How do these rich historical and personal reminiscences come out of the subject at present in hand? What IS that subject, by the way? My dear friend, if you look at the last essaykin (though you may leave it alone, and I shall not be in the least surprised or offended), if you look at the last paper, where the writer imagines Athos and Porthos, Dalgetty and Ivanhoe, Amelia and Sir Charles Grandison, Don Quixote and Sir Roger, walking in at the garden-window, you will at once perceive that NOVELS and their heroes and heroines are our present subject of discourse17, into which we will presently plunge18. Are you one of us, dear sir, and do you love novel-reading? To be reminded of your first novel will surely be a pleasure to you. Hush19! I never read quite to the end of my first, the “Scottish Chiefs.” I couldn’t. I peeped in an alarmed furtive20 manner at some of the closing pages. Miss Porter, like a kind dear tender-hearted creature, would not have Wallace’s head chopped off at the end of Vol. V. She made him die in prison,27 and if I remember right (protesting I have not read the book for forty-two or three years), Robert Bruce made a speech to his soldiers, in which he said, “And Bannockburn shall equal Cambuskenneth.”28 But I repeat I could not read the end of the fifth volume of that dear delightful21 book for crying. Good heavens! It was as sad, as sad as going back to school.
27 I find, on reference to the novel, that Sir William died on the scaffold, not in prison. His last words were, “‘My prayer is heard. Life’s cord is cut by heaven. Helen! Helen! May heaven preserve my country, and —’ He stopped. He fell. And with that mighty22 shock the scaffold shook to its foundations.”
28 The remark of Bruce (which I protest I had not read for forty-two years), I find to be as follows:—“When this was uttered by the English heralds23, Bruce turned to Ruthven, with an heroic smile, ‘Let him come, my brave barons24! and he shall find that Bannockburn shall page with Cambuskenneth!’” In the same amiable26 author’s famous novel of “Thaddeus of Warsaw,” there is more crying than in any novel I ever remember to have read. See, for example, the last page. . . . “Incapable of speaking, Thaddeus led his wife back to her carriage. . . . His tears gushed27 out in spite of himself, and mingling28 with hers, poured those thanks, those assurances, of animated29 approbation30 through her heart, which made it even ache with excess of happiness.” . . . And a sentence or two further. “Kosciusko did bless him, and embalmed31 the benediction32 with a shower of tears.”
The glorious Scott cycle of romances came to me some four or five years afterwards; and I think boys of our year were specially33 fortunate in coming upon those delightful books at that special time when we could best enjoy them. Oh, that sunshiny bench on half-holidays, with Claverhouse or Ivanhoe for a companion! I have remarked of very late days some little men in a great state of delectation over the romances of Captain Mayne Reid, and Gustave Aimard’s Prairie and Indian Stories, and during occasional holiday visits, lurking34 off to bed with the volume under their arms. But are those Indians and warriors35 so terrible as our Indians and warriors were? (I say, are they? Young gentlemen, mind, I do not say they are not.) But as an oldster I can be heartily36 thankful for the novels of the 1-10 Geo. IV., let us say, and so downward to a period not unremote. Let us see there is, first, our dear Scott. Whom do I love in the works of that dear old master? Amo —
The Baron25 of Bradwardine and Fergus. (Captain Waverley is certainly very mild.)
Amo Ivanhoe; LOCKSLEY; the Templar.
Amo Quentin Durward, and especially Quentin’s uncle, who brought the boar to bay. I forget the gentleman’s name.
I have never cared for the Master of Ravenswood, or fetched his hat out of the water since he dropped it there when I last met him (circa 1825).
Amo SALADIN and the Scotch37 knight38 in the “Talisman.” The Sultan best.
Amo CLAVERHOUSE.
Amo MAJOR DALGETTY. Delightful Major. To think of him is to desire to jump up, run to the book, and get the volume down from the shelf. About all those heroes of Scott, what a manly39 bloom there is, and honorable modesty40! They are not at all heroic. They seem to blush somehow in their position of hero, and as it were to say, “Since it must be done, here goes!” They are handsome, modest, upright, simple, courageous41, not too clever. If I were a mother (which is absurd), I should like to be mother-inlaw to several young men of the Walter-Scott-hero sort.
