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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c2631a --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67329 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67329) diff --git a/old/67329-0.txt b/old/67329-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 39c6cf3..0000000 --- a/old/67329-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12256 +0,0 @@ -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 *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Charles Robert Maturin</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>His Life and Works</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Niilo Idman</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 5, 2022 [eBook #67329]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>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.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN ***</div> - - - - - -<h1>CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN</h1> - -<p class="center p150"><b>HIS LIFE AND WORKS</b></p> - -<p class="center p2">BY</p> - -<p class="center p150 p2 mb2">NIILO IDMAN</p> - - -<hr class="r5"/> - - -<p class="center p2 mb2"><i>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.</i></p> - - -<hr class="r5"/> - - -<p class="center p110 p4">HELSINGFORS 1923<br/> -HELSINGFORS CENTRALTRYCKERI -</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Preface">Preface.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p class="right mr5"> -N. I. -</p> - -<p class="ml5">Helsingfors, <i>April 1923</i>.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Contents">Contents.</h2> -</div> - -<table class="fullwidth"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <th class="right">Page</th> - </tr> - - <tr> - <th class="center">CHAPTER I</th> - <td></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td>Romanticism; Maturin’s family and descent; childhood, college -course, marriage; curacy of Loughrea, curacy of St. Peter’s</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#I">1</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <th class="center">CHAPTER II</th> - <td></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td>Gothic Romance; <i>Montorio</i>; <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i>; <i>The Milesian -Chief</i>; <i>Bertram</i> written, sent to Scott and Byron, accepted -to Drury Lane; <i>Waterloo</i></td> - <td class="right"><a href="#II">14</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <th class="center">CHAPTER III</th> - <td></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td><i>Bertram</i>; Maturin’s visit to London, personality and habits; -<i>Manuel</i></td> - <td class="right"><a href="#III">107</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <th class="center">CHAPTER IV</th> - <td></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td><i>Women</i>; <i>Fredolfo</i>; <i>Sermons</i>; <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i></td> - <td class="right"><a href="#IV">142</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <th class="center">CHAPTER V</th> - <td></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td><i>The Universe</i>; changed mode of living, intercourse with the -Morgans; <i>Siege of Salerno</i> and other unpublished productions; -<i>Five Sermons</i>; <i>The Albigenses</i>; last illness and death; -conclusion</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#V">271</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td>Notes</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Notes">312</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td>Index</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Index">323</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="p125 center"><b>1780-1806.</b></p> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="p0 ml25"> -Poe. -</p> - - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> -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’<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> -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 <i>Childe Harold</i> to that of the <i>Night -Thoughts</i>. If it were possible to imagine the Renaissance -with its gaiety turned into <i>Weltschmerz</i>, the result would -be something like the romanticism of the early 19:th -century.</p> - -<p>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. <i>Tintern Abbey</i> and <i>The Ancient -Mariner</i> were both written about the same time; both -are original and entirely different, and both would have -been inconceivable in 1750.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> -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<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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, <i>les Maturins</i>, 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, <i>la Rue des Mathurins</i>.</p> - -<p>In spite of all the good lady’s pains, and maugre his <i>nom de -caresse</i>, my ancestor was perverse enough to turn protestant, and -became pastor to a hugonot congregation in Paris, where he sojourned, -and begat two sons.</p> - -<p>While he was amusing himself in this manner, the king and -<i>père</i> 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.</p> - -<p>With all these advantages he continued quite untractable: -so that the catholics, finding the case desperate, gave him his -liberty.</p> - -<p>There was no danger, however, of his abusing this indulgence:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> -for, owing to the keeper forgetting accidentally to bring him fuel, -during the winters of his confinement, and a few other <i>agremens</i> -of his situation, the poor man lost the use of his limbs, and was a -cripple for life.</p> - -<p>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 <i>via</i> Holland.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> 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.<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> 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<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> 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.<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> -William Maturin was a man of refinement and was interested -in literature, so much so, that he is recorded<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> 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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> -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 <i>Alexander</i> -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.<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> 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 <i>Venice Preserved</i>, he is said<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> -to have added:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>Castle of Otranto</i> in 1764, had in the nineties -an extraordinary flight. All the romances of Mrs Radcliffe, -Lewis’s <i>Monk</i> and Godwin’s <i>St. Leon</i>, with a host of imitations, -followed each other in rapid succession and actually -became, for a short time, the rage of the public; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> -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:<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p> - -<p>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.’<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> The Historical -Society, afterwards abolished by the government, had been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> -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 <i>Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bards</i> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>Women</i> -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 -<i>Castle Rackrent</i> (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.<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> 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,<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> ‘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.—</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> -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<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> -generally maintain that Maturin married while -still going through his college course, and decided in favour -of the clerical profession <i>after</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a>.</p> - -<p>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 <i>was</i> 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 <i>grand seigneur</i>. 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> -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<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> -Maturin was, at least in the most rigorous-minded -circles, actually considered more or less insane.—</p> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Yet this must be the case, if Government do not graciously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.<a id="FNanchor_19" href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> -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 -<i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 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.’<a id="FNanchor_20" href="#Footnote_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a> 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 -<i>conditio sine qua non</i>; 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.</p> - -<p>Through some exertion on the part of his relations, -Maturin was before long removed to the curacy of St. Peter’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> -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.’<a id="FNanchor_21" href="#Footnote_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> 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,<a id="FNanchor_22" href="#Footnote_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>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. -<i>The Fatal Revenge; or, The Family of Montorio</i> 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.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="p125 center"><b>1807-1815.</b></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For things we never mention,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For Art misunderstood—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For excellent intention</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That did not turn to good....</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="ml15"> -Kipling. -</p> - - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_23" href="#Footnote_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a> -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<a id="FNanchor_24" href="#Footnote_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a> describing a visit he paid to the -novelist in the days when his fame was at its highest, says, -with reference to this <i>nom de plume</i>:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I remarked that his assumed name of Dennis Jasper Murphy, -from its vulgar and <i>merely</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>That the author was an Irishman, and without any -‘literary friend or counsellor,’ is explicitly stated in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> -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 <i>Montorio</i>. Being unable to dispose of the copyright, -Maturin had no choice but to publish it at his own -hazard; and the bookseller again, at <i>his</i> hazard, thought it -proper to embellish the title of the book by adding the -words <i>The Fatal Revenge</i>, the name intended by the author -being only <i>The Family of Montorio</i>. In the preface -to <i>Women</i> (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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The Gothic Romance, the school of fiction founded -upon ‘the passion of supernatural fear,’ was already in -disrepute at the time <i>Montorio</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I question whether there be a source of emotion in the whole -mental frame, so powerful or universal as the <i>fear arising from -objects of invisible terror</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>The same might be said, <i>a fortiori</i>, 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>Here, in a few words, is expressed the peculiarity of the -Gothic Romance.<a id="FNanchor_25" href="#Footnote_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> Its soul is terror; terror, preferably,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> -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 <i>Melmoth</i>, 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<a id="FNanchor_26" href="#Footnote_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a> 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 <i>Zastrozzi</i> (1810), probably one of the most worthless -things ever fabricated by a great poet in a moment of misdirected<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> -energy. A book like John Moore’s <i>Zeluco</i> (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.</p> - -<p>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;<a id="FNanchor_27" href="#Footnote_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a> -and, that being so, a tale like Beckford’s <i>Vathek</i> (1781?) -ought to be excluded from the <i>Schauerromantik</i>, the meaning -of this word being limited to the definite literary movement -now in question. In <i>Vathek</i> the course of action is, -from the beginning, raised to the realm of a fairy tale from -the <i>Arabian Nights</i>; 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.</p> - -<p>The denomination ‘Gothic story’ was invented and -introduced by Horace Walpole, who furnished his <i>Castle -of Otranto</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> -of their frames. The <i>Castle of Otranto</i> was, however, greatly -admired by Scott,<a id="FNanchor_28" href="#Footnote_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a> 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 <i>Castle of Otranto</i> 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 <i>Champion -of Virtue</i> (1777), afterwards called <i>The Old English Baron</i>, -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; <i>The Monk</i> (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 -<i>The Monk</i> 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 <i>The Monk</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> -and disgusting, the school of terror celebrates one of its -doubtful triumphs in the romance of Lewis.</p> - -<p>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,<a id="FNanchor_29" href="#Footnote_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a> ‘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; <i>Montorio</i> 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,<a id="FNanchor_30" href="#Footnote_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>— — — 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 <i>twilight shade</i> 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</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Whereof the ewe bites not, and those whose pastime</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is to make midnight mushrooms, who rejoice</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To hear the solemn curfew—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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”—</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> - -<p>In spite of similarity in construction it will be seen that -the general atmosphere of <i>Montorio</i> 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.—</p> - -<p>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 <i>Gothic</i> -are often dispensed with—was the latest developed of -the three. At the time <i>Montorio</i> 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 <i>St. Leon</i> of William Godwin, to -which Maturin’s <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> is largely indebted, -appeared in 1799.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The plot in <i>Montorio</i> is sufficiently intricate to necessitate -a commencement of the analysis from the end and -to reveal the mystery at once.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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 <i>jeunesse dorée</i>, 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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.’</p> - -<p>In a short introduction to <i>Montorio</i> 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.—</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It would not be possible to give an account of all the -windings of this intricate production, which is said<a id="FNanchor_31" href="#Footnote_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a> to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> -contain ‘sufficient sparkle and movement for half a dozen -ordinary romances.’ An extract from another critic<a id="FNanchor_32" href="#Footnote_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a> likewise -goes to show—besides the fact that <i>Montorio</i> had its admirers—that -it is not such a very easy matter to trace even -the bare outlines of Maturin’s first story:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>Montorio</i> 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;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> -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,<a id="FNanchor_33" href="#Footnote_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a> 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 <i>Montorio</i>, 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 <i>Montorio</i>, -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 <i>Montorio</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_34" href="#Footnote_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a> that ‘<i>Montorio</i> -surpasses all the excellences of Ann Radcliffe and Godwin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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?</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> -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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> -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 <i>Montorio</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> -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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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 <i>Montorio</i> 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 <i>Der Geisterseher</i> (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 <i>The Italian</i> (1797)<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> -is often called to mind by <i>Montorio</i>. 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, <i>alias</i> father Schemoli.<a id="FNanchor_35" href="#Footnote_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a> 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 <i>The Italian</i>, 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 <i>Monk</i>, -nor were these attractions withstood by Mrs Radcliffe. -The passages in <i>The Italian</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> -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 <i>Montorio</i>, follows <i>The -Italian</i> 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 -<i>Caleb Williams</i> (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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> -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. <i>Caleb Williams</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>An incident, in <i>Montorio</i>, 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 <i>The Monk</i>. -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 <i>The Italian</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>Yet another episode in <i>Montorio</i> is inspired by ‘the powerful -and wicked romance of the Monk,’ which was, in Maturin’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> -opinion,<a id="FNanchor_36" href="#Footnote_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a> ‘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 -<i>Montorio</i> 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 <i>Montorio</i> is certainly much more exciting -than the one in <i>The Monk</i>.</p> - -<p>Aside from these instances of immediate influence from -some of the most admired productions of the Gothic Romance, -<i>Montorio</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> -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 -<i>Montorio</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_37" href="#Footnote_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a> says that ‘alle Schauerromane haben -ein glückliches Ende, und würde es auch an den Haaren -herbeigezogen,’ she evidently forgets <i>Montorio</i>. 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 <i>Montorio</i>, -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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> -A character like this is not uncommon in the Gothic Romance. -It may be mentioned that Don Raymond, in <i>The -Monk</i>, 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.—</p> - -<p>There is, however, within the compass of <i>Montorio</i>, -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.<a id="FNanchor_38" href="#Footnote_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a> 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<a id="FNanchor_39" href="#Footnote_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a> points out that the -idea had been utilized by Edward Young in <i>The Revenge</i> -(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 <i>The -Revenge</i>, 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 <i>Othello</i> remains the great prototype of a -tragedy of his kind. In this respect, at least, Maturin shows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> -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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>Quarterly Review</i>, did not appear until three years -after the publication of <i>Montorio</i>. 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>— — — 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.</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> - -<p>This article was to become of the greatest consequence -to Maturin’s literary career, and will be returned to further on.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The <i>Family of Montorio</i> brought to its author nothing more -substantial than fame in his nearest environs, for, notwithstanding -the pseudonym, it was universally attributed to -Maturin.<a id="FNanchor_40" href="#Footnote_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a> 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 -<i>The Wild Irish Boy</i>. 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.’<a id="FNanchor_41" href="#Footnote_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a> -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 <i>The Wild Irish Girl</i>, which had appeared the -previous year and proved an eminent success. Another -attempt in the same direction was a lengthy dedication to -Lord Moira<a id="FNanchor_42" href="#Footnote_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a>—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. <i>Montorio</i> -was written in a spirit which he felt to be his special power; -<i>The Wild Irish Boy</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> -to his thoughts, being compelled to resort to other material, -better relished by the public:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 -<i>The Wild Irish Boy</i>.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> -the producers of which Maturin once characterized<a id="FNanchor_43" href="#Footnote_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a> 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.’ <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i> 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 <i>Ireland</i> must consequently -be rather loose and rhapsodical—; especially are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> -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 (<i>Werther</i>), Godwin, -and Mary Wollstonecraft. Miss Edgeworth, on the -other hand, is enthusiastically lauded as the author of <i>Belinda</i>. -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 -<i>Werther</i> the opening chapters of <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i>, 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 <i>Anacreon</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>death<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> -dance</i> 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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> -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, <i>has</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> -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 <i>dramatis personæ</i> once more retire -to Ireland, for Lady Montrevor’s lover turns out to be the -identical inhabitant of the solitary tower, and, still more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> -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.’—</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>From the short <i>précis</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_44" href="#Footnote_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a> for ‘its method of pure suggestion -of character without incident;’ and the character -revealed is that of a heroine typically romantic.<a id="FNanchor_45" href="#Footnote_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a> Her -love is soft and dreaming, made to live on sighs and tears, -too platonic and ethereal even for the vicinity of its object:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> -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?