diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/67329-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/67329-0.txt | 12256 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 12256 deletions
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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - 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. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |