After this, we have not another word to say. Yes—one. Before Mr Cobden's meeting broke up, the Austrian loan had been subscribed for to more than the required amount.
[THE FRENCH NOVELS OF 1849.]
During the twelve months that have elapsed since we devoted a sheet of Maga to a flying glance at French novels and novelists, there has been a formidable accumulation upon our shelves of the produce of Paris and Brussels presses. Were their merit as considerable as their number, the regiment of pink, blue, and yellow octavos and duodecimos would need a whole magazine to do them justice. As it is, however, a line a volume would be too much to devote to some of them. The lull in literature which ensued in France, on the shock of the February revolution, has been succeeded by a revival of activity. Most of the old stagers have resumed the quill, and a few "green hands" have come forward. As yet, however, the efforts of the former have in few instances been particularly happy; whilst amongst the latter, there is no appearance worthy of note. Upon the whole, we think that the ladies have been at least as successful as the men. Here is a trio of tales from feminine pens, as good as anything that now lies before us. Hélène, although it may not greatly augment the well-established reputation of that accomplished authoress, Madame Charles Reybaud, is yet a very pleasing novel, approaching in character rather to a graceful English moral tale, than to the commonly received idea of a French romance. It is a story of the first Revolution; the scene is in Provence, and subsequently at Rochefort, on board ship, and in French Guiana. The chief characters are Helen, and her father, the Count do Blanquefort, a steadfast royalist, who traces back his ancestry to the crusades; her lover, a plebeian and Montagnard; her godmother, Madame do Rocabert, and Dom Massiot, a fanatic priest. Lovers of mysterious intrigues, and complicated plots, need not seek them in Madame Reybaud's novels, whose charm resides for the most part in elegance of style, graceful description, and delicate and truthful delineation of character. In one of her recent tales—a very attractive, if not a very probable one—Le Cadet de Colobrières, she admirably sketches the interior of a poor nobleman's dwelling, where all was pride, penury, and privation, for appearance sake. The companion and contrast to that painful picture, is her description of the domestic arrangements of Castle Rocabert, where ease, placidity, and comfort reign; where the ancient furniture is solid and handsome, the apartments commodious, the cheer abundant; where the antiquated waiting women, and venerable serving men, are clad after the most approved fashion of Louis the Fifteenth's day, and disciplined in accordance with the most precious traditions of aristocratic houses. Madame de Rocabert herself is a fine portrait, from the old French régime. Forty years long has she dwelt in her lonely chateau, isolated from the world, on the summit of a cloud-capped rock. Widowed at the age of twenty of an adored husband, she shut herself up to weep, and, as she hoped, to die. Contrary to her expectation, little by little she was comforted; she lived, she grew old. Time and religion had appeased her sorrow, and dried her tears. There is a tenderness and grace in Madame Reybaud's account of the widow's mourning and consolation, which reminds us of the exquisite pathos and natural touches of Madame d'Arbouville. That such a comparison should occur to us, is of itself a high compliment to Madame Reybaud, who, however, is unquestionably a very talented writer, and to the examination of whose collective works it is not impossible we may hereafter devote an article. At present, we pass on to a lady of a different stamp, who does not very often obtain commendation at our hands; and yet, in this instance, we know not why we should withhold approval from George Sand's last novel, La Petite Fadette, one of those seductive trifles which only Madame Dudevant can produce, and is free from the pernicious tendencies that disfigure too many of her works. In this place we can say little about it. A sketch of the plot would be of small interest, for it is as slight and inartificial as well may be; and an attempt to analyse the book's peculiar charm would lead us a length incompatible with the omnium-gatherum design of this article. La Petite Fadette is a story of peasant habits and superstitions, and these are treated with that consummate artistical skill for which George Sand is celebrated—every coarser tint of the picture mellowed and softened, but never wholly suppressed. Fadette, a precocious and clever child, and her brother, a poor deformed cripple, dwelt with their grandmother, a beldame cunning in herbs and simples, and who practises as a sort of quack doctress. The three are of no good repute in the country-side; Fadette, especially, with her large black eyes and Moorish complexion, her elf-like bearing and old-fashioned attire, is alternately feared and persecuted by the village children, who have nicknamed her the Cricket. But although her tongue is sharp, and often malicious, and her humour wilful and strange, the gipsy has both heart and head; and, above all, she has the true woman's skill to make herself beloved by him on whom she has secretly fixed her affections. This is the hero of the story—Landry, the handsome son of a farmer. Love works miracles with the spiteful slovenly Cricket, who hitherto has dressed like her grandmother, and squabbled with all comers. Although the style of George Sand's books is little favourable to extract, and that in this one the difficulty is increased by the introduction of provincialisms and peasant phrases, we will nevertheless translate the account of Fadette's transformation, and of its effect upon Landry, upon whom, as the reader will perceive, the charm has already begun to work.
"Sunday came at last, and Landry was one of the first at mass. He entered the church before the bells began to ring, knowing that la petite Fadette was accustomed to come early, because she always made long prayers, for which many laughed at her. He saw a little girl kneeling in the chapel of the Holy Virgin, but her back was turned to him, and her face was hidden in her hands, that she might pray without disturbance. It was Fadette's attitude, but it was neither her head-dress nor her figure, and Landry went out again to see if he could not meet her in the porch, which, in our country, we call the guenillière, because the ragged beggars stand there during service. But Fadette's rags were the only ones he could not see there. He heard mass without perceiving her, until, chancing to look again at the girl who was praying so devoutly in the chapel, he saw her raise her head, and recognised his Cricket, although her dress and appearance were quite new to him. The clothes were still the same—her petticoat of drugget, her red apron, and her linen coif without lace; but during the week she had washed and re-cut and re-sewn all that. Her gown was longer, and fell decently over her stockings, which were very white, as was also her coif, which had assumed the new shape, and was neatly set upon her well-combed black hair; her neckerchief was new, and of a pretty pale yellow, which set off her brown skin to advantage. Her boddice, too, she had lengthened, and, instead of looking like a piece of wood dressed up, her figure was as slender and supple as the body of a fine honey-bee. Besides all this, I know not with what extract of flowers or herbs she had washed her hands and face during the week, but her pale face and tiny hands looked as clear and as delicate as the white hawthorn in spring.
"Landry, seeing her so changed, let his prayer-book fall, and at the noise little Fadette turned herself about, and her eyes met his. Her cheek turned a little red—not redder than the wild rose of the hedges; but that made her appear quite pretty—the more so that her black eyes, against which none had ever been able to say anything, sparkled so brightly, that, for the moment, she seemed transfigured. And once more Landry thought to himself:
"'She is a witch; she wished to become pretty, from ugly that she was, and behold the miracle has been wrought!'
"A chill of terror came over him, but his fear did not prevent his having so strong a desire to approach and speak to her, that his heart throbbed with impatience till the mass was at an end.
"But she did not look at him again, and instead of going to run and sport with the children after her prayers, she departed so discreetly, that there was hardly time to notice how changed and improved she was. Landry dared not follow her, the less so that Sylvinet would not leave him a moment; but in about an hour he succeeded in escaping; and this time, his heart urging and directing him, he found little Fadette gravely tending her flock in the hollow road which they call the Traine-au-Gendarme, because one of the king's gendarmes was killed there by the people of La Cosse, in the old times, when they wished to force poor people to pay taillage, and to work without wage, contrary to the terms of the law, which already was hard enough, such as they had made it."