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Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
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Critics are not tlie legislators but the mdges and police of literature . They do not make Jaws—they interpret and try to enforce them— Edinburgh Rexnew .
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The literary event of the week in France has been George Sand ' s new drame , Claudie—performed with immense success , and , according to Jules Janin , the success was deserved . It is a drame idyll : the action passes wholly amidst rustic scenes , and a perfume as of new made hay impregnates the air ; but the story itself is one of suffering and crime . George Sand has boldly ventured from the beaten track of dramatic morality and startled her audience with the novelty of truth .
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TIME , TIIK AVENGER . Time , ( he Avenger , liy the Author of Emilia AVynilham . . ' ? voln . C ' ollHirn . The authoress of Time , the Avenger , has had so many successes , and has delighted so large a public in her day , that she can afford to be told of the lamentable falling off exhibited by her late writings , and especially by this , her latest . There were scenes in The Admiral ' s Dduif liter which none but a woman of unusual talent could have written ; Mount Sorel also had delightful passages ; and Hmilia Wyndham , contemptible as a literary production , had a power of moving to tears which all Indies acknovledged . Instead ' of growing more dexterous in the use of materials and invention of
scenes , she has grown more and more careless , and scrambles together a mass of indifferent fragments , without even troubling herself to nhapv them into the semblance of a whole . She lias written as if to rival the rapidity of James were the one thing needful in an author ; this hurry-scurry of coinnonition , which a Scott , or a Dumas manage with some success , is fatal to the slender resources and vcrv limited ability of our authoress ; and we look upon htfr present work as an insult to Literature deserving castigation .
Copiousness of twuddlo has long boon her besetting sin ; and thin now assumes airs of immense philosophy and religious touching . " I fear I am very KoriouN , " she h iys in her imposing Avay , opening a chitptor ; " indeed I have been roproached with it . I never bugin to meditate upon human lift ' , but it will present itself to me- as a deeply sei ioiiH thing" -and wo are then informed that
Hamlet , has greater hold upon our affections than Tim Merry Wious of Windsor from which we may infer that this " serious " novelist ought to have a very powerful effect upon uk . Impossible to robe oneself in the professor ' s gown with greater uolemnity ! we -an . reverent wtudentH sit hushed to I ' tMteu to the revolutions of ; life , this great teacher will vouchsafe to na . We have first a terrific picture of remorse .
Kensington Gardens are not vast enough to contain the swelling agony of that tf self-concentrated man who is shaken , to his being ' s centre " by a passion all the magniloquence of the dictionary ' s hardest words cannot describe . He plunges amidst the shadows of the trees , and we follow-him , curious to know what is the danger " the intense sense of his deli - verance from which shook his inmost soul—overwhelming , as with a mighty tide , every foregone system of thought ^ submer . gijng , as by one vast wave , every former habit of wad— invading that inner citadel of bis heart—b * eafei « g into
strongholds , and rendering his oBce . nstead . fast soul one chaos of confused ^ nd tempestuous thought and feeling . " There is more of the same chaste style ; but that fragment will enable you to understand how a gentleman about whom one can write such superb sentences , a& he wanders in Kensington Gardens , must be an object of thrilling interest . All this " piling up the agony / ' as the iVmericajas call it , is not without a , purpose . We have here the exhibition of a great moral crisis- ^ a moral regeneration so deep and so vast that the . authoress cannot even begin her picture without this solemn
preparation : — " The enterpriae I an \ about to undertake i ^ tjie ^ aost difficult of any one I have as yet attempted , and possibly , to the mere novel reader , may prove the least interesting and attractive . " But as Milton , in the deep seriousness of an earnest mind , invoked for aid before he commenced his divine song—not the muses who preside over trie fine arts ; not those powers of grace and beauty which fascinate the imagination of mankind , bu ; that heavenly influence whose still small voice persuades the reason and strikes the inner heart . That spirit
