Or the bonnie woods of Warroch-head,
That I so fain would see?”
There may be people who are in no way moved by this home-coming, and who feel no joy when Queen Mary’s boat glides over the dark waters of Lochleven, and no horror at that ill-omened churchyard gossip which ushers in the dreadful wedding of Lammermoor. I do not envy them their composure; but what of King Louis’s visit to the Duke of Burgundy in Quentin Durward, a situation so tense with passion that the least imaginative reader may well tremble at the possibilities of every minute? What of the sacking of Liege, the siege of Front de Bœuf’s castle, the trial of Rebecca, the battle of Bothwell Bridge? He who could carry a chilly indifference through such narratives as these would not care if Shylock gained his suit, or King Harry lost the field of Agincourt. I doubt if he would really care whether Hector or Achilles won the fight.
The casual incidents of life, the trivial possibilities of every day, are treated by Dickens with extraordinary humor and skill; witness David Copperfield’s journey to Dover, and Oliver Twist’s first introduction to Fagin’s den. But his great situations are apt to be theatrical rather than dramatic. It is not often that he reaches the sombre strength and passion of that memorable scene where the convict reveals to Pip the secret of his mysterious wealth. I do not know whether a great many people read Bulwer’s novels nowadays. They belong to a past generation, which perhaps was luckier than the present. But I do know that the rescue of Glaucus from the arena was an epoch in my childhood, and the cry of joy that rings from Nydia’s lips rang in my heart for years. I have an inexpressible tenderness now for The Last Days of Pompeii, because of the passionate suspense with which I read it when I was a little girl, and the supreme gasp of relief with which I hailed the arrival of Sallust and Calenus, while the lion crouches trembling in his cage. It is not easy to criticise a book linked with such vivid memories, and perhaps it is the association with early pleasures which gilds for many of us the beguiling pages of romance. “We are all homesick, in the dark days and black towns, for the land of blue skies and brave adventures in forests, and in lonely inns, on the battle-field, in the prison, on the desert isle.” It is useless, and worse than useless, to dispute over the respective schools of fiction, instead of gladly enjoying that which we like best; and there are different kinds of enjoyment for different kinds of work. For my part, the good novel of character is the novel I can always pick up; but the good novel of incident is the novel I can never lay down.
THE END
FOOTNOTES
[1] “The Pilgrims of the Sun.”
[2] Translated by Sir Theodore Martin.
[3] Translation of Mr. Andrew Lang.
[4] Translation of Lilla Cabot Perry.