
-
-  _Cenci_, Shelley’s, 109
-
-  _Champion of Virtue_, Reeve’s, 18
-
-  _Childe Harold_, Byron’s, 3
-
-  Colburn, Henry, 66, 195, 272 foll.
-
-  Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 122-123, 143, 276
-
-  _Collegians_, Griffin’s, 69
-
-  Collins, William, 1
-
-  _Confessions of a Justified Sinner_, Hogg’s, 310
-
-  Constable, Archibald, 142
-
-  _Corinne_, Staël’s, 174
-
-  _Corsair_, Byron’s, 132
-
-  Cowper, William, 1
-
-  Crabbe, George, 132
-
-  Croker, John Wilson, 178, 267
-
-  _Cymbeline_, Shakespeare’s, 84
-
-
-  Dickens, Charles, 309
-
-  _Don Quixote_, Cervantes’s, 84
-
-
-  Edgeworth, Maria, 9, 49, 179, 180, 268
-
-  Emmet, Robert, 8
-
-  _Essay de l’essence du rire_, Baudelaire’s, 266
-
-
-  _Fall of Robespierre_, Coleridge’s, 123
-
-  _Faust_, Goethe’s, 249, 263, 265
-
-  _Faustus_, Marlowe’s, 262
-
-  Fielding, Henry, 7
-
-  _Five Sermons on the Errors of the Roman Catholic Church_, Maturin’s,
-        282-283
-
-  _Fortunes of Nigel_, Scott’s, _note_ 38
-
-  _France_, Morgan’s, 277
-
-  _Frankenstein_, Mrs. Shelley’s, 229, 266
-
-  _Fredolfo_, Maturin’s, 180-195, 267, 276, 281
-
-
-  _Geisterseher_, Schiller’s, 37
-
-  Gifford, William, 140
-
-  Godwin, William, 6, 21, 33, 39, 40, 49, 120, 184, 199, 228, 230, 231,
-        251, 252, 310
-
-  Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, 49, 59, 84, 124, 249, _note_ 180
-
-  Goldsmith, Oliver, 108
-
-  Grattan, Henry, 8
-
-  Gray, Thomas, 1
-
-  Griffin, Gerald, 69
-
-  _Gulliver’s Travels_, Swift’s, _note_ 128
-
-  _Guy Mannering_, Scott’s, 175, 304
-
-
-  _Hamlet_, Shakespeare’s, 124
-
-  _Harrington_, Edgeworth’s, 179
-
-  _Haunted and the Haunters_, Lytton’s, 212
-
-  Hazlitt, William, 309
-
-  _Heart of Midlothian_, Scott’s, 169
-
-  _Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bards_, Walker’s, 8
-
-  Hogg, James, 132, 310
-
-  Horace, 163
-
-  Hugo, Victor, 311
-
-
-  _I promessi sposi_, Manzoni’s, 213
-
-  _Italian_, Radcliffe’s, 37 foll., 230
-
-  _Ivanhoe_, Scott’s, 301, 302, 305
-
-
-  Juvenal, 163
-
-
-  Kean, Edmund, 102-103, 109, 118, 133, 134, 137, 279, 280
-
-  Kemble, Charles, 193
-
-  ----, John, 101
-
-  Kerr, 7
-
-  _King Lear_, Shakespeare’s, 134
-
-  Kingsbury, Henrietta, _see_ Maturin
-
-  Kotzebue, August von, 108
-
-
-  _Lalla Rookh_, Moore’s, 135
-
-  _Lara_, Byron’s, 132
-
-  Lawless, Emily, 91
-
-  Lee, Nathaniel, 6
-
-  _Lenore_, Bürger’s, 246
-
-  Lever, Charles, 63, 98-99
-
-  Lewis, Matthew Gregory, 6, 13, 18, 19, 21, 38, 96, 135, 228 foll.,
-        284, 310
-
-  Lover, Samuel, 63
-
-  Lytton, Edward Bulwer, 212
-
-
-  _Macbeth_, Shakespeare’s, 124
-
-  Macready, 193
-
-  _Maelcho_, Lawless’s, 91
-
-  Mangan, James Clarence, 43, 100, 128, 307
-
-  _Manuel_, Maturin’s, 134, 135-140, 195, 267, 310
-
-  Manzoni, Alessandro, 213, 214
-
-  Marlowe, Christopher, 262
-
-  Maturin, Alicia, _note_ 8
-
-  ----, Edward, _note_ 180
-
-  ----, Emma, _note_ 8
-
-  ----, Fidelia, 5
-
-  ----, Fidelia, _note_ 8
-
-  ----, Gabriel, 3-5
-
-  ----, Gabriel James, 5
-
-  ----, Henrietta, 9, 10, 278
-
-  ----, Henry, 313, _note_ 8
-
-  ----, Pierre, 5
-
-  ----, William, 5, 11, 12, 65, 66
-
-  ----, William, 313, _note_ 8
-
-  ----, William Basil, 46, _note_ 180
-
-  _Melmoth Reconcilié_, Balzac’s, 264
-
-  _Melmoth the Wanderer_, Maturin’s, 12, 16, 21, 57, 70, 119, 152, 179,
-        195, 196-270, 276, 279, 293, 309, 310
-
-  _Milesian Chief_, Maturin’s, 66-100, 158, 174, 293, 296, 310
-
-  Milton, John, 199, 273
-
-  Moira, Lord, 46
-
-  _Monastery_, Scott’s, 84, 301, 303
-
-  _Monk_, Lewis’s, 6, 18, 38, 40 foll., 228 foll., 262
-
-  _Montorio_, Maturin’s, 13, 14-45, 46, 65, 66, 94, 95, 106, 114, 132,
-        184, 200, 207, 213, 228, 229, 263, 265, 269, 296, 301, 309, 310
-
-  Moore, John, 17
-
-  ----, Thomas, 49, 102, 132, 272, 274
-
-  More, Hannah, 121, 122
-
-  Morgan, Charles, 274, 277 foll., 308
-
-  ----, Lady (Sydney Owenson), 8, 46, 63, 95, 97, 178, 180, 274, 277
-        foll.
-
-  Murphy, Dennis Jasper (C. R. Maturin), 14, 45
-
-  Murray, John, 102, 104, 123, 125, 126, 134, 135, 142, 179, 181
-
-
-  _Night Thoughts_, Young’s, 3
-
-  Nodier, Charles, 119
-
-
-  _O’Donnel_, Morgan’s, 277
-
-  _O’Donoghue_, Lever’s, 98-99
-
-  _Old English Baron_, Reeve’s, 18
-
-  _Old Mortality_, Scott’s, 301, 306
-
-  O’Neill, Miss, 100, 140, 193
-
-  _Ormond_, Edgeworth’s, 179, 180
-
-  _Osmyn_, see _Siege of Salerno_
-
-  Ossian, 1, 242
-
-  _Othello_, Shakespeare’s, 43
-
-  Otway, Thomas, 6
-
-  Owenson, Sydney, _see_ Morgan
-
-
-  _Paul et Virginie_, Saint-Pierre’s, 242
-
-  _Percy_, More’s, 121
-
-  _Picture of Dorian Gray_, Wilde’s, 212
-
-  _Pirate_, Scott’s, 304
-
-  Poe, Edgar Allan, 21, 224, 264, 311
-
-  Polidori, John William, 199
-
-  Pope, Alexander, 132, 164
-
-
-  _Quentin Durward_, Scott’s, 296, 301
-
-
-  Radcliffe, Ann, 6, 19, 21, 33, 37 foll., 42, 91, 94, 96, 164, 228,
-        230, 283, 301
-
-  _Räuber_, Schiller’s, 120-121
-
-  Reeve, Clara, 18
-
-  _Revenge_, Young’s, 43
-
-  _Richard III_, Shakespeare’s, 192-193, 305
-
-  Richardson, Samuel, 7, 91
-
-  _Rob Roy_, Scott’s, 193
-
-  Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 311
-
-  Rousseau, Jean Jaques, 48, 49, 59, 237, 242
-
-  Russell, John, Lord, 272
-
-
-  _St. Leon_, Godwin’s, 6, 21, 199, 230, 231, 251, 266
-
-  Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de, 237