' Which on the secret top Of Oreb or of Sinai did inspire That Shepherd who first taught the chosen seed , In the beginning-, how the Heavens and Earth Rose out of Chaos . * So I , in my humble , but , \ trust , as honest purpose , invoke the same high Power for assistance in the delineation of a yet more mighty work than that of reducing the rude voices of chaos into harmony . The work by which
the chaos of the inner soul—it » daFk contention of warring tempers and undisciplined cjesires is reduced to order ; and the new man , in his beautiful perfection , of moral symmetry , issues forth from amid the confused strife of thought and passion . Springing into fresh being under the influences of the great Spiritual Power ; that ' Son of Righteousness ' who hath risen upon the earth ' with healing on his wings . ' " A mighty task , indeed . "
A task of this kind might have made some serious spirits pause to prepare themselves by long and patient meditation ; but our authoress is not the woman to have misgivings ; she has read the book of Life from the preface to the imprint , and can tell you all about it at a moment ' s notice . Listen and learn ! That gentleman " whose foregone systems of thought" have been swamped as we saw , is a cold , stern , hardheaded man of sixty-five , who lias battled enough with the world without flinching , but now at last is struck . By what ? By calamity ? Yes , but of a peculiar kind . It is not loss of fortune that would " subinerge his foregone systems of thought j" it is not the death of those he loves
that makes his soul " start ati from a death-trance ; ga / . es astonished and appalled at this summons to account , &e . " It is not crime ; he is no criminal . Yet his remorse is . so terrilic that even our authorcss ' s ailluence of diction fails to represent it adequately . Having devoted thirteen pages to telling us what it wa . H not , she condescends to let us into the secret . Mr . Craiglethorpe has been accusing a fellow-muture unjustly—he believed him to be guilty , and now that he knows the accused is innocent and is acquitted , this u #° ny <>*' remorse seizes him because conscience tells him that he had not been guiltless of malignity in the prosecution , that he had not used the arm of the law for the purpose of protecting society , but also for the purpose of gratifying his own dislike .
Hits it is which submerges , as by u mighty wave , &e . ! 1 ? nt . you cannot from our account of it forwi a ti ue notion of the monstrous—the hyperbolical absurdity of this " leasjou of life . " Not onjy does the horror at bis criuie , and tho ecotacy of joy at his deliverance from it , submerge all foro gone systems of thought ; , and drive him like »• nmniiie about KeitHington ( Jardens , it actually brings on the great Moral Crisis of Spiritual Regeneration which iw the subject of the book ! U thcro un <{ then makes him poetjcul , mid for the uvst tiuu ? in livt ' -uiul-wxty yearn wveals to hun tho beauty of the moon the majesty of natural
For you must know our sensitive friend with the grey hairs has up to this time been a moist bard unspiritual man . Ho has never thought once about
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Tub number of the Edinburgh Review just issued contains an article which will greatly interest our readers , being nothing more nor less than a grand Whig demonstration of what English Socialism is in all its weakness . It is gratifying to find the Edinburgh thus boldly entering the arena , and condescending to notice specula- * tions which at the present day occupy some of our most active intellects ; gratifying , because the cause must be improved by all serious discussion of its principles . We know the readers of the Edinburgh are far more Socialist than its writers ; but the lofty platform from which the Review speaks gives both authority to its own teaching and relative importance to the doctrines it opposes . That it condescends to combat the Leader is a compliment of which we are sensible ; and that Mr . Thornton Hunt will reply at length to the arguments by which his positions are assailed we may venture to promise our readers . Meanwhile we call attention to the article , and particularly to the frank manly spirit in which it is written ; there is abundance of controversy but no obloquy ; in striking hard blows our adversary uses no foul language—far from it . He considers us