</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i>, in <i>Women</i>, in -<i>Melmoth</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> -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,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">—a fair and fairy one,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of the best class, and better than her class<a id="FNanchor_46" href="#Footnote_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a>—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> -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 <i>did</i> -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 <i>Bertram</i>.—Among the secondary characters -in the book that of Lady Delphina Orberry has been -pointed out<a id="FNanchor_47" href="#Footnote_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> -the hero <i>must</i> 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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Notwithstanding all that can be said against <i>The Wild -Irish Boy</i>, it is of considerable interest in Maturin’s earlier -production, when regarded as a kind of preparatory study -to <i>Women</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The ancient glory of Ireland is touched upon in the figure -of the old Milesian.<a id="FNanchor_48" href="#Footnote_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a> The type had been introduced into -fiction by Miss Owenson; her story of <i>The Wild Irish Girl</i> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>In spite of its promising title, Maturin’s second book -contains no loans from <i>The Wild Irish Girl</i> except the venerable -Milesian with his inevitable <i>chapelain de maison</i>, 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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> -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.’</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><i>The Wild Irish Boy</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_49" href="#Footnote_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a> 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 <i>Montorio</i>, 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, <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i> failed -completely; it was, like <i>Montorio</i>, 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,<a id="FNanchor_50" href="#Footnote_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> -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.——</p> - -<p>In 1810 appeared Scott’s critique on <i>Montorio</i>, ending -with this passage:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.<a id="FNanchor_51" href="#Footnote_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a></p> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_52" href="#Footnote_52" class="fnanchor">[52]</a> says that when Maturin was writing <i>The -Milesian Chief</i>—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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> -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—:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>The tone is throughout very different from that of the -preface to <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i>; 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>Of the work now at hand Maturin adds:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>All this material is, very likely, not attended to in <i>The -Milesian Chief</i>, yet it is certainly by far the noblest of -Maturin’s three earlier romances.—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span></p> - -<p>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 <i>milieu</i>. 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 <i>The Collegians</i> (1828), it would hardly have been -within his capacity to create. In <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>This, it must be added, Maturin does not find to be entirely -the fault of the people:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>Melmoth</i>—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.<a id="FNanchor_53" href="#Footnote_53" class="fnanchor">[53]</a></p> - -<p>Yet <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>There is, it will be observed, no stint of powerful attributes, -the marvels of Armida leading directly back to Lady -Montrevor in <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i>. Yet the descriptions -here <i>are</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.—</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Her wet hair had fallen back from her cheek: he touched it -with his lips: she sighed: his hyacinth breath, warm with life and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.—</p> - -<p>The progress of Armida’s mind to the point of an all-absorbing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> -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 <i>schablonenmässig</i>: 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>“God! this is too much for man. Armida! answer!—Will -you be mine? I speak in despair; I have nothing to offer or to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> -promise: will you be the companion of a rebel, in a desert, amid -war, and want, and danger?”</p> - -<p>Armida, with an impulse like fate, threw herself into his arms. -He clasped her to his heart. — —</p> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>— — — — — “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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>Endymion wept.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“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” — — —</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> -comedies—or else it is used as a pretty and sentimental -expedient finally leading to a happy result, as in <i>Cymbeline</i>, -in certain episodes in <i>Don Quixote</i>, in the <i>Monastery</i> of -Scott and the <i>Albigenses</i> 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,<a id="FNanchor_54" href="#Footnote_54" class="fnanchor">[54]</a> 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 <i>rendez-vous</i>. 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span></p> - -<p>“I am, I am,” said the panting Desmond.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, you have, and would it were locked in his now, -instead of yours.”</p> - -<p>“And why can you not caress me like a brother?”</p> - -<p>“Because a woman cannot be my brother,” said Desmond, distractedly.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> -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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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 <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> -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 <i>Maelcho</i> (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, <i>en passant</i>, like any -of the countless victims of those troubled times.—</p> - -<p>Of the principal personages in <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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,<a id="FNanchor_55" href="#Footnote_55" class="fnanchor">[55]</a> 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 <i>grandezza</i> and the accustomedness to obedience -and admiration with which she is invested, usually -distinguish females of a maturer age, like Lady Ashton in -<i>The Bride of Lammermoor</i> and Lady Montrevor in <i>The Wild -Irish Boy</i>. But though Armida entirely lacks that girlish -docility and inexperience which seems to require manly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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.”—</p> -</div> - -<p>In the case of certain other personages Maturin’s sovereign -contempt for a secondary character comes to light.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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?</p> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p> - -<p><i>The Milesian Chief</i> could not be better characterized -than Talfourd<a id="FNanchor_56" href="#Footnote_56" class="fnanchor">[56]</a> 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 <i>The Milesian Chief</i>, -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 <i>The -Milesian Chief</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_57" href="#Footnote_57" class="fnanchor">[57]</a> -that in the description of scenery the influence of Mrs. Radcliffe -is discernible. In <i>Montorio</i> 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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It has been hinted before that <i>The Milesian Chief</i> seems -indebted to Miss Owenson’s <i>Wild Irish Girl</i>. 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 <i>The Wild -Irish Boy</i>; 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 <i>Montorio</i>—is -slightly recalled only by the trio of Lord and -Lady Montclare and Morosini. From Maturin’s first romance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>A great many passages in <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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 <i>The Milesian -Chief</i>. 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 <i>The Wild Irish Girl</i>, the present writer is unable -to say; Maturin’s novel is, on the contrary, alleged to have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> -been a subject for imitation for no less a man than Walter -Scott himself. The resemblance of <i>The Bride of Lammermoor</i> -(1819) to <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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 <i>The Bride of Lammermoor</i>, 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 <i>The Milesian Chief</i>, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> -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 <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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 <i>The Bride of Lammermoor</i> -seems quite tame and colourless after the fiery love-scenes -described by Maturin.</p> - -<p>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 <i>The O’Donoghue</i>. 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> -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 <i>The O’Donoghue</i>, -where Lever tells<a id="FNanchor_58" href="#Footnote_58" class="fnanchor">[58]</a> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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?</p> -</div> - -<p>Now in the preface to <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> -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<a id="FNanchor_59" href="#Footnote_59" class="fnanchor">[59]</a> would hardly have called -<i>The Milesian Chief</i> the most intensely Irish story he knew of.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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 <i>New Monthly -Magazine</i> 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.<a id="FNanchor_60" href="#Footnote_60" class="fnanchor">[60]</a> 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 <i>Adelaide, or the Emigrants</i>, written for the highly -talented Miss O’Neill, who, after many hardships in obscure -provincial theatres, had been engaged at the Old Crow-Street<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> -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 -<i>Bertram</i>, 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<a id="FNanchor_61" href="#Footnote_61" class="fnanchor">[61]</a> in a letter -to Daniel Terry, dated Nov. 10:th 1814, observing that -<i>Bertram</i> 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.’</p> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_62" href="#Footnote_62" class="fnanchor">[62]</a> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> -Maturin. A correspondence ensued, in consequence of which, -Byron says,<a id="FNanchor_63" href="#Footnote_63" class="fnanchor">[63]</a> ‘Maturin sent his <i>Bertram</i> and a letter <i>without</i> -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.’</p> - -<p>The answer must indeed have been a favourable one, -for, to judge from a letter from John Murray<a id="FNanchor_64" href="#Footnote_64" class="fnanchor">[64]</a> to Scott, -dated Dec. 25:th 1815, <i>Bertram</i> created quite a sensation in -the committee:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>In a letter to Moore, written from Venice in 1817, Byron -again expresses<a id="FNanchor_65" href="#Footnote_65" class="fnanchor">[65]</a> 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 <i>Bertram</i> 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 <i>Zeitgeist</i> of romanticism, -which was sure to find response with the best of the age as -well as with the general public.</p> - -<p>Before the play could be finally accepted, the approval -of Kean had to be obtained. Kean had spent the greater<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> -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 <i>Bertram</i> was submitted to his judgment. -Kean did not share the enthusiasm of the committee; according -to his biographer<a id="FNanchor_66" href="#Footnote_66" class="fnanchor">[66]</a> 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 <i>Bertram</i>, -by all accounts, really did much to increase his reputation -as the leading tragedian of the time.—</p> - -<p>Between the production and first performance of <i>Bertram</i> -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 <i>Irish -Quarterly Review</i> 1852:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> -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 <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> -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<a id="FNanchor_67" href="#Footnote_67" class="fnanchor">[67]</a> and declined all profit from the publication -of it. The poem was printed in January 1816, when -<i>Bertram</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.—</p> - -<p>His friends are numerous and wealthy, and the work would -have a most rapid sale. I am sure you will not decline encouraging<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> -this young Muse, when I make her introduction through you a matter -of personal and particular obligation to—Yours most truly C. Rob. -Maturin.</p> -</div> - -<p>There is, indeed, no positive proof of Maturin’s being -the author of <i>Lines on the Battle of Waterloo</i>, except the -categorical statement in the <i>New Monthly Magazine</i>, 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> 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 <i>Waterloo</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> -to the monarch. After the laborious production of three -lines, however, he destroyed the paper ‘in a transport of -rage.’ From <i>Montorio</i>, 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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">’Tis night, her dim and dusky veil</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Falls o’er creation’s aspect pale,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In deep repose lie town and tower,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Embattled steep, and foliaged bower—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The stilly forms of things unseen</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Waver in twilight’s dubious screen,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And mount, and vale, and earth, and sky</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In grey confusion mock the eye,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like features of some absent face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That anguished Memory pains in vain to trace.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>What Maturin was capable of achieving in blank verse, -remains next to be seen.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="p125 center"><b>1816-1817.</b></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">’Tis true, said I, not void of hopes I came,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For who so fond as youthful bards of fame?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But few, alas! the casual blessing boast,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So hard to gain, so easy to be lost.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="ml25"> -Pope. -</p> - - -<p>On the 9:th of May 1816 Maturin’s <i>Bertram, or the Castle -of St. Aldobrand</i> had its first performance at Drury Lane -and ran, under general acclamation, for twenty two nights -in succession.</p> - -<p>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.<a id="FNanchor_68" href="#Footnote_68" class="fnanchor">[68]</a> Yet the English drama<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> -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 <i>milieu</i>, but under the freshening influence -of classical comedy, there arose the dramatic masterpieces -of the age, the comedies of Sheridan and Goldsmith.</p> - -<p>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,<a id="FNanchor_69" href="#Footnote_69" class="fnanchor">[69]</a> with reference to the sorry state of the English -drama, which he calls a phenomenon unparalleled in -the history of literature:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> -‘no man reads her unless he must.’<a id="FNanchor_70" href="#Footnote_70" class="fnanchor">[70]</a> Until the appearance -of <i>The Cenci</i> (1819), the early 19:th century romanticism -produced not a single drama worthy of the glorious traditions.</p> - -<p>Considering this desert-like state of the then English -drama, the <i>éclat</i> roused by <i>Bertram</i> 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:<a id="FNanchor_71" href="#Footnote_71" class="fnanchor">[71]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>— — — 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.”</p> -</div> - -<p>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</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The darling of his liege and of his land,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The army’s idol, and the counsil’s head—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Whose smile was fortune, and whose will was law—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>These are the contents of the first two acts. In the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> -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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>As a drama, <i>Bertram</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">’Twas but e’en now, I would have knelt to him</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With the prostration of a conscious villain;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I would have crouched beneath his spurning feet;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I would have felt their trampling tread, and blessed it—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For I had injured him—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>but then he forgets that Aldobrand knows nothing of his -relation to Imogine, or his repentance, or even of the fact<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> -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;<a id="FNanchor_72" href="#Footnote_72" class="fnanchor">[72]</a> 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.<a id="FNanchor_73" href="#Footnote_73" class="fnanchor">[73]</a> 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,<a id="FNanchor_74" href="#Footnote_74" class="fnanchor">[74]</a> 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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> -When Bertram has stabbed himself the prior rushes to -him:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent"><i>Ber.</i> (<i>struggling with the agonies of death</i>)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I know thee holy Prior—I know ye, brethren.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Lift up your holy hands in charity.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(<i>With a burst of wild exultation</i>)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I died no felon death—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A warrior’s weapon freed a warrior’s soul—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>It will be remembered that in <i>Montorio</i> 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.—</p> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_75" href="#Footnote_75" class="fnanchor">[75]</a> are in <i>Bertram</i>, 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 <i>Bertram</i> of critics -like Byron and Scott:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent"><i>Imo.</i> Strange is thy form, but more thy words are strange—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fearful it seems to hold this parley with thee.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Tell me thy race and country—</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent"><i>Ber.</i> What avails it?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The wretched have no country: that dear name</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Comprizes home, kind kindred, fostering friends,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Protecting laws, all that binds man to man—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But none of these are mine;—I have no country—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And for my race, the last dread trump shall wake</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The sheeted relics of mine ancestry,</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Ere trump of herald to the armed lists</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In the bright blazon of their stainless coat,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Calls their lost child again.—</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent"><i>Imo.</i> I shake to hear him—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There is an awful thrilling in his voice,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The soul of other days comes rushing in them.—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">If nor my bounty nor my tears can aid thee,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Stranger, farewell; and ’mid thy misery</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pray, when thou tell’st thy beads, for one more wretched.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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:’</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">—How tower’d his proud form through the shrouding gloom,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">How spoke the eloquent silence of its motion,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">How through the barred vizor did his accents</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Roll their rich thunder on the pausing soul!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And though his mailed hand did shun my grasp</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And though his closed morion hid his feature,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yea all resemblance to the face of man,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I felt the hollow whisper of his welcome,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I felt those unseen eyes were fix’d on mine,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">If eyes indeed were there—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Forgotten thoughts of evil, still-born mischiefs,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Foul fertile seeds of passion and of crime,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That wither’d in my heart’s abortive core,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rous’d their dark battle at his tempest-peal:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So sweeps the tempest o’er the slumbering desert,</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Waking its myriad hosts of burning death:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So calls the last dread peal the wandering atoms</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of blood and bone and flesh and dust-worn fragments,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In dire array of ghastly unity,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To bid the eternal summons—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I am not what I was since I beheld him—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I was the slave of passion’s ebbing sway—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All is condensed, collected, callous now—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The groan, the burst, the fiery flash is o’er,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Down pours the dense and darkening lava-tide,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Arresting life and stilling all beneath it.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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,<a id="FNanchor_76" href="#Footnote_76" class="fnanchor">[76]</a> 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<a id="FNanchor_77" href="#Footnote_77" class="fnanchor">[77]</a> 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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">High glory lost he recked not what was saved—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With desperate men in desperate ways he dealt—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A change came o’er his nature and his heart</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Till she that bore him had recoiled from him,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor know the alien visage of her child.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span> -of the author. The impression that the hero makes upon -the mind of the prior finds voice in eloquent outbursts:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">High-hearted man, sublime even in thy guilt,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Whose passions are thy crimes, whose angel-sin</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is pride that rivals the star-bright apostate’s.