-
-  Schiller, Friedrich, 37, 120-121
-
-  Scott, Walter, 18, 19, 33, 45, 66, 90, 91, 96 foll., 101 foll., 113
-        foll., 121, 132, 133, 135, 143, 151, 156, 164, 165, 177, 193,
-        214, 268, 273, 283, 295, 301 foll., 308, 310
-
-  _Sermons_, Maturin’s, 195-196
-
-  Shakespeare, William, 6, 83, 103, 108, 121, 230, 305
-
-  Shea, John, 104-105
-
-  Sheil, Richard Lalor, 100, 101, 140, 179, 180
-
-  Shelley, Mary, 229
-
-  ----, Percy Bysshe, 16
-
-  Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 108
-
-  Siddons, Mrs., 103
-
-  _Siege of Corinth_, Byron’s, 280
-
-  _Siege of Salerno_, Maturin’s, 280-281
-
-  Smith, Mrs., 274
-
-  Smollett, Tobias, 7
-
-  Somerville, Miss, 103
-
-  Southerne, Thomas, 6
-
-  Southey, Robert, 49
-
-  Staël, Madame de, 173 foll.
-
-  Sterne, Laurence, 11
-
-  Stevenson, Robert Louis, 264, 311
-
-  Swift, Jonathan, 5, 10, 11
-
-
-  Tastu, Amable, 321 _note_ 23
-
-  _Tempest_, Shakespeare’s, 121
-
-  Terry, Daniel, 101
-
-  Thackeray, William Makepeace, 311
-
-  Thomson, James, 1
-
-  _Tintern Abbey_, Wordsworth’s, 3
-
-
-  _Universe_, Maturin’s, 271-276, 279
-
-
-  _Vampyre_, Polidori’s, 199
-
-  _Vathek_, Beckford’s, 17
-
-  _Venice Preserved_, Otway’s, 6
-
-  Vigny, Alfred de, 311
-
-  Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, 311
-
-  Voltaire, 48
-
-
-  Walker, Joseph Cooper, 8, 64
-
-  Walpole, Horace, 6, 17 foll.
-
-  Ware, James, 64
-
-  _Waterloo_, Maturin’s, 104-106, 271
-
-  Watson, Fidelia, _see_ Maturin
-
-  Watts, Alaric, 13, 65, 139, 170, 174, 181, 192 foll., 267, 280
-
-  _Werther_, Goethe’s, 49
-
-  West, B., 267
-
-  _Wild Irish Boy_, Maturin’s, 46-64, 65, 67, 73, 91, 95, 158, 173, 263
-
-  _Wild Irish Girl_, Morgan’s, 46, 63, 64, 95, 96, 277
-
-  Wilde, Oscar, 212, 311
-
-  Wills, James, 271-276
-
-  Wollstonecraft, Mary, 49, 59
-
-  _Women_, Maturin’s, 9, 15, 57, 61, 142-179, 181, 203, 236, 240, 248,
-        259, 267, 279, 293, 303, 309, 310
-
-
-  Yates, 193, 194
-
-  Young, 193
-
-  ----, Arthur, 64
-
-  ----, Edward, 43
-
-
-  _Zastrozzi_, Shelley’s, 16
-
-  _Zeluco_, John Moore’s, 17
-
-
-
-
-Transcriber’s Note
-
-
-In this file, text in _italics_ is indicated by underscores.
-
-While original copyright information has been retained, this book is in
-the public domain in the country of publication.
-
-Obvious printer’s errors have been silently corrected; otherwise, as far
-as possible, original spelling and punctuation has been retained.
-
-Notes have been renumbered sequentially, and references from the index
-edited to match.
-
-*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN ***
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