THE MODERN NOVEL.-" LAMIA."*

AMONG the various branches of writing to which modern life, with its varied train of social and intellectual refinements, has given rise, none is more remarkable, or promises to stamp a more peculiar character on the literature of the age, than the novel. Works of fiction, in all ages the delight of the young, and the solace of the unemployed, have grown and spread with the development of polished society; and from the middle of the last century to the present day compositions of this nature have multiplied in proportion to the increase of literary leisure in the writers,

and of idle leisure in the readers.

It is not our intention to go back to the early history of Fable, or to trace the Modern Novel to its source, nor to relate its progress, from the Tales and Romances of Chivalry to the easy narrative of social life, or caustic humour of the many clever productions of our times: that task has already been ably performed by Dunlop and others. Neither is it necessary, on the present occasion, to enter deeply into the analysis of that class of compositions from which the Modern Novel immediately sprung, or to account for the hold which it has now taken on the minds of our contemporaries. It is sufficient that the taste exists, and that it is likely to have a lasting influence on the present and future generations, to induce the critics of the day to pay it a serious attention, as well as to point out the way in which so powerful a means of acting on the moral and intellectual capacities of mankind may be turned to the best advantage.

The earliest fictions seem to have been merely the embodied substance of floating superstitions, or the shadowy reflections of traditional history; in the former case conveying some useful moral, in the latter handing down the exploits of real or imaginary heroes. Much of these was, doubtless, believed to be true by the narrators as well as the hearers— readers properly so called, there were few-and it seems to have been long ere the framers of such early compositions trusted to their own powers of invention sufficiently to produce a narrative which should be based exclusively on fiction.

When once a degree of boldness had been attained, which encouraged the writers of the middle ages to leave the beaten path of legendary tales, and to trust to themselves for the plot, as well as the ornaments of the story, it is lamentable to observe how soon the new style of composition was perverted to the most depraved and unworthy purposes. It seems as if the French and Italian novelists thought that this increased facility of writing was only acquired to record the common jests of the commonest of mankind, to chronicle the wit of the streets, the buffoonery, the intrigues, and scandals of the day, which may or may not have happened, but which, like all other base subjects of invention, were better forgotten than perpetuated.

Such, at least, was the progress of narrative writing on fictitious subjects in modern Europe during the fourteenth and subsequent centuries, and it was not until the early part of the eighteenth that a better feeling of their vocation induced the writers of this class to aim at a higher Colburn.

* Lamia; a Confession. 2 vols.

object in their compositions. It is unnecessary to trace the causes of this change, but it certainly bears witness to the greater refinement in taste, if not in morals, that had slowly gained ground during the last two centuries.

Yet even in this laudable progress the first steps were feeble: simple narrative, mere story-telling, almost without reflection or moral, though free from anything repulsive, seems to have been the utmost the authors of that period attempted or accomplished. No deep study of human nature, no strong probing of the heart, or accurate representation of the passions, appears to have been thought of; the art of fiction was still confined to a mere tale; it soared neither to philosophical nor dramatic interest. Besides, so much of the old taste for the wonderful lingered among the as yet half-prepared minds of the readers, that marvellous and impossible adventures, useless and often clumsily introduced horrors, and gratuitous crimes, continued to be the means of exciting interest, while gentler touches were neglected. The necessity for explaining ultimately to a rational reader any apparently supernatural machinery was not acknowledged; and thus unnecessary ghosts, and marvels unaccounted for, crowd the writings of our earlier novelists. Broad humour there was, occasionally; and perhaps, coarse as it might be, it was the line in which some of them were most successful; but the finer strokes of pathos, or of fancy, which have delighted the present age, and which touch the heart while they engage the sympathies of the reader, had not yet been called out.

It was reserved for the writers of the last half century to work out the vein thus opened for them by their predecessors, and to carry the Novel to its perfection, by raising it, in manner as well as matter, to the level of the highest productions of our literature. We mean, that they arrived at a perfect style of writing for the class of subjects they took up-that they have completely understood the full scope and capabilities of the Novel as a work of art; not that they have, or that any one school of writers can, exhaust the resources of so copious a mine.

The names which, in our estimation, make each an epoch in the art of novel writing, because each is connected with a further step in advance in the treatment of fictitious subjects, are, among the English, Richardson, Fielding, Edgworth, Scott; among the French, Genlis, Cottin, and Staël; the Germans have one master-genius in Goethe, and the Italians another, who has reached perfection in his walk, Manzoni.

What then, it will be asked, is the true province of the Novel? what its legitimate scope and capabilities?