—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wild admiration thrills me to behold</div> - <div class="verse indent0">An evil strength, so above earthly pitch—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Descending angels only could reclaim thee—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>This is uttered before Bertram has murdered Aldobrand; -but that being done, the exaltation of the venerable prelate -remains the same:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">This majesty of guilt doth awe my spirit—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is it th’embodied fiend who tempted him</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sublime in guilt?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — —</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Oh thou, who o’er thy stormy grandeur flingest</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A struggling beam that dazzles, awes, and vanishes—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thou, who dost blend our wonder with our curses—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why didst thou this?</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_78" href="#Footnote_78" class="fnanchor">[78]</a> 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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> -and it was the occurrence of this offence which is said<a id="FNanchor_79" href="#Footnote_79" class="fnanchor">[79]</a> -finally to have caused <i>Bertram</i> 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 <i>her</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Last night, oh! last night told a dreadful secret—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The moon went down, its sinking ray shut out,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The parting form of one beloved too well.—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The fountain of my heart dried up within me,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With nought that loved me, and with nought to love</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I stood upon the desert earth alone—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I stood and wondered at my desolation—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For I had spurned at every tie for him,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And hardly could I beg from injured hearts</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The kindness that my desperate passion scorned—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And in that deep and utter agony,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Though then, than ever most unfit to die,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I fell upon my knees, and prayed for death.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The character of Aldobrand, little as he appears, is drawn -with peculiar skill. He is an excellent man and has brought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> -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 <i>sublime</i> element -in Bertram by making his enemy a man of worth; but -where, then, would be the <i>guilt</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_80" href="#Footnote_80" class="fnanchor">[80]</a> 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 <i>Melmoth</i>, soon to return<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> -to the terrific style again with a force seldom equalled in -literature.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The motive of adverse circumstances driving a high-souled -man to become a captain of robbers is most famous -from <i>Die Räuber</i> (1781) of Schiller. In that drama Gustave -Planche<a id="FNanchor_81" href="#Footnote_81" class="fnanchor">[81]</a> finds the ‘idée mère’ of <i>Bertram</i>, 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 <i>Bertram</i> -sur les <i>Brigands</i>.’ It is, however, difficult to see where, in -<i>Bertram</i>, the ideas of <i>The Robbers</i> 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 <i>Caleb Williams</i>—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 <i>Bertram</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent18">—ye are slaves that for a ducat</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Would rend the screaming infant from the breast</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To plunge it in the flames.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The play thus aims at nothing but the poetical exhibition -of a man blending sublimity in guilt. The catchword of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> -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 <i>Bertram</i>, not a formally -different application, but a total absence, of the ideas of -<i>The Robbers</i>, and any influence from Schiller seems uncertain.—In -some detached passages of <i>Bertram</i> critics tried to -detect loans from several obscure plays, from Shakespeare, -and even from Scott; but excepting the fact that <i>The Tempest</i> -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 <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> 1852, is to be -found in a play called <i>Percy</i> (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.<a id="FNanchor_82" href="#Footnote_82" class="fnanchor">[82]</a> 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 <i>Bertram</i>. -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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And have I ’scap’d the Saracen’s fell sword,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Only to perish by Elwina’s guilt?</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>are distinctly echoed in Bertram’s:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And did I ’scape from war, and want, and famine</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To perish by the falsehood of a woman?</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span></p> -<p>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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It is generally asserted by biographers<a id="FNanchor_83" href="#Footnote_83" class="fnanchor">[83]</a> that contemporary -critics—with the single exception of Coleridge—were -‘enraptured’ about <i>Bertram</i>; 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 <i>Eclectic Review</i> are characteristic of -the way in which the play was treated of:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>very</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>Nor were the opinions even of those very strong powers -always undivided. While the <i>British Review</i> 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 -<i>Monthly Review</i> 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 <i>keeping</i>, of harmonious <i>colouring</i>, and, we fear, of just -<i>design</i>, is visible throughout.’ The severest attack upon -Maturin’s play, however, was delivered by Coleridge<a id="FNanchor_84" href="#Footnote_84" class="fnanchor">[84]</a> in -an article uniting much cutting sarcasm with savage and -indiscriminating abuse. It was supposed that Coleridge was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> -irritated by the rejection of his <i>Fall of Robespierre</i> in favour -of <i>Bertram</i>; in that light the article was, at least, regarded -by Byron,<a id="FNanchor_85" href="#Footnote_85" class="fnanchor">[85]</a> who refers to it in a letter to Murray, dated -October 12:th 1819:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>not</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>It is not quite clear in what manner Coleridge had been -obliged, his play never appearing on the stage. If his criticism -of <i>Bertram</i> was dictated by disappointment, that must -have been galling indeed, for the tone prevailing in it is -exceedingly acrimonious.<a id="FNanchor_86" href="#Footnote_86" class="fnanchor">[86]</a> 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, <i>alone</i>, 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 -<i>felo de se</i>, and thief-captain, this loathsome and leprous -confluence of robbery, adultery, murder, and cowardly -assassination, this monster — — —.’</p> - -<p>However, some nonsense though these reviewers utter, -their opinion of Maturin’s first play comes nearer to its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> -final valuation than that of many later writers who boldly -prophesied the author’s lasting immortality on account -of <i>Bertram</i>. 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 <i>Bertram</i> contains scenes -worthy of <i>Hamlet</i> and <i>Macbeth</i>. 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 <i>Bertram</i> 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.’<a id="FNanchor_87" href="#Footnote_87" class="fnanchor">[87]</a></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>One result of the success attending <i>Bertram</i> 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;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> -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 <i>New Monthly -Magazine</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I should be particularly obliged by your letting me know at -your leisure, and as a <i>friend</i> (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>I made any impression -at all</i>. My reason for urging this strange question is, <i>the marked -coldness of my reception at every house but yours and Lord Essex’s</i>, -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>In spite of a soothing answer from Murray, the idea -that he had not appeared to advantage continued to haunt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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>I am determined not to answer -her letters</i>. 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.”—</p> -</div> - -<p><i>Bertram</i> 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.<a id="FNanchor_88" href="#Footnote_88" class="fnanchor">[88]</a> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><i>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</i>, so here I am with scarce a pound in my pocket, simpering -at congratulations on having made my fortune.</p> -</div> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> -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:<a id="FNanchor_89" href="#Footnote_89" class="fnanchor">[89]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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:<a id="FNanchor_90" href="#Footnote_90" class="fnanchor">[90]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>coterie</i>. 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>A very characteristic explanation of this gaiety is given -by Mangan,<a id="FNanchor_91" href="#Footnote_91" class="fnanchor">[91]</a> who ascribes it all to misery arising from -unappreciated intellectual superiority. Maturin, he says,</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>—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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> -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 <i>tedium vitae</i>. -In his sermon preached on the first Sunday of the year 1817 -Maturin exclaims:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Yes, disappointment has been, <i>must</i> 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.”</p> -</div> - -<p>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;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> -his cash being at a low ebb, he would be seen walking about -in a costume almost ostentatiously shabby. ‘Mr. Maturin’ -says a writer,<a id="FNanchor_92" href="#Footnote_92" class="fnanchor">[92]</a> ‘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 <i>New Monthly Magazine or Universal Register</i> -1819 and which is reproduced in the 1892 edition of -<i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>, 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:<a id="FNanchor_93" href="#Footnote_93" class="fnanchor">[93]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> -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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_94" href="#Footnote_94" class="fnanchor">[94]</a> 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<a id="FNanchor_95" href="#Footnote_95" class="fnanchor">[95]</a> 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<a id="FNanchor_96" href="#Footnote_96" class="fnanchor">[96]</a> reports the following -utterance of Maturin:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> -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 <i>Bertram</i>, been supposed deliberately -to imitate the bard of <i>The Corsair</i> and <i>Lara</i>. What Maturin, -however, objected to in Byron’s poems was not the spirit -but the style:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Among the literary plans Maturin revolved in his mind -after the success of his first play was the publication of a -new edition of <i>Montorio</i>, for which romance he still entertained -a partiality. Murray, however, did not venture a republication -of it, nor was he favourably disposed towards<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> -a project of Maturin’s to give out a new copy of <i>Bertram</i> -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 <i>Readers</i> -(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 <i>Bertram</i>; but at the same -time it is seen how lonely he felt in what now was to him -a provincial seclusion:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 -<i>you</i> could write nothing), but <i>write</i>.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> -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 <i>Bertram</i>, -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 -<i>Manuel</i> 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 <i>Lear</i>, 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:<a id="FNanchor_97" href="#Footnote_97" class="fnanchor">[97]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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;<a id="FNanchor_98" href="#Footnote_98" class="fnanchor">[98]</a> ‘as a play, it is impracticable; as a poem, -no great things.’ One admirer, however, Maturin’s second<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> -tragedy was destined to meet: in a subsequent letter Byron -tells<a id="FNanchor_99" href="#Footnote_99" class="fnanchor">[99]</a> that ‘Monk’ Lewis, to whom he had lent it, preferred -it to some extracts from <i>Lalla Rookh</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>exclusive</i> taste -of an actor in sketching a character for him. I sacrificed everything -to him, and he in return—sacrificed me.</p> -</div> - -<p><i>Manuel</i>, 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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> -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,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">—by that whisper of the soul,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">which to no ear but mine is audible.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Ye insects in my heat that basked and buzzed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And sung your summer-songs of flattery,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But, parting, leave your stings;</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span></p> -<p>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 <i>Manuel</i>, after enumerating all the deaths occurring -in the play, ends with the following reference to her:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Here doth the mourner, sad <i>Ximena</i>, lie</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In death;—but hold!—one question—Did <i>she</i> die?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What tho’ <i>she</i> fell, and rail’d on life’s restraint,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Women talk thus who only mean to faint.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Well, then, for <i>her</i> we’ll e’en delay our sorrow,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Till critics ascertain <i>her</i> fate to-morrow;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And, if you please, to fix the matter quite,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I’ll meet you here again to-morrow night.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The most depressing quality of <i>Manuel</i>, as a production -of Maturin’s, is that its poetry certainly is ‘no great things.’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> -There is nothing of the breath of romance which runs through -several passages of <i>Bertram</i>. 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,<a id="FNanchor_100" href="#Footnote_100" class="fnanchor">[100]</a> -but to a modern reader it is hardly enjoyable, as appears -from the following fragment:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Night hung on van and rear: we moved in darkness,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And heavily did count our echoed steps:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">As men who marched to death!—Osma, thy field</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(When the pale moon broke on the battle’s verge)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Seemed as an ocean, where the Moorish turbans</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Toss’d like the white sea-foam! Amid that ocean</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We were to plunge and—perish!—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For ev’ry lance we couch’d the Moslem host</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Drew twenty scimitars—and, when the cry</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“God and St. Jago!” burst from our pale lips,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Seemed as if every Spanish soldier peal’d</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His requiem, not his battle-shout!—Oh Sirs!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We stood not then on terms of war,—devices</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To give the coward the cold praise of art:—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We fought with life and soul upon the issue,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With sword (once drawn) whose battle knew no end,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With hand, that wedded to the faithful hilt,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Knew no divorce but death, and held it <i>then</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">With grasp which death unlocks not!—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Critics took but little notice of <i>Manuel</i>. In the Monthly -Review<a id="FNanchor_101" href="#Footnote_101" class="fnanchor">[101]</a> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>proved</i> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span></p> - -<p>The absent-mindedness of De Zelos is referred to in the -scene where Ximena tells her brother that she has seen -the Moor:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">An oath had seal’d his lips—he dar’d not speak it,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But to my hands he gave the very dagger</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The villain, in unguarded haste, had giv’n him</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To do the deed of blood—<i>His name is on it!</i></div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>A man of De Zelos’s vacillating character <i>might</i>, 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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Shortly after the performance of <i>Manuel</i>, Maturin’s -critique on Sheil’s <i>Apostate</i>, referred to before, appeared in -the <i>Quarterly Review</i>. 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<a id="FNanchor_102" href="#Footnote_102" class="fnanchor">[102]</a> to have subjected it to a partial -re-arrangement, thinking it worth preserving on account -of a certain ‘wild eloquence.’ The criticism of the <i>Apostate</i>, -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,<a id="FNanchor_103" href="#Footnote_103" class="fnanchor">[103]</a> but it belonged to the -usual, ephemeral kind of the day.</p> - -<p>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 <i>Bertram</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> -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.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="center p125"><b>1818-1820.</b></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So schwing empor dich, Geist, und verweile jetzt</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Beim Tode, jetzt durchdringe die Wolke, die</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Den Sonnenstrahl der Auferstehung</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fallen nicht lässt in die offnen Gräber!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="ml30"> -Lenau.<br /> -</p> - - -<p>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 <i>Bertram</i>: 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, <i>Women; -or, Pour et Contre</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> -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 <i>Bertram</i>—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<a id="FNanchor_104" href="#Footnote_104" class="fnanchor">[104]</a> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="right mr10"> -26:th February 1818. -</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>I never let the thing cling to my mind, and always adhered to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> -my resolution, that if my writings and tenor of life did not confute -such attacks, my words never should.</p> - -<p>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, <i>en bon Chretien</i>, -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Besides, your diatribe is not <i>hujus loci</i>. 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 <i>where the muircock was the bailie</i>—or, as <i>you</i> -would say, <i>upon the sod</i>—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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>When I look over those books now, I am not at all surprised at -their failure; for, independent of their want of <i>external</i> interest, -(the strongest interest that books can have, even in this reading -age) they seem to me to want <i>reality</i>, 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>The external incidents in <i>Women</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>last time</i> I ever shall trespass in <i>this way</i> on the indulgence of the -public. One more attempt I shall make, and then address my “<i>valete</i>” -to the audience, with little hope of being able to add, “<i>plaudite</i>.”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">’Tis good to be merry and wise,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">’Tis good to be honest and true;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">’Tis good to be off with the old love</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Before you be on with the new.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> -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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The reproduction of the bare outlines of the story of -<i>Women</i> is an easy matter compared to that of Maturin’s -earlier novels; what Scott wrote in the <i>Edinburgh Review</i> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>Women</i> 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 <i>Melmoth</i> he returned, with undiminished -powers, to the field of pure imagination, against -which the preface to <i>Women</i> 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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> -sect, a Tartuffian figure called Macowen, who appears to -have also a private reason for visiting the family:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>The subscription went on zealously, and young Macowen entered -College; but when once there, <i>his views</i>, 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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Don’t put Arminian first</i>,” said Mr. Wentworth.</p> - -<p>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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> -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 <i>will</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>There is, in the purity and innocence of Eva, something -sublime that often makes Charles himself feel it almost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> -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 <i>The Wild Irish -Boy</i> and Armida Fitzalban in <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>theirs</i>. -To see two beings, equally amiable, <i>equally beloved</i>, 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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>And so it was; for Eva, trembling at the recollection that her -arms had been thrown round him, sat abashed and confounded.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Eva, speak, do you love me?”</p> - -<p>“Have I not said so?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_105" href="#Footnote_105" class="fnanchor">[105]</a> -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.—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p> - -<p>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:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> -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 <i>Women</i>, 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 <i>Women</i> that he displays a -hostility to classical studies; in one of his sermons he speaks -of them with a marked and candid antipathy:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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?</p> -</div> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> -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 <i>Women</i> 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.—</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> -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 <i>sotto voce</i> 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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>liaison</i> 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 <i>Women</i> that De Courcy’s -desertion of Zaira is not ‘half so probably motived as his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> -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 <i>Waverley</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> -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 <i>longueurs</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>— — — 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> -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.”