Much as I like those most unassuming, manly, unpretending gentlemen, I have to own that I think the heroes of another writer, viz. —
LEATHER-STOCKING,
UNCAS,
HARDHEART,
TOM COFFIN42,
are quite the equals of Scott’s men; perhaps Leather-stocking is better than any one in “Scott’s lot.” La Longue Carabine is one of the great prize-men of fiction. He ranks with your Uncle Toby, Sir Roger de Coverley, Falstaff — heroic figures, all — American or British, and the artist has deserved well of his country who devised them.
At school, in my time, there was a public day, when the boys’ relatives, an examining bigwig or two from the universities, old schoolfellows, and so forth, came to the place. The boys were all paraded; prizes were administered; each lad being in a new suit of clothes — and magnificent dandies, I promise you, some of us were. Oh, the chubby43 cheeks, clean collars, glossy44 new raiment, beaming faces, glorious in youth — fit tueri coelum — bright with truth, and mirth, and honor! To see a hundred boys marshalled in a chapel45 or old hall; to hear their sweet fresh voices when they chant, and look in their brave calm faces; I say, does not the sight and sound of them smite46 you, somehow, with a pang47 of exquisite48 kindness? . . . Well. As about boys, so about Novelists. I fancy the boys of Parnassus School all paraded. I am a lower boy myself in that academy. I like our fellows to look well, upright, gentlemanlike. There is Master Fielding — he with the black eye. What a magnificent build of a boy! There is Master Scott, one of the heads of the school. Did you ever see the fellow more hearty49 and manly? Yonder lean, shambling, cadaverous lad, who is always borrowing money, telling lies, leering after the house-maids, is Master Laurence Sterne — a bishop’s grandson, and himself intended for the Church; for shame, you little reprobate50! But what a genius the fellow has! Let him have a sound flogging, and as soon as the young scamp is out of the whipping-room give him a gold medal. Such would be my practice if I were Doctor Birch, and master of the school.
Let us drop this school metaphor51, this birch and all pertaining52 thereto. Our subject, I beg leave to remind the reader’s humble53 servant, is novel heroes and heroines. How do you like your heroes, ladies? Gentlemen, what novel heroines do you prefer? When I set this essay going, I sent the above question to two of the most inveterate54 novel-readers of my acquaintance. The gentleman refers me to Miss Austen; the lady says Athos, Guy Livingston, and (pardon my rosy55 blushes) Colonel Esmond, and owns that in youth she was very much in love with Valancourt.
“Valancourt? and who was he?” cry the young people. Valancourt, my dears, was the hero of one of the most famous romances which ever was published in this country. The beauty and elegance56 of Valancourt made your young grandmammas’ gentle hearts to beat with respectful sympathy. He and his glory have passed away. Ah, woe57 is me that the glory of novels should ever decay; that dust should gather round them on the shelves; that the annual cheques from Messieurs the publishers should dwindle58, dwindle! Inquire at Mudie’s, or the London Library, who asks for the “Mysteries of Udolpho” now? Have not even the “Mysteries of Paris” ceased to frighten? Alas59, our novels are but for a season; and I know characters whom a painful modesty forbids me to mention, who shall go to limbo60 along with “Valancourt” and “Doricourt” and “Thaddeus of Warsaw.”
A dear old sentimental61 friend, with whom I discoursed62 on the subject of novels yesterday, said that her favorite hero was Lord Orville, in “Evelina,” that novel which Dr. Johnson loved so. I took down the book from a dusty old crypt at a club, where Mrs. Barbauld’s novelists repose63: and this is the kind of thing, ladies and gentlemen, in which your ancestors found pleasure:—
“And here, whilst I was looking for the books, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and, approaching me with a look of anxiety, said, ‘Is this true, Miss Anville — are you going?’
“‘I believe so, my lord,’ said I, still looking for the books.
“‘So suddenly, so unexpectedly: must I lose you?’
“‘No great loss, my lord,’ said I, endeavoring to speak cheerfully.
“‘Is it possible,’ said he, gravely, ‘Miss Anville can doubt my sincerity64?’