The Novel, in our opinion, may be viewed under a twofold aspect; as a work of talent and literature, or as a work of morals and instruction. Under the former, we consider it as subject to the same canons of taste, and capable of equal beauties of language and composition, with the most polished works of invention. Under the latter, it must be judged by its philosophical or religious tendencies, its aptness to support-whether in principle or in colouring-the moral tone of society, either in the characters, the sentiments, or the general drift of the story.

In all these particulars, it has been reserved for the writers of our century to strike out a new path in which the mind and the amusement of the reader have been equally consulted. They have thrown aside the cumbrous machinery of the old romances, while they have, at the same

time, managed to create an interest by retaining, according to the nature of the story, as much as was needed of their attractions. They have adopted the picturesqueness of chivalry, its spirit, its superstitions, and its costume, without giving way to that love of exaggerated sentiment, or marvellous legends, which, by exciting the imagination without satisfying the reason, made of the older works of fiction something little better than the fables of the nursery. Fables and fairy tales may have their moral and their common sense, scarce concealed by their simple disguise; their airy garb itself may be graceful and poetical, and, after all, the credulity of even the age to which they are addressed is not hardly taxed whether to swallow or reject them; but monstrous giants, unnatural catastrophes, miraculous deliverances, are too easily seen through in these days of accurate physical knowledge to have any hold on the understanding, and, consequently, soon lose whatever power they may have gained over the imagination.

In place of these supernatural wonders, the more sober pencil of the modern novelist contents itself with merely heightening the colouring of things that exist, with skilfully combining not only possibilities, but probabilities; and with weaving the whole into a texture embellished by points of individual character, and strengthened by occasional touches of moral or philosophical reflection. By these means, a species of reading that has been proverbial as a resource of idleness, or a light food for minds incapable of digesting more solid kinds of literature, has been successfully converted into a vehicle for the most interesting and solid information.

After these remarks, it will not excite surprise if we honestly declare that we have the highest opinion of the capabilities of the Novel, in the widest and most enlarged sense of the word. We think it opens an almost inexhaustible field to genius of the first order in its opportunities for historical narrative, for domestic and local painting, as well as for the development of those minor traits of social feeling and manners which in general escape the notice of the professed historian or moralist. For we consider it not the least among the good qualities of the higher order of Modern Novels, that even in those which deal chiefly with the tamer scenes of every-day life, and whose characters are taken from among the commonplace members of society, there are natural openings for reviewing, criticising, or condemning those many little failings which contribute more or less to detract from our own happiness or that of those who surround us. In a word, the faults of temper, of vanity, of pride, petty jealousies, and small deceits, and various other peccadilloes of both sexes, may find due and appropriate castigation in a well-told novel, while they escape the censure of the formal essay or the impressive sermon.

We consider, then, that in the hands of an author who is worthy of his task, and who has a thorough determination to inculcate what is useful, as well as to relate what shall be amusing to his readers-the task will prove to be fully worthy of the author. The Novel may combine, in skilful hands, the elements, and many of the highest attributes of poetry, history, and the drama. Essentially epic, as we consider it in its framework, it may become poetical in both imagery and description; correctly founded, as it ought to be, on history, it may become a serviceable handmaid to her in the delineation of real characters as well as in the description of manners; while, in the more purely fictive parts, it is unnecessary to point out how completely dramatic the dialogue, the cast of characters,

and even the plot may, and almost necessarily must, be in anything like a superior composition of this class. Susceptible of the deep interest of tragedy, as well as of the lighter humour of comedy, it is, in great measure, subject to the same rules, and in still greater measure open to their beauties.

But we have been insensibly led away by the train of our reflections from the considerations of the novel before us; which, although the work of an anonymous author, or, as we suspect, authoress, is presented to the public by one who already deserves so well of them as a publisher, that his name alone is a recommendation.

"Lamia; a Confession," is presented to the world in the modest form of two volumes only, a departure from the usual practice which we are not sorry to observe commencing among the late publications of this nature. The normal number of three volumes to a novel, as that of fourteen lines to a sonnet, has led to more verbiage, more flimsy writing -in a word, to more dilatation and dilution of genuine English, if we may so express ourselves, than any other of the numerous causes of slovenly and inelegant composition. In the present case, although the story, as a story, is fully related and borne out to its natural conclusion within the short compass of two volumes, we are sorry that the work had not been prolonged to the usual length, for reasons which will be apparent in our analysis of it. For, though the moral foundation of the story is deeply laid, the superstructure, rich as it is in the consequences legitimately drawn from the principles which it is the object of the book to enforce, is yet too slightly developed to do full justice to the sound lessons which those principles inculcate. In short, we wish there was more of it; the subject is new and well-chosen, and would have well borne further illustration; while the characters, scenes, and manners, which strike us as being not only happily touched, but agreeably diversified, would not have been the worse for a more minute elaboration. It would, however, be injustice to the author not to state the scope and object of the work in his own words, which we take from the preface:

The following narrative is offered as the result of some reflection, and of some experience also, of the want of sound and deeply-seated religious principle in the education of the gifted few, who show, from early youth, the indications of a superior mind.