</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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.—</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span></p> - -<p>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 <i>The Heart of Midlothian</i> which -appeared in the same year as <i>Women</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> -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.<a id="FNanchor_106" href="#Footnote_106" class="fnanchor">[106]</a> 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 <i>idée fixe</i> 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.—</p> - -<p>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 <i>horrible anatomy</i> of the <i>moral frame</i>, 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 <i>drawing the veil</i> 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; <i>Women</i> stood alone among contemporary writings. -The tendency pointed out by Watts is one which, according -to a modern writer,<a id="FNanchor_107" href="#Footnote_107" class="fnanchor">[107]</a> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> -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 -<i>Women</i>, 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.—</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>—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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> -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 <i>shoot -an arrow</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>Women</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>When great talents are combined with calamity, their union -forms the <i>tenth wave</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><i>Women</i> 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, <i>The Wild -Irish Boy</i>, 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 <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i> are of little interest in themselves, -but they clearly show the enormous advance of Maturin’s -powers after the success of <i>Bertram</i>. 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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> -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 -<i>Women</i>; it might with as much reason be asserted that -the accomplishments and outward appearance of Armida in -<i>The Milesian Chief</i> were borrowed from <i>Corinne</i> (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 <i>Women</i>—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. -<i>Corinne</i> is not a novel in the same sense as <i>Women</i>; -its weight lies neither in incident nor psychology, but in its -broad-minded <i>raisonnement</i> about life and literature in the -European countries of the time. The characters are subjected -to a quite conventional treatment, and it is curious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>The originality of yet another personage in <i>Women</i> -was disputed, in so far as some critics maintained Zaira’s -mother to be a copy of Meg Merrilies in <i>Guy Mannering</i> -(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 <i>Waverley</i> 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:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 -<i>tattooed</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>Women</i> form no exception to the rule. Otherwise <i>Women</i> -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<a id="FNanchor_108" href="#Footnote_108" class="fnanchor">[108]</a> is not entirely -wrong in calling <i>Women</i> ‘an Irish story, wild, wonderful,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> -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 <i>Women</i>, to refer to and quote the suppressed -passages of <i>Bertram</i>.—</p> - -<p>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 <i>Women</i> -directly gave rise to were to a very different purpose. Anything -more unintelligent than an article in the <i>Monthly -Review</i><a id="FNanchor_109" href="#Footnote_109" class="fnanchor">[109]</a> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>one</i> specimen of pure and social Christianity. In -both these points, Mr. Maturin has entirely failed.</p> -</div> - -<p>Of what the writer so strongly feels the loss of, Maturin -has, in fact, given not one but three instances: what is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> -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 <i>life</i> 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 <i>Quarterly -Review</i>.<a id="FNanchor_110" href="#Footnote_110" class="fnanchor">[110]</a> 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 <i>Women</i>—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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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—<i>we</i> know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>That Maturin’s <i>Women</i> has never been reprinted cannot -but be regarded as one of the curiosities in the history of -the English novel.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In the February number of the <i>British Review</i> 1818 -appeared an article, by Maturin, on Miss Edgeworth’s tales -of <i>Harrington</i> and <i>Ormond</i>. It was originally intended for -the <i>Quarterly Review</i>; 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 -<i>Quarterly</i>, the critique of Sheil’s <i>Apostate</i>, 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 <i>Quarterly</i>, -little as his own production harmonized with the -views advocated by the literary staff of that periodical—though -the exceedingly inimical criticism which both <i>Women</i> -and <i>Melmoth</i> 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 <i>British Review</i>, which was induced to accept it.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Maturin’s criticism of the two particular, tales now under -discussion is very severe, of <i>Ormond</i> 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. —</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Romantic, in the highest degree, is Maturin’s next work, -his tragedy of <i>Fredolfo</i>, which was written in the course<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> -of the year 1818. The economic success of <i>Women</i> 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;’ <i>Fredolfo</i>, 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 <i>Fredolfo</i>, 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 -<i>New Monthly Magazine or Universal Register</i>, where he -published his admiring article on Maturin. This article, -according to some autobiographical notes of Watts,<a id="FNanchor_111" href="#Footnote_111" class="fnanchor">[111]</a> brought -him the acquaintance of the novelist:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 -<i>New Monthly Magazine</i>, 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.”</p> -</div> - -<p>The tragedy turned out a failure as complete as it was -undeserved: <i>Fredolfo</i> is not only the best of Maturin’s dramatic -compositions, but a work of considerable poetic value.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The scene in <i>Fredolfo</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He was his country’s idol—Switzerland,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through all her rescued cantons, blessed her champion;</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> - <div class="verse indent0">For, when he sat in council, from his head</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sprang Liberty, a living goddess arm’d!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor lack’d his hand the thunder to defend her.—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> -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 <i>Caleb Williams</i>, another -phase of which Maturin had utilized in <i>Montorio</i>. 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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Fred.</i> — — —</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What scowl’st thou on, with thy portentous smile,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Passing like lightning, o’er thy stormy visage?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It is some evil, or thou could’st not smile!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Bert.</i> (<i>with bitter irony.</i>)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I mark with awe the patriot’s private moments;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">These are thy triumphs, Virtue, view, and boast them!</div> - <div class="verse indent30">(<i>suddenly changing.</i>)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Oh! what a fool is the brute multitude,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To shout “a God!” before this hollow image!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ha! ha! ha! things are well balanced here;—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The evening’s groan repays the morning’s boast.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Vice were too humble, but for scenes like these,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And hopeless Villainy, lacking such solace,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Would turn an anchorite for very sadness!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent"><i>Fred.</i> Thou tool of wrath, which, while I grasp, I shudder,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Though one wild moment’s sudden agony</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Made me a fiend, I am a man again.—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I would not harm that youth for many worlds;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Go, and release the prisoner.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Bert.</i> (<i>Drawing his dagger, and pointing to it with a significant gesture.</i>)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thus, perchance?—</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Fred.</i> (<i>giving him a key.</i>)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No, villain, thus—bid him be free, and live!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Bid, him, if possible, forget—if not,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Let him revenge—I’m weary of the struggle!—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>The last three acts are not, considered as drama, quite -abreast of the introduction. The development of the action<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>pose</i>, for he can afford to do without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> -one. His dialogue with Urilda, in the first act, contains -the best things Maturin ever wrote in verse.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Uril.</i> — — — —</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He comes! oh, God! it cannot, cannot be!—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And does he dare amid these walls to seek me?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For me he trembled—for himself he fears not.</div> - <div class="verse indent10">(<i>Rushing up to him.</i>)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Away! away! thou must not enter here!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There is a voice from out these walls forbids thee!—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My father hates thee, tracks thy hunted steps—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(<i>Relaxing from fear into tenderness, and falling into his arms.</i>)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Adelmar, art thou here?—and was it thou?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Adel.</i> Yes; Adelmar, the unowned, the wanderer.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The stranger—almost to himself unknown;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He, o’er whom midnight murder darkly watches,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He, who on unseen daggers plants his steps,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And tramples them to clasp thee:—Yes, I follow’d thee</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O’er the dark mountains—through the night I follow’d;—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The spirits of the tempest raised their arms</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To snatch thee, and I grappled with their might,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wrestled with them in darkness, and o’ercame them.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Bright star, emerging sole on my fate’s blackness,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shed thy last light on me! (<i>kneeling</i>) ’twill be the last!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — — —</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — — —</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Adel.</i> (<i>solemnly.</i>) I am the child of woe,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of persecution, and of mystery;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fredolfo’s name—the name his country worships—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rung in my infant dreams.—I was a boy,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wild and imaginative, full of thoughts</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That mountain-spirits to their children whisper,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I might have been a hero!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Uril.</i> Might have been! Thou art!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Adel.</i> I should have been, but for thy father!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A peasant child, amid the mountain steeps,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">St. Gothard’s heights I wander’d—the storm’s shrieks</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I heard, and echoed in wild fearless mirth,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like children, who in awful ignorance sport;—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There came another shriek,—a shriek of murder!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent30">(<i>Urilda shudders.</i>)</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Uril.</i> (<i>starting and agitated.</i>) Murder! but, then, my father was not there,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or was there—but to save?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Adel.</i> I will not speak—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dark thoughts come thronging with that night’s remembrance.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Twice, twice, with horrible strength the voice shrieked murder!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I flew in madness there.—Amid the night</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Darkly I grappled with two shadowy forms,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Beneath whose gripe a struggling warrior heaved,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then lay a corse.—I had no arms.—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — — — —</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — — — —</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Adel.</i> Time pass’d as in dream, and oft I thought</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That the dead warrior in his mountain grave</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Slept unremember’d—then, by ruffian hands</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dragg’d from my hut, all tremblingly I follow’d—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Far in a sea-toss’d bark the ruffians bore me;—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A voice was in the wind, that swell’d the sails,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That charm’d them ne’er to let their freight return!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Uril.</i> A voice!—what voice?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Adel.</i> I know not;—but I cried,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who tears a freeman from his mountain-home?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who rends the child his country cannot spare</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From her spread arms? The answer was,—Fredolfo!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Uril.</i> (<i>shrieking with amazement.</i>) Impossible!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 outdent2"><i>Adel.</i> <i>I</i> cried, ‘impossible.’</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Years, mournful years, in a strange land were wasted,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wasted to me—the land was beautiful—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fair rose the spires, and gay the buildings were,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And rich the plains, like dreams of blessed isles;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But, when I heard my country’s music breathe,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I sigh’d to be among her wilds again!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I climb’d a bark’s tall side—an arm grasp’d mine—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Struggling, I turn’d, and ask’d who dared withhold me?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A dark-eyed ruffian answer’d,—’twas Fredolfo!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — — —</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">She comes with all that shrinking bashfulness,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The eloquence of motion, mute, but felt.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The air around her breathes of purity;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And, as she moves, her equal tread’s fine impulse</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Falls on the ear like harmony;—the light</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That gleams on her fair locks and slender form</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Crowns them with hallowed glory, like some vision</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To saintly eyes reveal’d!—She is a thing</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To knee and worship. Beauty hath no lustre,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Save when it gleameth through the crystal web</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That Purity’s fine fingers weave for it;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And then it shows like Venus from the wave,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The fresh drops clinging to her beauty still!—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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,<a id="FNanchor_112" href="#Footnote_112" class="fnanchor">[112]</a> 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:<a id="FNanchor_113" href="#Footnote_113" class="fnanchor">[113]</a> ‘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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Fredolfo, hear me!—Friend, or foe, I reck not—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Spite of the pride that burns upon my cheek.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Spite of the blood, whose cold recoiling drops</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Refuse to flow ere they would mix with thine;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Spite of our nations, natures, hearts averse,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of all that makes me shudder while I sue,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I claim thy daughter’s hand!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I could rend out the veins that throb for her;—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I could on mine own heart fix suicide’s fangs,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So they defaced that form it dares to cherish!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Oh! it renews the heart to gaze oh thee!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thou thing of power, that hast not life, but givest it:—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thou beautous even in death—making death beautous!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Those softly closed lids, in whose rich veil</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The unseen light dwells lovely,—the wan cheek,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Amid whose pallid bower death weds with beauty;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The faintly-falling arms, the woe-bent head—</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Oh! still be thus! Oh, yes, be ever thus!—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">While thus I see thee calm, I deem thee kind.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Those eyes will ope—to turn their light from me;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Those arms will wave, to chide me with their softness;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And, oh! that lip,—that rubied cup of bliss,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That flows with joy for all, pour hate on me!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_114" href="#Footnote_114" class="fnanchor">[114]</a> about the performance of <i>Fredolfo</i> 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 <i>kitchen Richard</i>. 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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I could, such is my heart’s o’erflowing spleen</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To all that loved, and lovely are—methinks,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I could, even with a look,—as thus—dart through him</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The basilisk’s eye-fang—dying on the throe,</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>lead (<i>mutatis mutandis</i>) back to the opening monologue -of Richard III:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I, that am rudely stamped, and want love’s majesty</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — — —</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> - <div class="verse indent0">And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To entertain these fair well-spoken days,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I am determined to prove a villain — — — —</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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 -<i>Rob Roy</i> which appeared in 1818, just at the time when -Maturin was composing <i>Fredolfo</i>. 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.’</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The principal rôles of <i>Fredolfo</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“My inestimable friend,” he begins, “I never deplored my want -of <i>l’eloquence de billet</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> -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.”</p> -</div> - -<p>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,<a id="FNanchor_115" href="#Footnote_115" class="fnanchor">[115]</a> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“My Lord! my Lord! the storm! He perishes!”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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, <i>Fredolfo</i><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> -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.’</p> - -<p>A positive result of this philosophy was that Maturin -returned to novel-writing and produced <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>, -his most famous romance. Before coming to that, -however, a few other things remain to be noted. About -the same time as <i>Fredolfo</i> was acted, there appeared<a id="FNanchor_116" href="#Footnote_116" class="fnanchor">[116]</a> some -unpublished scenes from <i>Manuel</i>. 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 <i>Sermons</i>. 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,<a id="FNanchor_117" href="#Footnote_117" class="fnanchor">[117]</a> ‘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<a id="FNanchor_118" href="#Footnote_118" class="fnanchor">[118]</a> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> -the pulpit, the impression, at the same time, could scarcely -be anything else than transient.’</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>That <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> is nowadays considered the -work by that which its author stands or falls,<a id="FNanchor_119" href="#Footnote_119" class="fnanchor">[119]</a> sufficiently -explains why Maturin is only mentioned in connection with -the school of terror. The ‘terrific’ elements in <i>Melmoth</i> -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:<a id="FNanchor_120" href="#Footnote_120" class="fnanchor">[120]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p><i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> appeared in autumn 1820 and -was, by permission, inscribed to the ‘most noble the Marchioness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> -of Abercorn.’ A preface<a id="FNanchor_121" href="#Footnote_121" class="fnanchor">[121]</a> explains the genesis -of the book:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>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 <i>he</i> is to decide.</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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?