misinformed and erring thinkers , but he never stoops to snatch up a lump of dirt to throw instead of an argument . It is pleasant and hopeful to find Socialism arriving at , the dignity of serious discussion . It is a significant fact that French Literature has of late vears undertaken to rehabilitate Courtezans , giving them a prominence which they have not had since the days of Horace and Catullus . True it is that France has . been celebrated for its Aspasias from the time of Ninon de l'Enclos downwards ; but now , besides the halo thrown by Victor Hugo in Marion , de Lprme and Angelo , by Alfred de MiiSSKt in Carmen , by George Sand in so many places , by Balzac , and recently on the stage in JjC Moineau de Lesbie , and Emile Anai eii ' s last piece , La Joueur de Flute—in all of which may be traced more or less of the impulsion of the imperishable Manon Lescuut—there is a tacit understanding that the Lorette ( a name given to the class because the Church of Notre Duine de la Lorette raises its spire amidst their favourite quarter ) is to figure as an actor , if not a principal , in all novels of the day . In England , " Oh , no , wtj never mention them ! " Such being the case , you may understand the sort of public interest , or rather fashionable curiosity excited b y Maiue J ) ui » lics ' sik— -the lovely and unfortunate girl who , from 1 H 45 to 1817 , was the Asi'AsiA of the hour—the object at which all opera-glasses wire pointed in every public fete- —a girl dying of consumption- —prodigal , reckless , foud of dress , of dissipation , of anything that would kill the hours which were killing her ! We can imagine Hoinething of tho " rage" created—we who , last . season , beheld a far more ignoble Ani » asia sending furtive glances over her bouquet to her admirerswe who have beheld her openly courting admiration , seated iu a box next to the l ) ucbei >« ami her lovely daughters —• we who have heard her repartees circulated in salons , their cynicism pausing for wit , their ellVontery for impudence ! - but the Parisian idol had in all points the advantage . It was well she ; died > so young . She was saved at , least from the fate with which IIokace heartlessly reproaches Lydia , whom ho once loved that of growing old , and sceingall her admirers desert her , while hIio wept over depurted grandeur : " Inviccin iinrchon uniirt ; ti iogunti-H Klchitj in . solo leviti miyiportu , " Sic . She died ; her goods and chattels were put up to aucfci < ni . All P |* i"U uttwuded . Wqmeu of high station were U > bv Wceu Ywitjng the boudoir of the
departed syren , admiring its elegance , perhaps hoping there to learn the secret of her spells . The sale was an event . Her comb and brush were bought at fabulous prices . The very gloves she once had worn were bought ; locks of her hair , billets doux , portraits—everything brought money —and her family was enriched by the inheritance of her from whom they turned aside with a shudder when she drove past them in the street .
Literature came to crown these honours . The son of Alexandre Dumas boldly chose her as the heroine of a novel , La Dame auw Camelias ; the success was so great that it is now reprinted in a classic form , with a preface by Jules Janin . If you have not read this story read it . Dumas the younger has shown excellent feeling in the work , no less than considerable talent _ One may deplore , indeed , the fact that a , youth should thus early in his career choose such a subject—one so unlike the freshness , the illusion , the poetry of youth!—but with that reservation we have nothing but praise to give .
Far otherwise is it with the son of Paul de Kock , who also throws upon our table his romance of a lorette . Brin d'Amour is an ignoble book , and coming from a young man a shocking book . All that is vulgar and odious in the subject he dwells upon—all that might be philosophical or humanly interesting is left out of sight . Paul de Kock is indecent , but his son is depraved . The books of the one betoken a coarse mind—with many glimpses of a better nature , and with much genuine drollery—but the other has an essentially dissolute tone , unredeemed either by humour or humanit }' .
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62 ® % t % Vn * 9 X * [ Saturday , - ¦ - ¦ —^—— ¦¦!¦! ¦ ¦¦¦¦ . ^
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Leader (1850-1860), Jan. 18, 1851, page 62, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse2.kdl.kcl.ac.uk/periodicals/l/issues/vm2-ncseproduct1866/page/14/
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