THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE; by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c. New York: Published by Harper & Brothers—1834.
Mr. Bulwer's novels have acquired no inconsiderable degree of popularity in the circles of fashionable literature. Whether they are destined to survive the temporary admiration bestowed on them, is at this time a subject of speculation; but in the next generation, will become matter of fact. We are among those who think that they will quietly glide into that oblivious ocean, which is destined to receive a large proportion of the ever multiplying productions of this prolific age. We do not say this either, in disparagement of many of those labors of the mind which even intrinsic excellence cannot save from perishing. Great and valuable as some of them undoubtedly are, such is the onward march of intellect, and such the endless creations which fancy and genius are continually rearing for man's gratification and improvement,—to say nothing of the almost illimitable progress of science, that posterity will find no room for the thousandth part of our present stock of literature. We do not anticipate that Mr. Bulwer's writings will be among the select few which will outlive the general wreck; because, unless we are much mistaken, he is one of those authors who write more for present than permanent fame. This is emphatically the age of great moral and mental excitability. It is a period of incessant restlessness and activity; and he who would expect to command much attention, must seek to gratify the appetite for novelty and variety, even at the expense of good sense, sound morality and correct taste. We incline to the opinion that Mr. Bulwer has forgotten, that society in the aggregate, frequently resembles the individual man; and that whilst it often experiences paroxysms of unnatural excitement, there are long lucid intervals of returning reason and sober simplicity. The volume before us is not calculated, we think, to leave any lasting impression, either of good or evil. Whilst it certainly abounds in felicitous language, and contains passages of fine sentiment, it is grossly defective both in plot and machinery; and if it were worth while to descend to minute criticism, it would be easy to point out many examples of false morality as well as false taste. Mr. Bulwer seems to have been aware, in his preface, that he was making a bold experiment upon popular favor, and accordingly he claims the reader's "indulgence for the superstitions he has incorporated with his tale—for the floridity of his style, and the redundance of his descriptions." As if somewhat apprehensive, however, that that indulgence might not possibly be granted, he assures the public that "various reasons have conspired to make this the work, above all others that he has written, which has given him the most delight (though not unmixed with melancholy,) in producing, and in which his mind, for the time, has been the most completely absorbed." A popular writer, thus bespeaking the public approbation in advance, by stamping his last production with his own decided preference, could not expect to be treated uncourteously by his readers. In the first sentence of the second chapter too, the author declares as follows: "I wish only for such readers as give themselves heart and soul up to me: if they begin to cavil, I have done with them; their fancy should put itself entirely under my management." Now whether it proceeded from a spirit of perverseness or not, we cannot tell; but we resolved when we read this passage, neither to surrender our heart, fancy or judgment to Mr. Bulwer's guidance. On the contrary, we determined to read the book and decide on its merits, in the spirit of perfect impartiality and entire independence. The story upon which the work is founded—at least that part of it which treats of mortal affairs, consists of the simplest materials. Trevylyan, a gentleman of "a wild, resolute and active nature, who had been thrown upon the world at the age of sixteen, and had passed his youth in alternate pleasure, travel and solitary study," falls in love with Gertrude Vane, a young girl, described as "the loveliest person that ever dawned upon a poet's vision." A fatal disease, "consumption in its most beautiful shape," had set its seal upon her, and yet Trevylyan loved with an irresistible passion. With the consent, rather than by the advice of the faculty and her friends, the young and interesting invalid, attended by her father and lover, goes upon a pilgrimage up the beautiful and romantic Rhine. From that pilgrimage she never returned; but in one of those wild and legendary spots which impart such interest to that celebrated stream—a spot selected by herself as her last grassy couch, she breathed out her gentle spirit, and quietly sunk to her lasting repose. Such is the simple thread upon which Mr. Bulwer has contrived to weave a variety of German legends and fairy fictions, having no necessary connection with the main story, except that the principal episodes were suggested by some remarkable scenery or some castellated ruin on the banks of the Rhine. The underplot, if it may be so called, or the adventures of Nymphalin, queen of the fairies, and her Elfin court, is altogether unworthy of Mr. Bulwer's genius. It is rather a bungling attempt to revive the exploded machinery of supernatural agency; and we moreover do not perceive any possible connection or sympathy between these imaginary beings and the principal personages of the tale. Apart from other considerations, the actions and conversations of these roving elves are destitute of all interest and attraction; and nothing in our eyes appears more preposterous than the introduction of the Lord Treasurer into Queen Nymphalin's train. We always thought that the fairies were mischievous spirits—sometimes a little wicked, and often very benevolent; but never before did we suspect that this ideal population of the world of fancy, manifested any concern in the dry subject of finance, or in the unfairy-like establishment of a regular exchequer. The story of "The Wooing of Master Fox," related for the amusement of Queen Nymphalin, making every allowance for the author's design in introducing it, is to our taste unutterably disgusting and ridiculous.
We have no objection to the occasional use of the fairy superstition in tales of fancy; no more than we have to the frequent classical allusions to heathen mythology which distinguish the best writers. They are pleasing and beautiful illustrations, when happily introduced. But we do protest against lifting the veil from the world of imagination, and investing its shadowy beings with the common place attributes, the vulgar actions and frivolous dialogue of mere mortals. It is in truth dispelling the illusion in which the spirit of poetry delights to indulge. It takes away the most powerful charm from the cool and sequestered grotto, the shady grove or moonlit bower. It vulgarises the world of romance, and reduces the region of mind to a level with brute sense, or even coarser matter.
Condemning as we do, in perfect good faith, these exceptionable portions of Mr. Bulwer's volume, we take pleasure in awarding due praise to some of the legends and stories introduced into the work, and which are for the most part related by Trevylyan for the amusement of Gertrude. Of these, we give the decided preference to "The Brothers" and "The Maid of Malines." The latter indeed, strikes us as so finished an illustration of some of the noble qualities of woman kind, that we have determined to present it entire for the benefit of our readers.
THE MAID OF MALINES.
It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English usually term it: the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to divine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St. Rembauld, had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of the sacred edifice.
A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the ground, and apparently listening for some sound; for, without raising his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with an intent and anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand a staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on the ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice, "Fido, Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not: the dog, wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the blind man to seek his way as he might to his solitary inn.