</p> -</div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> -and its superhuman character, can be traced to literary -sources more or less obvious. There is Milton’s Satan,<a id="FNanchor_122" href="#Footnote_122" class="fnanchor">[122]</a> -grand and awful in his fallen state; there is the legend -of the Wandering Jew,<a id="FNanchor_123" href="#Footnote_123" class="fnanchor">[123]</a> 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,<a id="FNanchor_124" href="#Footnote_124" class="fnanchor">[124]</a> 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 <i>The Vampyre</i> (1819).<a id="FNanchor_125" href="#Footnote_125" class="fnanchor">[125]</a> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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.”</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>St. Leon</i>. -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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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?</p> -</div> - -<p>This must be indicated as one of the fundamental ideas -in <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>, also.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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 <i>Montorio</i>. 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.<a id="FNanchor_126" href="#Footnote_126" class="fnanchor">[126]</a></p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> -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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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 <i>Melmoth</i>, representing, together with certain chapters in -<i>Women</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>—“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 <i>sowl</i> 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 <i>the rights</i> (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.”—</p> -</div> - -<p>With these scenes of strong and sordid realism is mingled -the supernatural fear felt for the traveller; but sparingly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>By the opening chapters of <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>, Maturin’s -first romance of <i>Montorio</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> -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 <i>con amore</i>, 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 <i>curse of sanity</i>, and -of memory. — — <i>I never desert my friends in misfortune.</i> -When they are plunged in the lowest abyss of human calamity, -they are sure to be visited by me.’</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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 <i>Bertram</i>. -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 <i>Melmoth</i> is evidently reflected<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> -in some fantastic productions of later time. The idea -of the Wanderer’s marvellous portrait has been supposed<a id="FNanchor_127" href="#Footnote_127" class="fnanchor">[127]</a> -to reappear in <i>The Picture of Dorian Gray</i> (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 <i>The Haunted and the Haunters</i> (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 <i>will</i>.’ 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.</p> - -<p>Owing, probably, to the great length and extraordinary -contents of <i>Melmoth</i>, 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,<a id="FNanchor_128" href="#Footnote_128" class="fnanchor">[128]</a> -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 <i>unnatural</i> terrors:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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, <i>Anglice</i>, exaggeration, seems a passion with him.</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span></p> - -<p>The ‘natural and simple’ was what people were beginning -to have an appetite for; <i>Melmoth</i>, like <i>Montorio</i>, came into -the world just a little too late to be exactly what the public -wanted.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In the <i>Tale of the Spaniard</i> 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>I promessi sposi</i> (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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> -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 <i>Melmoth</i>, 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 <i>Melmoth</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I said to them, “Are you, then, intended for the monastic life?” -“We hope so.” “Yet I have heard you, Oliva, <i>once</i> (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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> -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>I do not speak -to tempt</i>,” said I, and was turning indignantly away — — —</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>“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. <i>It never reached me</i>—I die without light, hope, faith, or -consolation.”</p> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> -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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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 <i>inseparable</i>. 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.”</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>métier</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.—</p> - -<p>The episode of the lovers who are immured alive was, -of all the stories contained in <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>, the one -which was most disapproved and which attracted the severest -censure. The <i>Edinburgh Review</i>,<a id="FNanchor_129" href="#Footnote_129" class="fnanchor">[129]</a> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> -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<a id="FNanchor_130" href="#Footnote_130" class="fnanchor">[130]</a> 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 “<i>beyond -the redemption of a Saviour</i>!” 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<a id="FNanchor_131" href="#Footnote_131" class="fnanchor">[131]</a> the death-scenes of the lovers -form the most beautiful pages in <i>Melmoth</i>; and a modern -writer<a id="FNanchor_132" href="#Footnote_132" class="fnanchor">[132]</a> 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 <i>The Cask of Amontillado</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> -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 <i>Tale of the Spaniard</i>.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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 <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> Maturin -says:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>Now, there are probably not many readers on whose -conviction this defence has operated, and who have not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> -felt that Maturin’s distinctions, as a contemporary critic<a id="FNanchor_133" href="#Footnote_133" class="fnanchor">[133]</a> -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 <i>Montorio</i>, 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;’<a id="FNanchor_134" href="#Footnote_134" class="fnanchor">[134]</a> 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 <i>Melmoth</i>. 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 <i>The Monk</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> -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 <i>Frankenstein</i> (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 <i>The Monk</i>, 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 <i>The Monk</i> are utilized in the Spaniard’s tale, -as they were in <i>Montorio</i>. The most conspicuous here, again, -is the introduction of ecclesiastical cruelty and monastical -oppression; the case of Ildefonsa in <i>Montorio</i> which, as we -have seen, was suggested by the story of Agnes de Medina -in <i>The Monk</i>, 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 <i>The Monk</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> -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 <i>The Monk</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>The Italian</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> -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 <i>intérieurs</i> from the Jewish -community, the corresponding passages in <i>Melmoth</i>, 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>Christian</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> -ago; and the atmosphere in which the new tale commence -is extremely suggestive:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>The Monk</i>, 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span> -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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>post festum</i>, in 1820—is castigating.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The manuscript read by Monçada in the vault of the Jew -commences with a narrative called the <i>Tale of the Indians</i>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> -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 <i>Melmoth</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> -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 <i>Women</i> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>intellectual</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> -is most perfect, and that the heir of immortality is formed not to -be above the beasts that perish.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>das ewig weibliche</i>. Her -first encounter with the Wanderer—which takes place in -the year of grace 1680—is most charmingly described:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>new flower that had grown in the sand</i>.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>On this <i>tabula rasa</i>, 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<a id="FNanchor_135" href="#Footnote_135" class="fnanchor">[135]</a> 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 <i>fused</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>Women</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>my -own</i>, 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.<a id="FNanchor_136" href="#Footnote_136" class="fnanchor">[136]</a></p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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.”</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> -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,<a id="FNanchor_137" href="#Footnote_137" class="fnanchor">[137]</a> -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 <i>Tale of the Indians</i> was written.<a id="FNanchor_138" href="#Footnote_138" class="fnanchor">[138]</a> Sentences from -the conversation of the old hermit in <i>Paul et Virginie</i>, like:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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,</p> -</div> - -<p>are distinctly recalled:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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? — — —</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> -with Melmoth takes place, and he begins nightly to visit -her under her casement.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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 <i>first</i>,—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.”</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>She now had concentrated all her hopes, and all her heart, no -longer in the ambition <i>to be</i> beloved, but in the sole wish <i>to</i> love. -She no longer alluded to the enlargement of her faculties, the acquisition<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>understand</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“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 <i>be mine</i>? 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.</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span></p> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_139" href="#Footnote_139" class="fnanchor">[139]</a> and which indeed is saturated with the keenest -suspense. The episode is typically ‘Gothic;’ it is like a -ballad of <i>Lenore</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>The end of the <i>Tale of the Indians</i> 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 <i>Women</i>. Only the characterization of Isidora is -carried out with the same unfailing power to the very last.</p> - -<p>The end of the <i>Tale of the Indians</i>, especially the unravelling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> -of the plot, contains, no doubt, some hints from -Goethe’s <i>Faust</i>.<a id="FNanchor_140" href="#Footnote_140" class="fnanchor">[140]</a> 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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Nun sag, wie hast du’s mit der Religion?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — — — —</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Du ehrst auch nicht die heil’gen Sacramente.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — — — —</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Zur Messe, zur Beichte bist du lange nicht gegangen.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The <i>Tale of the Indians</i> 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 <i>Tale of Guzman’s Family</i>, -to the following effect.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span> -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.<a id="FNanchor_141" href="#Footnote_141" class="fnanchor">[141]</a> 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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span> -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,</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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!</p> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>That Godwin’s <i>St. Leon</i> makes itself remembered also in -connection with the <i>Tale of Guzman’s Family</i>, is chiefly -due to its being, upon the whole, the book which <i>Melmoth</i> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> -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 <i>Tale of Guzman’s -Family</i> 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 <i>Tale of Guzman’s Family</i> -had no need of literary models. In the preface to <i>Melmoth -the Wanderer</i> Maturin states that ‘the original from which -the wife of Walberg is imperfectly sketched is a living woman, -and <i>long may she live</i>;’ 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 <i>London -Magazine</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> -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 <i>Melmoth</i>, upon -the dignitaries of the Catholic church. The confessor in -the <i>Tale of the Indians</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span></p> - -<p>All the personages actually appearing in the <i>Tale of -Guzman’s Family</i> 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 <i>Blackwood’s Magazine</i><a id="FNanchor_142" href="#Footnote_142" class="fnanchor">[142]</a> says that -this tale, before all others, shows ‘what Mr. Maturin is -capable of doing in his best moments of inspiration.’</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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 <i>The Lovers’ Tale</i>.<a id="FNanchor_143" href="#Footnote_143" class="fnanchor">[143]</a></p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span> -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 <i>after</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>The Lovers’ Tale</i>. 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 <i>Women</i>. 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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>Ichabod</i>,—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 <i>then</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_144" href="#Footnote_144" class="fnanchor">[144]</a> 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.—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span></p> - -<p>That <i>The Lovers’ Tale</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>No one has ever exchanged destinies with Melmoth the Wanderer. -<i>I have traversed the world in the search, and no one, to gain that world, -would lose his own soul!</i> 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—</p> -</div> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>Melmoth and Monçada exchanged looks of silent and unutterable -horror, and returned slowly home.—</p> -</div> - -<p>The conclusion of <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 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 <i>Faustus</i> of Marlowe.<a id="FNanchor_145" href="#Footnote_145" class="fnanchor">[145]</a> The preparations -of Faustus and Melmoth for the dreadful last -night are carried on in the same way:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><i>Faustus.</i> Aye, pray for me—pray for me—and whatever noise -soever you hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.</p> -</div> - -<p>Melmoth says:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> differs, much to -its advantage, from the end also of <i>The Monk</i>,<a id="FNanchor_146" href="#Footnote_146" class="fnanchor">[146]</a> 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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When the story of <i>Melmoth</i>, 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span> -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 <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> is extravagant beyond any degree -reached by <i>Montorio</i> or <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i>, and has been -subjected to severe criticism. Saintsbury<a id="FNanchor_147" href="#Footnote_147" class="fnanchor">[147]</a> 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 <i>Faust</i>. 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>Quarterly Review</i><a id="FNanchor_148" href="#Footnote_148" class="fnanchor">[148]</a> -sneers that Melmoth ‘during his peregrination of two centuries, -does less mischief than a clever mortal would have -done;’ and Edgar Allan Poe<a id="FNanchor_149" href="#Footnote_149" class="fnanchor">[149]</a> 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, <i>Melmoth Reconcilié</i> (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 <i>The Bottle Imp</i> -(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</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>departed from the Lord, disobeyed His will, and disregarded -His word.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> -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,<a id="FNanchor_150" href="#Footnote_150" class="fnanchor">[150]</a> can be applied a motto -from <i>Faust</i>: ‘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 <i>good</i> 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 <i>Montorio</i>, Ippolito is undeservedly overtaken by the -fate which Melmoth deliberately invokes upon himself; but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> -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 <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_151" href="#Footnote_151" class="fnanchor">[151]</a> in his well-known <i>Essay de l’essence du rire</i>:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>The members of this <i>pauvre humanité</i> still represent the -power of absolute Justice and Truth, the power so infinitely -stronger than Melmoth. Theirs is the ultimate triumph.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_152" href="#Footnote_152" class="fnanchor">[152]</a> to have amounted -to 500 pounds. A second edition appeared the following -year as well as a French translation, <i>Melmoth, ou l’Homme<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span> -errant</i>, by J. Cohen, and a ‘free’ German translation called -<i>Melmoth der Wanderer</i>.—All the works of Maturin, except -<i>Manuel</i> and <i>Fredolfo</i>, were translated into French soon -after their appearance in English, and with the rendering -of <i>Melmoth</i> his fame became definitely established in that -country, where, in fact, it has always been greater than in -England. A. A. Watts says<a id="FNanchor_153" href="#Footnote_153" class="fnanchor">[153]</a> 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 <i>Tale of Guzman’s Family</i> and the <i>Tale of the Indians</i>; -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 -<i>Melmoth</i> at a considerable length, although, for the most -part, with a negative result. In the <i>Quarterly Review</i> Croker -raged against the book even more furiously than he -had done against <i>Women</i>, pronouncing it to be the very -acme of all that is execrable:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Indeed, Mr. Maturin has contrived, by a ‘<i>curiosa infelicitas</i>,’ -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>After declaring, in italics, that the hero of the book is -<i>the Devil himself</i>, the reviewer solemnly accuses the author<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span> -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 <i>Melmoth</i> 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 <i>Melmoth</i>; the end of the article in the <i>Edinburgh Review</i> -is characteristic, its tone being as dignified as that of the -<i>Quarterly Review</i> is base:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>The <i>Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany</i> writes -essentially to the same purport:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>The only one who expresses himself with unrestrained -admiration is the critic in the <i>Blackwood’s Magazine</i>—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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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?</p> -</div> - -<p>This critic, however, could hardly be taken seriously -by the author, inasmuch as he places <i>Montorio</i> before the -present work:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span> -<i>Montorio</i>; for that, we rather think, was his first—and, we are -quite sure, is the best of all his performances.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="center p125"><b>1821-1824.</b></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’,</div> - <div class="verse indent23">An’ social noise;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">An’ fareweel, dear deluding woman!</div> - <div class="verse indent23">The joy of joys!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="ml30"> -Burns.<br /> -</p> - - -<p>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 <i>Waterloo</i> prize poem -in 1815. In 1821 appeared a lengthy poem in blank verse, -called <i>The Universe</i>, 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 <i>The Universe</i>.</p> - -<p>A correspondent in the <i>Notes and Queries</i><a id="FNanchor_154" href="#Footnote_154" class="fnanchor">[154]</a>—who was -a great admirer of the poem—happened, in the year mentioned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span> -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,<a id="FNanchor_155" href="#Footnote_155" class="fnanchor">[155]</a> 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 <i>The Universe</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>In the polemics in the <i>Notes and Queries</i> the Wills family—who -also considered the <i>Universe</i> a work of uncommon -merit—had the last word, and their assertions were, a -little later, supported by the <i>Dublin University Magazine</i>,<a id="FNanchor_156" href="#Footnote_156" class="fnanchor">[156]</a> -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,<a id="FNanchor_157" href="#Footnote_157" class="fnanchor">[157]</a> 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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>recherché</i> in his manners and conversation, -and that all his personal advantages were a little overdone. -Who he could be I had no notion.</p> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>Notes and Queries</i>, where -his sons seriously maintain that both Scott and Campbell -considered <i>The Universe</i> the best thing produced by Maturin, -and the other party as seriously declares it to contain -passages equal to Milton:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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.’—</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>— — Apropos to the <i>cursed</i> 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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span> -though I stated my distress to him repeatedly and in the most urgent -terms. Now, my dear friend, if without <i>committing me</i> you could -make C. speak out, it would relieve me from considerable anxiety.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>The Universe</i> 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 <i>The Universe</i>, -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<a id="FNanchor_158" href="#Footnote_158" class="fnanchor">[158]</a> 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 <i>whole</i>: 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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent30">So array’d</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In manifold radiance, Earth’s primeval spring</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Walk’d on the bright’ning orb, lit by the Hours</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And young exulting Elements, undefil’d,—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And circling, free from tempest, round her calm</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Perennial brow,—the dewy Zephyrs, then,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From flower-zon’d mountains, wav’d their odorous wings</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Over the young sweet vallies, whispering joy—</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Then goodliest beam’d the unpolluted—bright—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Divine similitude of thoughtful man,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Serene above all creatures—breathing soul—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fairest where all was fair,—pure sanctuary</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of those sweet thoughts, that with life’s earliest breath,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Up through the temperate air of Eden rose</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To Heav’n’s gate, thrilling love!