“‘I can’t imagine,’ cried I, ‘what Mrs. Selwyn has done with those books.’
“‘Would to heaven,’ continued he, ‘I might flatter myself you would allow me to prove it!’
“‘I must run up stairs,’ cried I, greatly confused, ‘and ask what she has done with them.’
“‘You are going then,’ cried he, taking my hand, ‘and you give me not the smallest hope of any return! Will you not, my too lovely friend, will you not teach me, with fortitude65 like your own, to support your absence?’
“‘My lord,’ cried I, endeavoring to disengage my hand, ‘pray let me go!’
“‘I will,’ cried he, to my inexpressible confusion, dropping on one knee, ‘if you wish me to leave you.’
“‘Oh, my lord,’ exclaimed I, ‘rise, I beseech66 you; rise. Surely your lordship is not so cruel as to mock me.’
“‘Mock you!’ repeated he earnestly, ‘no, I revere67 you. I esteem68 and admire you above all human beings! You are the friend to whom my soul is attached, as to its better half. You are the most amiable, the most perfect of women; and you are dearer to me than language has the power of telling.’
“I attempt not to describe my sensations at that moment; I scarce breathed; I doubted if I existed; the blood forsook69 my cheeks, and my feet refused to sustain me. Lord Orville hastily rising supported me to a chair upon which I sank almost lifeless.
“I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraven on my heart; but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for repetition; nor would he, in spite of my repeated efforts to leave him, suffer me to escape; in short, my dear sir, I was not proof against his solicitations, and he drew from me the most sacred secret of my heart!”29
29 Contrast this old perfumed, powdered D’Arblay conversation
with the present modern talk. If the two young people
wished to hide their emotions now-a-days, and express
themselves in modest language, the story would run:—
“Whilst I was looking for the books, Lord Orville came in.
He looked uncommonly70 down in the mouth, as he said: ‘Is this
true, Miss Anville; are you going to cut?’
“‘To absquatulate, Lord Orville,’ said I, still pretending
that I was looking for the books.
“‘You are very quick about it,’ said he.
“‘Guess it’s no great loss,’ I remarked, as cheerfully as I
could.
“‘You don’t think I’m chaffing?’ said Orville, with much
emotion.
“‘What has Mrs. Selwyn done with the books?’ I went on.
“‘What, going’ said he, ‘and going for good? I wish I was
such a good-plucked one as you, Miss Anville,’” &c.
The conversation, you perceive, might be easily written down
to this key; and if the hero and heroine were modern, they
would not be suffered to go through their dialogue on
stilts71, but would converse72 in the natural graceful73 way at
present customary. By the way, what a strange custom that
is in modern lady novelists to make the men bully74 the women!
In the time of Miss Porter and Madame D’Arblay, we have
respect, profound bows and curtsies, graceful courtesy, from
men to women. In the time of Miss Bronte, absolute
rudeness. Is it true, mesdames, that you like rudeness, and
are pleased at being ill-used by men? I could point to more
than one lady novelist who so represents you.
Other people may not much like this extract, madam, from your favorite novel, but when you come to read it, YOU will like it. I suspect that when you read that book which you so love, you read it a deux. Did you not yourself pass a winter at Bath, when you were the belle75 of the assembly? Was there not a Lord Orville in your case too? As you think of him eleven lustres pass away. You look at him with the bright eyes of those days, and your hero stands before you, the brave, the accomplished76, the simple, the true gentleman; and he makes the most elegant of bows to one of the most beautiful young women the world ever saw; and he leads you out to the cotillon, to the dear unforgotten music. Hark to the horns of Elfand, blowing, blowing! Bonne vieille, you remember their melody, and your heart-strings thrill with it still.