The most careful attention of parents is commonly directed to the slow and less excitable capacities of children, whose want of quickness is erroneously supposed to require more guidance because, at a certain period, they have need of more tuition; while the precocious intellect of the forward boy or sensitive girl is left, it is thought safely, to their own responsibility, on no better grounds than that "they are able to do anything they please, when they like it."

The unfortunate victims of such negligent education are doubly to be excused for their faults, as well as pitied for the acute feelings of sorrow and remorse with which they are sure to be sooner or later visited, when, the illusion of their youth having faded, seeking rest and finding none, the very talents and sensibility with which they have been endowed become their most implacable tormentors.

No end can be more lamentable than that of one who is then conscious for the first time of the hollow views of science and the deceitful colourings of art; of the void of rational philosophy, as applied to the prospects of immortality; whose mental weakness is unsupported by faith; whose physical sufferings are not alleviated by resignation. This, alas, may occur to the finest and most cultivated, if not most regulated, minds; to the best and most kindly natural dispositions, to which philosophy and letters, art and science, are but as snares, if unaccompanied by the guardian angel of religion.

The truth of the principles laid down in the foregoing extract will

hardly be disputed; we proceed, therefore, to sum up the narrative which professes to give an exemplification of them.

Though not altogether simple in its plot, it is not by any means remarkably complicated; the complications, such as they are, flow naturally from the events and characters of the story, and ultimately nothing is left unexplained. It must be premised, indeed, that we here speak of the "Confession" itself, in which the whole story is comprised; and, in passing, we must object to the plan, though not unskilfully executed in the present instance, of beginning at the end of the course of events, and making the principal actor in those events relate the story. This form of composition naturally cramps the writer, and, in a longer work, might probably become not a little wearisome to the reader from its unavoidable monotony.

But to proceed with our book. An English nobleman of fortune and talent, Lord Rainham, has married a Roman Catholic wife. After a few years of uninterrupted happiness, she dies, leaving him with two young daughters, who are drawn as exhibiting the strongest contrast in their natural characters, and who, both possessed of great abilities, derive from an equally careful education (in the common sense of the term) results widely different. On this hangs the moral of the tale.

Lord Rainham's own family being of a decided Calvinistic turn in matters of religion, his position between two extremes of party in the Church is represented, with great truth of colouring, as most uncomfortable, and has led him, though a virtuous man, to adopt, after the death of his wife, a tone of great indifference on religious subjects. Philosophical himself, he leaves his children to form their own belief partly from the imperfect remembrance of their mother's bigoted Catholicism, partly from the gleanings of their own ill-directed studies. The consequence is, as might be foreseen, that the bent of their natural characters, slightly modified by circumstances of no great moment, determines their religious course through life. The eldest, Iris, devoted to abstruse reading, and described as the beautiful image of calmness and abstraction, yet good and pious withal, is forcibly contrasted with her younger sister, Lamia, ardent, impetuous, capable of great virtues, which none are at the pains to instil into her, and of great faults, which are the ready growth of a neglected mind. Iris devotes herself with enthusiasm to science, especially to astronomy; Lamia, with equal fervour to art, more particularly to music. There is, as may well be conceived, little cordiality, and no confidence, between the sisters.

The character of Iris is prettily drawn, and exemplifies one of those quiet and unimpassioned temperaments which are occasionally found in connexion with considerable quickness of apprehension and fondness for study, though devoid of the outward indications of genius. Beneath this apparently cold surface lies a warm and affectionate heart, an earnest disposition to piety, and a latent love for her sister, which the difference between their minds unhappily represses. Lamia, on the other hand, with a soul capable of great things, an understanding rather bold than enlightened, but very little cultivated, is absorbed alternately by her music, her love of distinction, and by her unfortunate jealousy of Iris. Some years after their mother's death, with which the real narrative opens, Iris attains her majority. Heiress to her father's title and fortune, endowed with a majestic style of beauty, in keeping with her noble and