—Then, Nature,—then,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thy Maker looked upon his work and smiled—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Seeing that it was good!—And gave thee charge</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thenceforth for evermore with constant eye</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To watch the times and seasons, and preserve</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The circling maze, exact.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>Bertram</i> and <i>Fredolfo</i>, 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.<a id="FNanchor_159" href="#Footnote_159" class="fnanchor">[159]</a> 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 <i>The Universe</i> to his old antagonist -Samuel Taylor Coleridge; which must have happened either -in a fit of Christian forgiveness or of deliberate irony.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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 <i>Melmoth</i>. 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 <i>Melmoth</i> and <i>The Universe</i> -had probably been swallowed up by the old debt he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span> -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 <i>Bertram</i>, as depicted by -the writer in <i>Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine</i> 1846:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>The Wild -Irish Girl</i> 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 <i>O’Donnel</i> -(1814). Her greatest fame, however, was due to the extensive -work on <i>France</i> (1817), the strongly liberal views of -which had roused the fury of the <i>Quarterly Review</i> and -caused the fierce contest of which Maturin also had borne -his share of the brunt in the vehement attacks upon his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span> -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.’<a id="FNanchor_160" href="#Footnote_160" class="fnanchor">[160]</a> 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 <i>réunions</i> in Kildare Street, pleasantly described by -her biographer,<a id="FNanchor_161" href="#Footnote_161" class="fnanchor">[161]</a> were among the few relaxations Maturin -allowed himself in his later years:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>prejudice</i> 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 <i>can</i> I have done?’ -Whatever this may have reference to, the answer obviously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span> -would have been, that he had written <i>Melmoth</i>. 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 <i>Women</i>, 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 <i>grand seigneur</i>, which -he, in his harmless way, imagined best to suit him. The -following anecdote<a id="FNanchor_162" href="#Footnote_162" class="fnanchor">[162]</a> has a characteristic ring about it:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.—</p> -</div> - -<p>That Maturin did not greatly care about the completion -of <i>The Universe</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>Elliston</i>, -not <i>Kean</i>, who has rejected the play. I have written to Kean to -beg him to read over the play <i>himself</i>, and to assure him I will acquiesce -in his judgment, whatever it be.</p> - -<p>I need not say how much it would enhance my numerous obligations -to Lady Morgan were she to write to Kean merely to <i>enforce<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> -my request</i>, to beg he will read over the play (which he has not done) -and determine <i>for himself</i> whether it is worthy of his powers or not.</p> - -<p>No decision of his can diminish my gratitude to Lady M—— and -to you.</p> -</div> - -<p>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:<a id="FNanchor_163" href="#Footnote_163" class="fnanchor">[163]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>He had another tragedy in the hands of Edmund Kean, but on -this he could obtain no decision whatever. It was entitled <i>Osmyn</i>, -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>The only person who has been able to give an account -of and publish some extracts from the play is the writer -in the <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> 1852. He states that a completed -tragedy called <i>The Siege of Salerno</i> 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 <i>Siege of Corinth</i>—the hero in both works -being, in fact, a renegade who leads Turkish forces against -a Christian town. The passage quoted in the <i>Irish Quarterly -Review</i> 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</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Manfred, the terror of the neighbouring states;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Plunderer of all, and tyrant of his own,</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">On the last shore of Italy I kissed</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A cross my mother bound about my neck,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And flung it towards these towers. On Asia’s coast</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I grasped the crescent.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">If thou would’st make man wretched, make him vile:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sear up his conscience—make his mind a desert,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His heart an ulcer, and his frame a stone;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Countryless, friendless, wifeless, childless, Godless;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Accused of heaven, and hated.—Make him Osmyn.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thus have they dealt with me.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The writer in the <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> 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 <i>Bertram</i> or <i>Fredolfo</i>.—</p> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_164" href="#Footnote_164" class="fnanchor">[164]</a> of Oct. 20:th 1823:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>The allusion to Buonaparte, appears to me to constitute the -<i>forte</i> 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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<a id="FNanchor_165" href="#Footnote_165" class="fnanchor">[165]</a> 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,<a id="FNanchor_166" href="#Footnote_166" class="fnanchor">[166]</a> some time before -his death, a short tale founded upon the family legend -quoted in the first chapter of the present study.</p> - -<p>A determination of Maturin ‘to devote himself more -exclusively to the service of his calling’<a id="FNanchor_167" href="#Footnote_167" class="fnanchor">[167]</a> led to the publication, -in 1824, of <i>Five Sermons on the Errors of the Roman -Catholic Church</i>. 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,<a id="FNanchor_168" href="#Footnote_168" class="fnanchor">[168]</a> ‘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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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, <i>except<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span> -their bonds</i>”—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 <i>Catholic Emancipation</i>, 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.</p> -</div> - -<p>The volume was received very favourably and reprinted -in 1826.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In autumn 1824 appeared the last of Maturin’s lucubrations, -a historical novel called <i>The Albigenses</i>. 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 -<i>genre</i>, 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 <i>The Lovers’ Tale</i> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span> -and Lewis had been easy enough, but to enter into -competition with the Author of <i>Waverley</i> 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 <i>The Albigenses</i> 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.<a id="FNanchor_169" href="#Footnote_169" class="fnanchor">[169]</a>—</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> -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 <i>one</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span> -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.—</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> -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.’</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Considering the inordinate length of <i>The Albigenses</i>, 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 <i>The -Albigenses</i> 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 <i>Women</i> -and <i>Melmoth</i>, and even <i>The Milesian Chief</i>, 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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>Maturin’s journey to Canossa was graciously acknowledged -by all critics except one. In the newly established -<i>Westminster Review</i><a id="FNanchor_170" href="#Footnote_170" class="fnanchor">[170]</a> 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 <i>The Albigenses</i> -nothing could be added, nor can its rightfulness be questioned -by any one acquainted with Maturin’s works:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>led</i>, we sincerely believe, to perform -very valuable services to the republic of letters; but it may not be -<i>driven</i> to do either good or evil. And if it <i>be</i> 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 (<i>that</i> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span> -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 <i>not</i> feel towards -him, he flew to <i>them</i> for that counsel which he should have taken -of his own good sense, and his own heart.</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>The Albigenses</i>, -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span> -can be compared in the openings of <i>The Albigenses</i> and -<i>Quentin Durward</i> (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 <i>The Albigenses</i> 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 <i>Montorio</i> between Hippolito and -Annibal, and in <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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 <i>Waverley</i> novels is a manner -the author has of ‘dealing sly digs at his own stateliest heroes.’<a id="FNanchor_171" href="#Footnote_171" class="fnanchor">[171]</a> -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 -<i>The Milesian Chief</i>. In <i>The Albigenses</i> neither condition is -fulfilled, and the personages, consequently, do not live.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span> -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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Isabelle sprang on her feet—both hands were compressed on -her left bosom, as if <i>expecting</i> 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!”</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>The Albigenses</i> -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:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span></p><div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>The best things in <i>The Albigenses</i> are to be found in -certain vividly narrated episodes and brilliant descriptions, -which are quite other than the hackneyed adventures of -the actual <i>dramatis personæ</i>. 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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span> -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,<a id="FNanchor_172" href="#Footnote_172" class="fnanchor">[172]</a> is depicted -with superabundant vivacity and humour, and in a true -mediaeval spirit:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>— — “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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span> -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—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Caput apri defero,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Reddens laudes Domino;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Qui estis in convivio,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Plaudite cum cantico. — — —</div> - </div> -</div> -</div></div> - -<p>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 <i>The Albigenses</i> 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<a id="FNanchor_173" href="#Footnote_173" class="fnanchor">[173]</a> who admired <i>The Albigenses</i> -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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span> -of information contained in the common English and -German romances.’</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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 <i>The Albigenses</i>, 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 -<i>Montorio</i> is founded. Otherwise <i>The Albigenses</i> is but too -clearly modelled on Scott; most of the characters have -their prototypes in the <i>Waverley</i> novels, and a great many -of the situations likewise bear a resemblance to the same -distinguished patterns. <i>Quentin Durward</i>, <i>Old Mortality</i> -(1817), <i>Ivanhoe</i> (1820), <i>The Monastery</i> (1820) and others -are constantly called to mind, all the comparisons being to -the disadvantage of <i>The Albigenses</i>. To mention some -of the most conspicuous likenesses, count Simon de Montfort -has a counterpart in duke Charles of Burgundy in -<i>Quentin Durward</i>; 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span> -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 <i>Ivanhoe</i>, -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 <i>Ivanhoe</i>, 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span> -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. — — —</p> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>The Monastery</i>; but of -all imitations in <i>The Albigenses</i> 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.—</p> - -<p>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 -<i>Women</i>, as we have seen, was pronounced to be drawn after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span> -Meg Merrilies, and the same observation was made by critics<a id="FNanchor_174" href="#Footnote_174" class="fnanchor">[174]</a> -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 <i>The Abbot</i> (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 <i>The Pirate</i> (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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span> -and by-ways of all Languedoc.—The other variation of -this character is personified by Ulrica in <i>Ivanhoe</i>: 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 <i>The Albigenses</i> was ‘a noble, beautiful lady, -heiress of Mortemar.’ As the prototype of Ulrica we may -perhaps regard Queen Margaret in Shakespeare’s <i>Richard -III</i>, who walks about, a ghost of her former self, -cursing the murderer of her son and her husband:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why, then give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">— — — — —</div> - <div class="verse indent0">If heaven have any grievous plague in store,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O, let them keep it, till thy sins be ripe,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And then hurl down their indignation</div> - <div class="verse indent0">On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Unless it be whilst some tormenting dream</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>The picture drawn of the life and manners of the Albigenses -is, in some essentials, inspired by the descriptions -of the Covenanters in <i>Old Mortality</i>—a circumstance which, -besides being pointed out by critics both contemporary -and modern,<a id="FNanchor_175" href="#Footnote_175" class="fnanchor">[175]</a> 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.—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span></p> - -<p>This last romance of Maturin was soon forgotten, nor -was it ever reprinted, notwithstanding the benevolent -critiques.<a id="FNanchor_176" href="#Footnote_176" class="fnanchor">[176]</a> 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 -<i>The Albigenses</i> 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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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 <i>encountered</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span> -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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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:<a id="FNanchor_177" href="#Footnote_177" class="fnanchor">[177]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>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.</p> -</div> - -<p>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;<a id="FNanchor_178" href="#Footnote_178" class="fnanchor">[178]</a> -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 <i>The Morning Star</i> of -Nov. 3 there was this necrology:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>In him the poor have lost a kind friend; our religion a firm supporter; -and literature one of its brightest ornaments.—</p> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span> -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,<a id="FNanchor_179" href="#Footnote_179" class="fnanchor">[179]</a> 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,<a id="FNanchor_180" href="#Footnote_180" class="fnanchor">[180]</a> 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. <i>Montorio</i> was, in -1841, republished by William Hazlitt as vol. I in the <i>Ballantyne’s -Romancists and Novelists Library</i> which he edited; -<i>Bertram</i> appeared in <i>The British Drama</i> in 1865 and in -Dick’s <i>Standard Plays</i> in 1884; and, lastly, <i>Melmoth the -Wanderer</i> was reprinted in 1892, with no very distinct -success.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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.<a id="FNanchor_181" href="#Footnote_181" class="fnanchor">[181]</a> The work through which this influence -was exercised is <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>, chiefly, yet not -exclusively, inasmuch as <i>Bertram</i> also was immoderately -admired in France and hailed as one of the foremost productions -of contemporary literature. <i>Melmoth</i>, 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 <i>Women</i>, 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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span> -while its minute researches in the abysses of the -human heart anticipate the analytic fiction of the very -latest periods. In Maturin’s production <i>Women</i> is of an -importance equal to that of <i>Melmoth</i>, nor is his literary -physiognomy complete if <i>The Milesian Chief</i> 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,<a id="FNanchor_182" href="#Footnote_182" class="fnanchor">[182]</a> 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 <i>Montorio</i><a id="FNanchor_183" href="#Footnote_183" class="fnanchor">[183]</a> -and was, as has been seen, pleased even with <i>Manuel</i>. -Godwin, to whom so many of Maturin’s writings are indebted, -is recorded<a id="FNanchor_184" href="#Footnote_184" class="fnanchor">[184]</a> 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.’ <i>The -Confessions of a Justified Sinner</i> (1824) of James Hogg—one -of the favourite poets of Maturin—seems to be -not uninfluenced by <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>. 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span> -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.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Notes">Notes.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>The references to pages after names of reviews and magazines -indicate the page on which the respective article begins.</p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<h3 class="p2">I.</h3> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> Henry A. Beers, <i>A History of English Romanticism in the Eighteenth -Century</i>, London 1899, p. 222.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> William Monck Mason, <i>The History and Antiquities of the Collegiate -and Cathedral Church of St. Patrick</i>, Dublin 1820, note -p. 445.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> <i>Registers of the French Conformed Churches of St. Patrick and -St. Mary, Dublin</i>, edited by J. J. Digges La Touche, Dublin -1893 (<i>Publications of the Huguenot Society of London</i>, vol. VII).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> Mason, p. 445; Henry Cotton, <i>Fasti Ecclesiae Hibernicae</i>, Dublin -1848, vol. II p. 105.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> <i>Two Centuries of Irish History 1691-1870</i>, edited by R. Barry -O’Brien, London 1907, p. 98.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> 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 <i>Montorio</i>, -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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine and Literary Journal</i> 1827, vol. XIX pp. -401, 570; vol. XX pp. 146, 370.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> According to a family pedigree, particulars of which have -kindly been communicated to me by Miss Sybil Maturin, he<span class="pagenum">[Pg 313]</span> -had two brothers: William and Henry, and three sisters: Fidelia, -Emma, and Alicia.—It is said in an article in <i>Douglas -Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine</i> (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 <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> -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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> 1827.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> <i>British Review</i> 1818, vol. XI p. 37; an article written by Maturin.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> ibid.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine, or Universal Register</i> 1819, vol. XI p. -165; an article, on Maturin, by Alaric Watts.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> ‘W,’ <i>Ireland Sixty Years ago</i>, Dublin 1851, p. 86 (3:rd ed.).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> <i>The Life of William Carleton:</i> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i>, March 1852, p. 140; <i>New Monthly -Magazine</i> 1827.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> ‘License was granted — — — to solemnize marriage between -the Rev<sup><span class="u">d</span></sup> Charles Robert Maturin of Camden Street — — — & -Henrietta Kingsberry — — — dated October the 7:th 1803.’</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> <i>Cumberland’s British Theatre</i>, with remarks, biographical and -critical, by D.-G., London 18(?), vol. XLIII; cf. also Charles -A. Read, <i>The Cabinet of Irish Literature</i> (new edition by Katharine -Tynan Hinkson), London 1909, vol. II p. 44.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> Letter in the British Museum MS collections.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_19" href="#FNanchor_19" class="label">[19]</a> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_20" href="#FNanchor_20" class="label">[20]</a> <i>Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine</i> 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<span class="pagenum">[Pg 314]</span> -it had an air of mystery, he would knock at the door, and find -some excuse for examining the interior.’</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_21" href="#FNanchor_21" class="label">[21]</a> ibid.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_22" href="#FNanchor_22" class="label">[22]</a> In the <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<h3 class="p2">II.</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_23" href="#FNanchor_23" class="label">[23]</a> <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> 1852.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_24" href="#FNanchor_24" class="label">[24]</a> <i>Dublin and London Magazine</i> 1826, p. 248.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_25" href="#FNanchor_25" class="label">[25]</a> 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, <i>Geschichte der Englischen Romantik</i>, -Halle 1911, vol. I pp. 160-300 (<i>Die Schauerromantik</i>), -as well as in Wilhelm Dibelius, <i>Englische Romankunst</i>, Berlin -und Leipzig 1922, pp. 285-346 (<i>Der Sensationsroman</i>). Maturin’s -connection with the movement is treated of in Willy Müller, -<i>Charles Robert Maturin’s Romane “The fatal Revenge” und -“Melmoth the Wanderer.” Ein Beitrag zur Gothic Romance</i>, -Weida 1908—and the work of Walpole, Clara Reeve and -Mrs Radcliffe in Hans Möbius, <i>The Gothic Romance</i>, Leipzig -1902. Of recent English publications three must be particularly -mentioned: Oliver Elton, <i>A Survey of English Literature -1780-1830</i>, London 1912, vol. I pp. 202-226 (<i>The Novel of -Suspense</i>); the <i>Cambridge History of English Literature</i> 1914, -vol. XI pp. 285-310 (by G. Saintsbury); and Dorothy Scarborough, -<i>The Supernatural in Modern English Fiction</i>, New -York and London 1917 (chapter I: <i>The Gothic Romance</i>).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_26" href="#FNanchor_26" class="label">[26]</a> Richter, p. 164.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_27" href="#FNanchor_27" class="label">[27]</a> ibid. p. 161.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_28" href="#FNanchor_28" class="label">[28]</a> Scott, Introduction to the <i>Castle of Otranto</i>, prefixed to the -edition in the <i>Kings Classics</i>, edited by Professor I. Gollancz, -London 1907.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_29" href="#FNanchor_29" class="label">[29]</a> ibid.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_30" href="#FNanchor_30" class="label">[30]</a> <i>British Review</i> 1818.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_31" href="#FNanchor_31" class="label">[31]</a> <i>The Cabinet of Irish Literature</i>, vol. II p. 44.