Of your heroic heroes, I think our friend Monseigneur Athos, Count de la Fere, is my favorite. I have read about him from sunrise to sunset with the utmost contentment of mind. He has passed through how many volumes? Forty? Fifty? I wish for my part there were a hundred more, and would never tire of him reselling prisoners, punishing ruffians, and running scoundrels through the midriff with his most graceful rapier. Ah, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, you are a magnificent trio. I think I like d’Artagnan in his own memoirs77 best. I bought him years and years ago, price fivepence, in a little parchment-covered Cologne-printed volume, at a stall in Gray’s Inn Lane. Dumas glorifies78 him and makes a Marshal of him; if I remember rightly, the original d’Artagnan was a needy79 adventurer, who died in exile very early in Louis XIV.‘s reign80. Did you ever read the “Chevalier d’Harmenthal?” Did you ever read the “Tulipe Noire,” as modest as a story by Miss Edgeworth? I think of the prodigal81 banquets to which this Lucullus of a man has invited me, with thanks and wonder. To what a series of splendid entertainments he has treated me! Where does he find the money for these prodigious82 feasts? They say that all the works bearing Dumas’s name are not written by him. Well? Does not the chief cook have aides under him? Did not Rubens’s pupils paint on his canvases? Had not Lawrence assistants for his backgrounds? For myself, being also du metier, I confess I would often like to have a competent, respectable, and rapid clerk for the business part of my novels; and on his arrival, at eleven o’clock, would say, “Mr. Jones, if you please, the archbishop must die this morning in about five pages. Turn to article ‘Dropsy’ (or what you will) in Encyclopaedia83. Take care there are no medical blunders in his death. Group his daughters, physicians, and chaplains round him. In Wales’s ‘London,’ letter B, third shelf, you will find an account of Lambeth, and some prints of the place. Color in with local coloring. The daughter will come down, and speak to her lover in his wherry at Lambeth Stairs,” &c., &c. Jones (an intelligent young man) examines the medical, historical, topographical books necessary; his chief points out to him in Jeremy Taylor (fol., London, M.DCLV.) a few remarks, such as might befit a dear old archbishop departing this life. When I come back to dress for dinner, the archbishop is dead on my table in five pages; medicine, topography, theology, all right, and Jones has gone home to his family some hours. Sir Christopher is the architect of St. Paul’s. He has not laid the stones or carried up the mortar84. There is a great deal of carpenter’s and joiner’s work in novels which surely a smart professional hand might supply. A smart professional hand? I give you my word, there seem to me parts of novels — let us say the love-making, the “business,” the villain85 in the cupboard, and so forth, which I should like to order John Footman to take in hand, as I desire him to bring the coals and polish the boots. Ask ME indeed to pop a robber under a bed, to hide a will which shall be forthcoming in due season, or at my time of life to write a namby-pamby love conversation between Emily and Lord Arthur! I feel ashamed of myself, and especially when my business obliges me to do the love-passages, I blush so, though quite alone in my study, that you would fancy I was going off in an apoplexy. Are authors affected86 by their own works? I don’t know about other gentlemen, but if I make a joke myself I cry; if I write a pathetic scene I am laughing wildly all the time — at least Tomkins thinks so. You know I am such a cynic!
The editor of the Cornhill Magazine (no soft and yielding character like his predecessor87, but a man of stern resolution) will only allow these harmless papers to run to a certain length. But for this veto I should gladly have prattled88 over half a sheet more, and have discoursed on many heroes and heroines of novels whom fond memory brings back to me. Of these books I have been a diligent89 student from those early days, which are recorded at the commencement of this little essay. Oh, delightful novels, well remembered! Oh, novels, sweet and delicious as the raspberry open-tarts of budding boyhood! Do I forget one night after prayers (when we under-boys were sent to bed) lingering at my cupboard to read one little half-page more of my dear Walter Scott — and down came the monitor’s dictionary upon my head! Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York, I have loved thee faithfully for forty years! Thou wert twenty years old (say) and I but twelve, when I knew thee. At sixty odd, love, most of the ladies of thy Orient race have lost the bloom of youth, and bulged90 beyond the line of beauty; but to me thou art ever young and fair, and I will do battle with any felon91 Templar who assails92 thy fair name.
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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slippers
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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10
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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distinguished
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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17
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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18
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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19
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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20
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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21
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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24
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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26
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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27
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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28
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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29
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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31
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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32
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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33
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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35
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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39
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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41
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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48
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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50
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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51
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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52
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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53
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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glorifies
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| 赞美( glorify的第三人称单数 )； 颂扬； 美化； 使光荣 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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encyclopaedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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assails
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| v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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