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_32" href="#FNanchor_32" class="label">[32]</a> James Wills, <i>Lives of illustrious and distinguished Irishmen</i>, -Dublin, Edinburgh and London 1847, vol. VI p. 453.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_33" href="#FNanchor_33" class="label">[33]</a> <i>Quarterly Review</i> 1810, vol. III p. 339; a critique, by Scott, -of <i>Montorio</i>; cf. also introduction to the <i>Castle of Otranto</i>.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 315]</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_34" href="#FNanchor_34" class="label">[34]</a> <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>, London 1892, vol. I p. LVIII (a note -on Charles Robert Maturin, by the editors).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_35" href="#FNanchor_35" class="label">[35]</a> Müller, p. 40.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_36" href="#FNanchor_36" class="label">[36]</a> <i>British Review</i> 1818.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_37" href="#FNanchor_37" class="label">[37]</a> Richter, p. 167.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_38" href="#FNanchor_38" class="label">[38]</a> Müller, p. 29.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_39" href="#FNanchor_39" class="label">[39]</a> <i>The Irishman</i> March 24, 1849; an article, on Maturin, by James -Clarence Mangan.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_40" href="#FNanchor_40" class="label">[40]</a> Richard Sinclair Brooke, <i>Recollections of the Irish Church</i>, London -1877, p. 6.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_41" href="#FNanchor_41" class="label">[41]</a> <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> 1852.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_42" href="#FNanchor_42" class="label">[42]</a> 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 <i>Epistles, Odes, and other Poems</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_43" href="#FNanchor_43" class="label">[43]</a> <i>British Review</i> 1818.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_44" href="#FNanchor_44" class="label">[44]</a> <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 1892, p. LVI.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_45" href="#FNanchor_45" class="label">[45]</a> Richter, p. 288.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_46" href="#FNanchor_46" class="label">[46]</a> <i>Don Juan</i>, canto XV.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_47" href="#FNanchor_47" class="label">[47]</a> <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 1892, p. XXXIII.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_48" href="#FNanchor_48" class="label">[48]</a> According to a popular tradition, Ireland was, in the dawn of -history, invaded by a colony of <i>Milesians</i>, 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, <i>Bards of the Gael and Gall</i>, -London 1907, p. 377.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_49" href="#FNanchor_49" class="label">[49]</a> <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> 1852.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_50" href="#FNanchor_50" class="label">[50]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> 1827.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_51" href="#FNanchor_51" class="label">[51]</a> The writer in <i>Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine</i> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_52" href="#FNanchor_52" class="label">[52]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> 1827.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_53" href="#FNanchor_53" class="label">[53]</a> D. J. O’Donoghue, <i>Life of James Clarence Mangan</i>, Dublin 1897.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_54" href="#FNanchor_54" class="label">[54]</a> Richter, p. 291. <span class="pagenum">[Pg 316]</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_55" href="#FNanchor_55" class="label">[55]</a> Müller, p. 93.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_56" href="#FNanchor_56" class="label">[56]</a> T. N. Talfourd, <i>Critical and Miscellaneous Writings</i>, Philadelphia -1848, vol. VII p. 18.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_57" href="#FNanchor_57" class="label">[57]</a> <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 1892, p. XXXIV.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_58" href="#FNanchor_58" class="label">[58]</a> Edmund Downey, <i>Charles Lever, His Life in his Letters</i>, London -1906, vol. II p. 370.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_59" href="#FNanchor_59" class="label">[59]</a> O’Donoghue, <i>Life of Mangan</i>, p. 145.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_60" href="#FNanchor_60" class="label">[60]</a> In 1814 appeared a second edition of <i>The Wild Irish Boy</i>, but -Maturin evidently received nothing for it, as he appears to -have been ignorant of its publication: in the preface to <i>Women</i> -(1818) he states that none of his former novels have been -reprinted.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_61" href="#FNanchor_61" class="label">[61]</a> J. Lockhart, <i>Life of Sir Walter Scott</i>, Edinburgh 1837, vol. -III p. 312.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_62" href="#FNanchor_62" class="label">[62]</a> Thomas Moore, <i>Life of Lord Byron</i>, London 1851, p. 287.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_63" href="#FNanchor_63" class="label">[63]</a> ibid.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_64" href="#FNanchor_64" class="label">[64]</a> Samuel Smiles, <i>A Publisher and his Friends</i>. 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_65" href="#FNanchor_65" class="label">[65]</a> Moore, p. 347.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_66" href="#FNanchor_66" class="label">[66]</a> Barry Cornwall, <i>Life of Edmund Kean</i>, London 1835, vol. I p. -152.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_67" href="#FNanchor_67" class="label">[67]</a> The name is spelled <i>Shee</i> on the title-page of the little volume -in which the poem was published.</p> - -</div> - -<h3 class="p2">III.</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_68" href="#FNanchor_68" class="label">[68]</a> <i>Cambridge History of English Literature</i>, vol. XI p. 257.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_69" href="#FNanchor_69" class="label">[69]</a> <i>Quarterly Review</i> 1817, vol. XVII p. 248; a critique, by Maturin, -of Sheil’s <i>Apostate</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_70" href="#FNanchor_70" class="label">[70]</a> Elton II, p. 310.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_71" href="#FNanchor_71" class="label">[71]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine and Universal Register</i> 1816, vol. V p. -451.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_72" href="#FNanchor_72" class="label">[72]</a> <i>Edinburgh Review</i> 1818, vol. XXX p. 234; a critique, by Scott, -of Maturin’s <i>Women</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_73" href="#FNanchor_73" class="label">[73]</a> 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<span class="pagenum">[Pg 317]</span> -whose beauty Scott, in his article in the <i>Quarterly Review</i>, is -commending. The letter was apparently composed in a moment -of absent-mindedness.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_74" href="#FNanchor_74" class="label">[74]</a> <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 1892, p. LIII.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_75" href="#FNanchor_75" class="label">[75]</a> Elton I, p. 218.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_76" href="#FNanchor_76" class="label">[76]</a> <i>British Review</i> 1816, vol. VIII p. 64.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_77" href="#FNanchor_77" class="label">[77]</a> <i>Monthly Review</i> 1816, vol. 80 p. 179.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_78" href="#FNanchor_78" class="label">[78]</a> <i>Eclectic Review</i> 1816, vol. VI p. 379.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_79" href="#FNanchor_79" class="label">[79]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> 1827.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_80" href="#FNanchor_80" class="label">[80]</a> <i>Bertram, ou le Château de St. Aldobrand</i>, 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_81" href="#FNanchor_81" class="label">[81]</a> Gustave Planche, <i>Portraits Littéraires</i>, Paris 1836, p. 33 foll.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_82" href="#FNanchor_82" class="label">[82]</a> <i>Cambridge History of English Literature</i>, vol. XI p. 273.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_83" href="#FNanchor_83" class="label">[83]</a> <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> 1852; cf. also <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> -1892, pp. XVI-XVII.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_84" href="#FNanchor_84" class="label">[84]</a> In <i>Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine</i>; the article is reprinted -in <i>Biographia Literaria</i>, Oxford 1907, vol. II p. 193 foll.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_85" href="#FNanchor_85" class="label">[85]</a> Moore, p. 367.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_86" href="#FNanchor_86" class="label">[86]</a> Coleridge’s irritation at the play may have been partly due -to the above-mentioned article in the <i>British Review</i>, which -presents a critique at once upon <i>Christabel</i> and <i>Bertram</i> 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.’</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_87" href="#FNanchor_87" class="label">[87]</a> <i>Goethe-Jahrbuch</i> 1891, vol. XII p. 23; quoted by Richter, p. 299.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_88" href="#FNanchor_88" class="label">[88]</a> John Genest, <i>Some account of the English Stage from the Restoration -in 1660 to 1830</i>, Bath 1832, vol. VIII p. 534.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_89" href="#FNanchor_89" class="label">[89]</a> <i>Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine</i> 1846.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_90" href="#FNanchor_90" class="label">[90]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> 1827.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_91" href="#FNanchor_91" class="label">[91]</a> <i>The Irishman</i> 1849.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_92" href="#FNanchor_92" class="label">[92]</a> <i>Gentleman’s Magazine</i> 1825, vol. I p. 84.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_93" href="#FNanchor_93" class="label">[93]</a> <i>Dublin and London Magazine</i> 1826.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_94" href="#FNanchor_94" class="label">[94]</a> <i>Life of Carleton</i>, vol. I p. 226.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_95" href="#FNanchor_95" class="label">[95]</a> <i>Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine</i> 1846.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_96" href="#FNanchor_96" class="label">[96]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> 1827.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_97" href="#FNanchor_97" class="label">[97]</a> Smiles, p. 295.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_98" href="#FNanchor_98" class="label">[98]</a> Moore, p. 358.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_99" href="#FNanchor_99" class="label">[99]</a> ibid., p. 362.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_100" href="#FNanchor_100" class="label">[100]</a> -<i>New Monthly Magazine or Universal Register</i> 1819.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 318]</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_101" href="#FNanchor_101" class="label">[101]</a> <i>Monthly Review</i> 1817, vol. 83 p. 391.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_102" href="#FNanchor_102" class="label">[102]</a> Smiles, p. 293.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_103" href="#FNanchor_103" class="label">[103]</a> W. Torrens McCullagh, <i>Memoirs of the Rt. Hon. Richard Lalor -Sheil</i>, London 1855, p. 95.</p> - -</div> - -<h3 class="p2">IV.</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_104" href="#FNanchor_104" class="label">[104]</a> Lockhart, <i>Life of Scott</i>, vol. V; the letter is reprinted in the -<i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> 1852 and in <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 1892, -pp. XVIII-XXI.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_105" href="#FNanchor_105" class="label">[105]</a> <i>London Magazine</i> 1821, vol. III p. 96.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_106" href="#FNanchor_106" class="label">[106]</a> It may be mentioned that the writer in <i>Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling -Magazine</i> 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.’</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_107" href="#FNanchor_107" class="label">[107]</a> Francis Hovey Stoddard, <i>The Evolution of the English Novel</i>, -New York 1913, p. 11.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_108" href="#FNanchor_108" class="label">[108]</a> Allan Cunningham, <i>Biographical and Critical History of the -British Literature of the last fifty years</i>, Paris 1834, p. 403 foll.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_109" href="#FNanchor_109" class="label">[109]</a> <i>Monthly Review 1818</i>, vol. 86 p. 403.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_110" href="#FNanchor_110" class="label">[110]</a> <i>Quarterly Review</i> 1818, vol. XIX p. 321.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_111" href="#FNanchor_111" class="label">[111]</a> Alaric Alfred Watts, <i>Life of</i> (his father) <i>Alaric Watts</i>, London -1884, vol. I p. 62 foll.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_112" href="#FNanchor_112" class="label">[112]</a> Talfourd, op. cit.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_113" href="#FNanchor_113" class="label">[113]</a> <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 1892, p. XXXIX.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_114" href="#FNanchor_114" class="label">[114]</a> A. A. Watts, op. cit.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_115" href="#FNanchor_115" class="label">[115]</a> ibid.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_116" href="#FNanchor_116" class="label">[116]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine or Universal Register</i> 1819, vol. XI p. -236 foll.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_117" href="#FNanchor_117" class="label">[117]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> 1827.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_118" href="#FNanchor_118" class="label">[118]</a> <i>Scots Magazine</i> 1820, vol. VII p. 21.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_119" href="#FNanchor_119" class="label">[119]</a> <i>Cambridge History of English Literature</i>, vol. XI p. 305.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_120" href="#FNanchor_120" class="label">[120]</a> <i>Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine</i> 1846.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_121" href="#FNanchor_121" class="label">[121]</a> This preface is, strangely enough, not reprinted in the 1892 -edition.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_122" href="#FNanchor_122" class="label">[122]</a> Elton I, p. 219.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_123" href="#FNanchor_123" class="label">[123]</a> Müller, p. 70.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_124" href="#FNanchor_124" class="label">[124]</a> <i>Die Rosenkreutzer</i> 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<span class="pagenum">[Pg 319]</span> -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 (<i>St. Leon</i>), Shelley (<i>St. Irvyne; or, The Rosicrucian</i>, -1811), and Mary Shelley (<i>Frankenstein; or, The Modern -Prometheus</i>, 1818).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_125" href="#FNanchor_125" class="label">[125]</a> This story was published under the name of Lord Byron, who -is said to have invented the idea.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_126" href="#FNanchor_126" class="label">[126]</a> There existing a comparatively new and available edition of -<i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>, the contents of each tale is here given -with the utmost brevity.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_127" href="#FNanchor_127" class="label">[127]</a> Richter, p. 294; Scarborough p. 32.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_128" href="#FNanchor_128" class="label">[128]</a> <i>Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany</i> 1821, vol. VIII -p. 412.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_129" href="#FNanchor_129" class="label">[129]</a> <i>Edinburgh Review</i> 1820, vol. XXXV p. 353.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_130" href="#FNanchor_130" class="label">[130]</a> <i>London Magazine</i> 1821, vol. III p. 514.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_131" href="#FNanchor_131" class="label">[131]</a> Planche, p. 54.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_132" href="#FNanchor_132" class="label">[132]</a> Gunnar Bjurman, <i>Edgar Allan Poe</i>. En litteraturhistorisk studie, -Lund 1916, pp. 207-208.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_133" href="#FNanchor_133" class="label">[133]</a> <i>Monthly Review</i> 1821, vol. 94 p. 81.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_134" href="#FNanchor_134" class="label">[134]</a> E. A. Baker, Introduction to <i>The Monk</i> of M. G. Lewis, London -1907, p. VIII.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_135" href="#FNanchor_135" class="label">[135]</a> <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 1892, p. LIX.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_136" href="#FNanchor_136" class="label">[136]</a> Cardonneau is the name of the atheistic philosopher in <i>Women</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_137" href="#FNanchor_137" class="label">[137]</a> Müller, p. 91.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_138" href="#FNanchor_138" class="label">[138]</a> The bitter irony with which the state of Europe is described in -Melmoth’s discourse rather recalls also certain passages in -<i>Gulliver’s Travels</i> (part II ch. VI; part IV ch. V-VII).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_139" href="#FNanchor_139" class="label">[139]</a> Walter Raleigh, <i>The English Novel</i>, London 1907 (fifth ed.), -p. 237.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_140" href="#FNanchor_140" class="label">[140]</a> Dr John Anster’s excellent translations of the first part of -<i>Faust</i> appeared in <i>Blackwood’s Magazine</i> in 1820, about the time -when Maturin was finishing <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>. 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 <i>Faust</i> are pointed out by -Müller, pp. 98-99.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_141" href="#FNanchor_141" class="label">[141]</a> In <i>The Fortunes of Nigel</i> (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 <i>Guzman’s -Family</i>.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 320]</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_142" href="#FNanchor_142" class="label">[142]</a> <i>Blackwood’s Magazine</i> 1820, vol. VIII p. 161.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_143" href="#FNanchor_143" class="label">[143]</a> Both in the preface and in a marginal note Maturin states -that <i>The Lovers’ Tale</i> is a record of actual experience, although -he mentions no sources.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_144" href="#FNanchor_144" class="label">[144]</a> Müller, p. 103.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_145" href="#FNanchor_145" class="label">[145]</a> This resemblance has been pointed out already by the critic -in the <i>London Magazine</i> 1821.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_146" href="#FNanchor_146" class="label">[146]</a> Müller, p. 107.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_147" href="#FNanchor_147" class="label">[147]</a> Introduction to <i>Tales of Mystery</i> (Mrs Radcliffe—Lewis—Maturin), -edited by George Saintsbury, London 1891.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_148" href="#FNanchor_148" class="label">[148]</a> <i>Quarterly Review</i> 1821, vol. XXIV p. 303.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_149" href="#FNanchor_149" class="label">[149]</a> Poe, Introduction to <i>Poems</i> 1831 (Letter to Mr B——).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_150" href="#FNanchor_150" class="label">[150]</a> Richter, p. 292.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_151" href="#FNanchor_151" class="label">[151]</a> Charles Baudelaire, <i>Oeuvres Complètes</i>, Paris 1869, vol. II p. -366 foll.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_152" href="#FNanchor_152" class="label">[152]</a> <i>Lady Morgan’s Memoirs</i>: Autobiography, Diaries and Correspondence, -edited by W. H. Dixon, London 1862, vol. II p. 154.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_153" href="#FNanchor_153" class="label">[153]</a> A. A. Watts, p. 297.</p> - -</div> - -<h3 class="p2">V.</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_154" href="#FNanchor_154" class="label">[154]</a> <i>Notes and Queries</i> 1874, vol. II p. 428; 1875 vol. III pp. 20, -172, 240, 280, 340.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_155" href="#FNanchor_155" class="label">[155]</a> Lord John Russell, <i>Memoir, Journal, and Correspondence of -Thomas Moore</i>, 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 <i>The Universe</i> 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_156" href="#FNanchor_156" class="label">[156]</a> <i>Dublin University Magazine</i>, October 1875, p. 409.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_157" href="#FNanchor_157" class="label">[157]</a> 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 <i>Melmoth</i> and could -not have undertaken any other engagement, besides which -it is evident from Moore’s diary that <i>The Universe</i> was published -and brought under discussion in autumn 1821.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_158" href="#FNanchor_158" class="label">[158]</a> <i>Scots Magazine</i> 1821, vol. IX p. 38. -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 321]</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_159" href="#FNanchor_159" class="label">[159]</a> A fair specimen of the poetry of Wills is e. g. <i>The Idolatress: -and other Poems</i> (1868). On the cover of this volume was advertised -a new edition of <i>The Universe</i>, ‘with its true history,’ -which however does not seem to have appeared.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_160" href="#FNanchor_160" class="label">[160]</a> <i>Dublin and London Magazine</i> 1826.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_161" href="#FNanchor_161" class="label">[161]</a> William John Fitzpatrick, <i>Lady Morgan</i>: her career, literary -and personal, with a glimpse of her friends and a word to her -calumniators, London 1860, p. 238.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_162" href="#FNanchor_162" class="label">[162]</a> <i>Lady Morgan’s Memoirs</i>, vol. II p. 154. The anecdote is told -by the editor, not by Lady Morgan.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_163" href="#FNanchor_163" class="label">[163]</a> A. A. Watts, op. cit.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_164" href="#FNanchor_164" class="label">[164]</a> A copy of this letter has kindly been communicated to me by -Mr Daniel Edwards Kennedy, M. A., Chestnut Hill, Mass. -U. S. A.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_165" href="#FNanchor_165" class="label">[165]</a> <i>New Monthly Magazine</i> 1827.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_166" href="#FNanchor_166" class="label">[166]</a> ibid.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_167" href="#FNanchor_167" class="label">[167]</a> <i>Cabinet of Irish Literature</i>, vol. II p. 45.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_168" href="#FNanchor_168" class="label">[168]</a> <i>Gentleman’s Magazine</i> 1825.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_169" href="#FNanchor_169" class="label">[169]</a> Mangan, in <i>The Irishman</i> 1849.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_170" href="#FNanchor_170" class="label">[170]</a> <i>Westminster Review 1824</i>, vol. I p. 550.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_171" href="#FNanchor_171" class="label">[171]</a> William Everett, <i>The Italian Poets since Dante</i>, London 1905, -p. 78. The writer is comparing the humour of Ariosto with -that of Scott.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_172" href="#FNanchor_172" class="label">[172]</a> Chapter XIV in <i>The Abbot</i> contains a description of a feast led -by an ‘Abbot of Unreason,’ which description, however, is in -quite a different style from that in <i>The Albigenses</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_173" href="#FNanchor_173" class="label">[173]</a> <i>Scotch Magazine, and Edinburgh Literary Miscellany</i> 1824, vol. XIV p. 209.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_174" href="#FNanchor_174" class="label">[174]</a> <i>Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine</i> 1824, vol. -XV p. 192.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_175" href="#FNanchor_175" class="label">[175]</a> Elton I. p. 219.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_176" href="#FNanchor_176" class="label">[176]</a> In France, also, <i>The Albigenses</i> 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 <i>La Chambre de la -Chatelaine</i> (Mme A. Tastu, <i>Poésies complètes</i>, Paris 1858, p. 78).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_177" href="#FNanchor_177" class="label">[177]</a> Cyrus Redding, <i>Yesterday and To-Day</i>, London 1863, vol. III -p. 53.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_178" href="#FNanchor_178" class="label">[178]</a> <i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i> 1892, p. XXVII; Mangan also alludes -to the circumstance.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 322]</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_179" href="#FNanchor_179" class="label">[179]</a> D. J. O’Donoghue, <i>Sir Walter Scott’s Tour in Ireland</i>, Dublin -1905, pp. 39, 57.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_180" href="#FNanchor_180" class="label">[180]</a> 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 <i>Irish Quarterly Review</i> was, in 1852, in a position to -communicate several extracts from <i>The Siege of Salerno</i>, 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.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_181" href="#FNanchor_181" class="label">[181]</a> Maturin’s influence in France has been treated of in Charles -Bonnier, <i>Milieux d’Art</i>, 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, <i>Le conte fantastique dans le romantisme -français</i>, Paris 1909.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_182" href="#FNanchor_182" class="label">[182]</a> Elton I p. 209.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_183" href="#FNanchor_183" class="label">[183]</a> <i>Life of Matthew Gregory Lewis</i> (anonymous), London 1839, -vol. II p. 140.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_184" href="#FNanchor_184" class="label">[184]</a> <i>The Irishman</i> 1849.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="Index">Index.</h2> -</div> - -<ul class="index"> -<li class="ifrst"><i>Abbot</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_304">304</a>, <a href="#Footnote_172"><i>note</i> 172</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Adelaide, or the Emigrants</i>, Sheil’s, <a href="#Page_100">100</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Albigenses</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_283">283-307</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Alexander</i>, Lee’s, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Anacreon</i>, Moore’s, <a href="#Page_49">49</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Ancient Mariner</i>, Coleridge’s, <a href="#Page_3">3</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Apostate</i>, Sheil’s, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Arabian Nights</i>, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Austen, Jane, <a href="#Page_268">268</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst">Baillie, Joanna, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Balzac, Honoré de, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>, <a href="#Page_311">311</a>, <a href="#Footnote_180"><i>note</i> 180</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Banim, John, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Baudelaire, Charles, <a href="#Page_266">266</a>, <a href="#Page_311">311</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Beckford, William, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Belinda</i>, Edgeworth’s, <a href="#Page_49">49</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Bertram</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101-103</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107-124</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>, <a href="#Page_276">276</a>, <a href="#Page_277">277</a>, <a href="#Page_281">281</a>, <a href="#Page_309">309</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Black Dwarf</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Bottle Imp</i>, Stevenson’s, <a href="#Page_264">264</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Bride of Lammermoor</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97-98</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Brocas, <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Brown, Charles Brockden, <a href="#Page_21">21</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Burns, Robert, <a href="#Page_1">1</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Byron, George Noel Gordon, Lord, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a> foll., <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a> foll., <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_280">280</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Caleb Williams</i>, Godwin’s, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Campbell, Thomas, <a href="#Page_273">273</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Carleton, William, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Cask of Amontillado</i>, Poe’s, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Castle of Otranto</i>, Walpole’s, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Castle Rackrent</i>, Edgeworth’s, <a href="#Page_9">9</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Catalani, <a href="#Page_10">10</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Cenci</i>, Shelley’s, <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Champion of Virtue</i>, Reeve’s, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Childe Harold</i>, Byron’s, <a href="#Page_3">3</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Colburn, Henry, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_272">272</a> foll.</li> - -<li class="indx">Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, <a href="#Page_122">122-123</a>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>, <a href="#Page_276">276</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Collegians</i>, Griffin’s, <a href="#Page_69">69</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Collins, William, <a href="#Page_1">1</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Confessions of a Justified Sinner</i>, Hogg’s, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Constable, Archibald, <a href="#Page_142">142</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Corinne</i>, Staël’s, <a href="#Page_174">174</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Corsair</i>, Byron’s, <a href="#Page_132">132</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Cowper, William, <a href="#Page_1">1</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Crabbe, George, <a href="#Page_132">132</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Croker, John Wilson, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, <a href="#Page_267">267</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span><i>Cymbeline</i>, Shakespeare’s, <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst">Dickens, Charles, <a href="#Page_309">309</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Don Quixote</i>, Cervantes’s, <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst">Edgeworth, Maria, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_268">268</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Emmet, Robert, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Essay de l’essence du rire</i>, Baudelaire’s, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Fall of Robespierre</i>, Coleridge’s, <a href="#Page_123">123</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Faust</i>, Goethe’s, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>, <a href="#Page_265">265</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Faustus</i>, Marlowe’s, <a href="#Page_262">262</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Fielding, Henry, <a href="#Page_7">7</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Five Sermons on the Errors of the Roman Catholic Church</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_282">282-283</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Fortunes of Nigel</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Footnote_141"><i>note</i> 141</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>France</i>, Morgan’s, <a href="#Page_277">277</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Frankenstein</i>, Mrs. Shelley’s, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Fredolfo</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_180">180-195</a>, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>, <a href="#Page_276">276</a>, <a href="#Page_281">281</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Geisterseher</i>, Schiller’s, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Gifford, William, <a href="#Page_140">140</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Godwin, William, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>, <a href="#Footnote_180"><i>note</i> 180</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Goldsmith, Oliver, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Grattan, Henry, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Gray, Thomas, <a href="#Page_1">1</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Griffin, Gerald, <a href="#Page_69">69</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Gulliver’s Travels</i>, Swift’s, <a href="#Footnote_138"><i>note</i> 138</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Guy Mannering</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>, <a href="#Page_304">304</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Hamlet</i>, Shakespeare’s, <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Harrington</i>, Edgeworth’s, <a href="#Page_179">179</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Haunted and the Haunters</i>, Lytton’s, <a href="#Page_212">212</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Hazlitt, William, <a href="#Page_309">309</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Heart of Midlothian</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_169">169</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bards</i>, Walker’s, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Hogg, James, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Horace, <a href="#Page_163">163</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Hugo, Victor, <a href="#Page_311">311</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>I promessi sposi</i>, Manzoni’s, <a href="#Page_213">213</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Italian</i>, Radcliffe’s, <a href="#Page_37">37</a> foll., <a href="#Page_230">230</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Ivanhoe</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>, <a href="#Page_302">302</a>, <a href="#Page_305">305</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst">Juvenal, <a href="#Page_163">163</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst">Kean, Edmund, <a href="#Page_102">102-103</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>, <a href="#Page_280">280</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Kemble, Charles, <a href="#Page_193">193</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, John, <a href="#Page_101">101</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Kerr, <a href="#Page_7">7</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>King Lear</i>, Shakespeare’s, <a href="#Page_134">134</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Kingsbury, Henrietta, <i>see</i> <a href="#HenriettaMaturin">Maturin</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Kotzebue, August von, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Lalla Rookh</i>, Moore’s, <a href="#Page_135">135</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Lara</i>, Byron’s, <a href="#Page_132">132</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Lawless, Emily, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Lee, Nathaniel, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Lenore</i>, Bürger’s, <a href="#Page_246">246</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Lever, Charles, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98-99</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Lewis, Matthew Gregory, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a> foll., <a href="#Page_284">284</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Lover, Samuel, <a href="#Page_63">63</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Lytton, Edward Bulwer, <a href="#Page_212">212</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Macbeth</i>, Shakespeare’s, <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Macready, <a href="#Page_193">193</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Maelcho</i>, Lawless’s, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Mangan, James Clarence, <a href="#Page_43">43</a>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_307">307</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Manuel</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135-140</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</span>Manzoni, Alessandro, <a href="#Page_213">213</a>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Marlowe, Christopher, <a href="#Page_262">262</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Maturin, Alicia, <a href="#Footnote_8"><i>note</i> 8</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Edward, <a href="#Footnote_180"><i>note</i> 180</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Emma, <a href="#Footnote_8"><i>note</i> 8</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Fidelia, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Fidelia, <a href="#Footnote_8"><i>note</i> 8</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Gabriel, <a href="#Page_3">3-5</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Gabriel James, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> - -<li class="indx" id="HenriettaMaturin">——, Henrietta, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>, <a href="#Page_278">278</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Henry, <a href="#Footnote_8"><i>note</i> 8</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Pierre, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, William, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, William, <a href="#Footnote_8"><i>note</i> 8</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, William Basil, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Footnote_180"><i>note</i> 180</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Melmoth Reconcilié</i>, Balzac’s, <a href="#Page_264">264</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Melmoth the Wanderer</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196-270</a>, <a href="#Page_276">276</a>, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>, <a href="#Page_293">293</a>, <a href="#Page_309">309</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Milesian Chief</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_66">66-100</a>, <a href="#Page_158">158</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>, <a href="#Page_293">293</a>, <a href="#Page_296">296</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Milton, John, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_273">273</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Moira, Lord, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Monastery</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>, <a href="#Page_303">303</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Monk</i>, Lewis’s, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a> foll., <a href="#Page_228">228</a> foll., <a href="#Page_262">262</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Montorio</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>, <a href="#Page_14">14-45</a>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>, <a href="#Page_265">265</a>, <a href="#Page_269">269</a>, <a href="#Page_296">296</a>, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>, <a href="#Page_309">309</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Moore, John, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Thomas, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_272">272</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a></li> - -<li class="indx">More, Hannah, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Morgan, Charles, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>, <a href="#Page_277">277</a> foll., <a href="#Page_308">308</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Lady (Sydney Owenson), <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>, <a href="#Page_277">277</a> foll.</li> - -<li class="indx">Murphy, Dennis Jasper (C. R. Maturin), <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Murray, John, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Night Thoughts</i>, Young’s, <a href="#Page_3">3</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Nodier, Charles, <a href="#Page_119">119</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>O’Donnel</i>, Morgan’s, <a href="#Page_277">277</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>O’Donoghue</i>, Lever’s, <a href="#Page_98">98-99</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Old English Baron</i>, Reeve’s, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Old Mortality</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>, <a href="#Page_306">306</a></li> - -<li class="indx">O’Neill, Miss, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Ormond</i>, Edgeworth’s, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Osmyn</i>, see <i>Siege of Salerno</i></li> - -<li class="indx">Ossian, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>, <a href="#Page_242">242</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Othello</i>, Shakespeare’s, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Otway, Thomas, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Owenson, Sydney, <i>see</i> Morgan</li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Paul et Virginie</i>, Saint-Pierre’s, <a href="#Page_242">242</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Percy</i>, More’s, <a href="#Page_121">121</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Picture of Dorian Gray</i>, Wilde’s, <a href="#Page_212">212</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Pirate</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_304">304</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Poe, Edgar Allan, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>, <a href="#Page_311">311</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Polidori, John William, <a href="#Page_199">199</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Pope, Alexander, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Quentin Durward</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_296">296</a>, <a href="#Page_301">301</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst">Radcliffe, Ann, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a> foll., <a href="#Page_42">42</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_283">283</a>, <a href="#Page_301">301</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Räuber</i>, Schiller’s, <a href="#Page_120">120-121</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Reeve, Clara, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Revenge</i>, Young’s, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Richard III</i>, Shakespeare’s, <a href="#Page_192">192-193</a>, <a href="#Page_305">305</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Richardson, Samuel, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Rob Roy</i>, Scott’s, <a href="#Page_193">193</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, <a href="#Page_311">311</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Rousseau, Jean Jaques, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>, <a href="#Page_242">242</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</span>Russell, John, Lord, <a href="#Page_272">272</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>St. Leon</i>, Godwin’s, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de, <a href="#Page_237">237</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Schiller, Friedrich, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120-121</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Scott, Walter, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a> foll., <a href="#Page_101">101</a> foll., <a href="#Page_113">113</a> foll., <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>, <a href="#Page_268">268</a>, <a href="#Page_273">273</a>, <a href="#Page_283">283</a>, <a href="#Page_295">295</a>, <a href="#Page_301">301</a> foll., <a href="#Page_308">308</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Sermons</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_195">195-196</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Shakespeare, William, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_305">305</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Shea, John, <a href="#Page_104">104-105</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Sheil, Richard Lalor, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Shelley, Mary, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Percy Bysshe, <a href="#Page_16">16</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Siddons, Mrs., <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Siege of Corinth</i>, Byron’s, <a href="#Page_280">280</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Siege of Salerno</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_280">280-281</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Smith, Mrs., <a href="#Page_274">274</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Smollett, Tobias, <a href="#Page_7">7</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Somerville, Miss, <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Southerne, Thomas, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Southey, Robert, <a href="#Page_49">49</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Staël, Madame de, <a href="#Page_173">173</a> foll.</li> - -<li class="indx">Sterne, Laurence, <a href="#Page_11">11</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Stevenson, Robert Louis, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>, <a href="#Page_311">311</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Swift, Jonathan, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>, <a href="#Page_11">11</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst">Tastu, Amable, <a href="#Footnote_176"><i>note</i> 176</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Tempest</i>, Shakespeare’s, <a href="#Page_121">121</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Terry, Daniel, <a href="#Page_101">101</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Thackeray, William Makepeace, <a href="#Page_311">311</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Thomson, James, <a href="#Page_1">1</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Tintern Abbey</i>, Wordsworth’s, <a href="#Page_3">3</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Universe</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_271">271-276</a>, <a href="#Page_279">279</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Vampyre</i>, Polidori’s, <a href="#Page_199">199</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Vathek</i>, Beckford’s, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Venice Preserved</i>, Otway’s, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Vigny, Alfred de, <a href="#Page_311">311</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, <a href="#Page_311">311</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Voltaire, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst">Walker, Joseph Cooper, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Walpole, Horace, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_17">17</a> foll.</li> - -<li class="indx">Ware, James, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Waterloo</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_104">104-106</a>, <a href="#Page_271">271</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Watson, Fidelia, <i>see</i> Maturin</li> - -<li class="indx">Watts, Alaric, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a> foll., <a href="#Page_267">267</a>, <a href="#Page_280">280</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Werther</i>, Goethe’s, <a href="#Page_49">49</a></li> - -<li class="indx">West, B., <a href="#Page_267">267</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Wild Irish Boy</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_46">46-64</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_158">158</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Wild Irish Girl</i>, Morgan’s, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_277">277</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Wilde, Oscar, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>, <a href="#Page_311">311</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Wills, James, <a href="#Page_271">271-276</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Wollstonecraft, Mary, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Women</i>, Maturin’s, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142-179</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>, <a href="#Page_248">248</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>, <a href="#Page_293">293</a>, <a href="#Page_303">303</a>, <a href="#Page_309">309</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst">Yates, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Young, <a href="#Page_193">193</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Arthur, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li> - -<li class="indx">——, Edward, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> - - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Zastrozzi</i>, Shelley’s, <a href="#Page_16">16</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Zeluco</i>, John Moore’s, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li> -</ul> - - -<div class="transnote"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"><b>Transcriber’s Note</b></p> -</div> - -<p>While original copyright information has been retained, this book is in -the public domain in the country of publication.</p> - -<p>Obvious printer’s errors have been silently corrected; otherwise, as far -as possible, original spelling and punctuation has been retained.</p> - -<p>Notes have been renumbered sequentially, and references from the index edited to match.</p> - -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - 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