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We were much pleased with the former productions of this writer, and sat down to peruse the work before us with a prepossession in its favor. We find in it the same strain of playful irony, which is displayed in the Gossip's Story, but we think less judiciously applied, and accompanied with a diffuseness, and frequency of digression, which, with the constant recurrence of metaphorical personification, is highly injurious to the narrative: for, however we may admire the effect of classical allusions, when judiciously and appositely introduced, either in a description of nature or in tracing the effects of the passions, we do not think them by any means appropriate embellishments of a narrative of events. The style is broken by perpetual quotations, which seldom illustrate the meaning of the author; in many instances where the original passage is sublime, it becomes ludicrous by being torn away from its surrounding images, and annexed to others of an opposite or inferior kind, as, when a father's plan for marrying his daughter to his nephew is defeated by the young man's declining the match, he is astonished to see 'the cloud capt tower' he had been so many years erecting, prove in one moment to be only 'the baseless fabric of a vision.' She treats her contemporary novel writers with an asperity not perfectly consistent with unprejudiced liberality: such passages as the following frequently occur.

But notwithstanding my passionate love of fame compels me to adopt the most fashionable, that is, the certain method of obtaining it, I cannot quite conquer the common foible of old people' (the author writes under the assumed character of an old woman) 'that of looking back to the times I have seen, and thinking them somewhat better than the present days. Indeed now and then I am rude enough to conjecture that the modern Parnassus is seated very near that 'windy sea of land' which Milton names the Limbo of Vanity, the residence of

'All th'unaccomplish'd works of Nature's hand
Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mixed.'

[604]Regretting that simple elegance and rational amusement should be sacrificed to high sounding phrases, and inconceivable wonders, signifying nothing, I sometimes invoke the shades of Addison, Goldsmith, and Fielding; and, after having contemplated the forms of nature or morality which their antiquated pages present, I in vain endeavor to be amused with ghosts and dungeons, incident without character, or character without effect.

The author, however, does not exhaust her satiric quiver on rival writers: many of her shafts are well aimed at the vices and follies of the age, and we think she has well executed what may be called the subordinate objects of her plan; but its great purpose is to combat a particular system, which, employing her principal force, renders her inattentive to the more essential moral of the story. Young people, especially young females, and more especially such as are novel readers, are more acted upon by passion and example than by system, and to such, the example of the heroine, and the dazzling brilliance with which she is adorned, will be more dangerous, than the fallacious, and unalluring scepticism of what she calls her 'complete villain.'

The heroine is described as being 'at the age of seventeen an enchanting beauty; polite, sensible, accomplished, affable, and generous; the idol of her father, the delight of her friends and dependants, the envy of the neighbourhood, and the object to which every man of fortune in the country secretly aspired.

------- 'She was indeed the glass
Wherein the neighbouring youth did dress themselves.' ----

In her conduct as a wife and mother she is styled admirable, but there are no facts to correspond with these assertions; the author indeed ascribes to her the highest merit in leaving the gay scenes of London, when summoned to Scotland on account of the dangerous illness of her child, 'though not insensible to the blandishments of adulation, and the seductions of pleasure.'

She becomes acquainted with Fitzosborne, 'the complete villain,' who succeeds in making her suppose he is in love with her, and that he struggles to subdue his passion. Does she assist this man in these supposed struggles by avoiding him? no, 'to chear his seeming dejection, she exerted all the brilliant powers of her mind, and all the fascinating graces of her numerous accomplishments. Charmed out of his pretended melancholy, he seemed to bestow a listless attention, varying the contour of his expressions, as the style of her attractions required, sometimes terminating his silent adulation by exclaiming 'happy Monteith' [meaning her husband (AR reviewer)]. But the heroine revolts not from the coarseness of this homage, which indeed seems by this statement to have been extorted by her sedulous attentions to him.

She had often lamented that her Lord's volatile temper deprived her of that supporting judgment, and directing care, which the [605] conjugal institution has intended to afford to the softer sex; though not doubtful of her own conduct, she naturally wished it should receive the approbation of an observing eye, and a consciousness of her own abilities was attended with some repugnance to their 'wasting their sweetness on the desart air.' The friend, the adviser, she had long wished for, now presented himself to her, and she fancied her own character might acquire additional lustre, by imbibing the splendor of so fair an archetype!

We turn from this calculation of vanity, which our author might fairly have classed with the 'novelties of the eighteenth century,' to attend the heroine and her Cecisbeo to a ball, where she retires with him to an orangery, at a distance from the company, for the purpose of seeing 'a Jacobea Lily in full blow,' and when there, 'is so fascinated by the brightness of the Stars,' as not to have perceived that a lady who had accompanied them thither had left them. They are discovered by some of the company, who throw out the most malicious insinuations on the incident; and she, 'no longer able to rally her spirits, relieved the ladies from the pain of suppressed merriment, by taking leave.' She returns home, where her Cecisbeo is an inmate, expresses to him the poignancy of her feelings at what she calls 'the spirit of detraction and inconsiderateness, which she had just encountered,' and although, with correspondent outrage against decency, she suffers him to remain tête à tête with her, concerting on the best means of obviating the apprehended reports, until five in the morning, though he drops on his knee, though he tells her she 'is richly worthy of a better fate, after having in the course of the same evening called her husband puzzled-pated,' without any consequent resentment on her part, yet we are told that 'he had never before encountered the resistance of a firm superiour mind, or so strongly seen 'the loveliness of virtue in her own form,' or felt 'how awful goodness is!'

But the contradictions between the statement of facts, the motives assigned for them, and the inferences deduced, are so strange, as to give the whole history of Lady Monteith the air of a studied palliation of the conduct of some actual demirep, rather than of a novel, where the incidents, as well as the sentiments, are at the command of the author. As guardians of the morals of our fair readers, we have thus patiently substantiated our disapprobation of this work, as far as its influence can operate on female manners.

The characters of Lord Monteith and Fitzosborne are drawn with equal inconsistency and improbability, the former a well-disposed, unaffected, and what may be called a worthy character, and an affectionate and very indulgent husband, though not invulnerable to the fashionable vices which are artfully thrown in his way: from a parity of reasoning we think this character does not appear to be a fictitious one, any more than that of [606] Lady Monteith, but he is as unjustly depreciated as she is extolled.

Fitzosborne is represented as an inconsistent and most joyless villain, or rather as a most incongruous nonentity.

Fitzosborne was not a sensualist. Beauty was to him a mere abstract quality, particularly when associated to the ideas of a wife. His frigid heart was too cold, and too selfish to prompt his diabolical invention, or to extenuate his crimes. His vices were systematic, the result of design, &c.

But we are not informed what are his motives for this design. Is it possible to suppose a vicious and depraved character, and a coward, acting without any self-gratification, sacrificing a present good for the chance of a future contingency, not to be obtained without great personal danger, not only from those he means to injure, but from the laws of his country, - and this merely for the purpose of propagating the new philosophy? And that, at the moment when he has it in his power to marry a beautiful woman of rank and fortune, he should form deep schemes against the honor of Lady Monteith, without feeling any passion for her, is a solecism even in the annals of vice. His absurd speculation for getting possession of her fortune, by means of a marriage with her, after she shall have been divorced from her husband, is a conclusion by no means warranted by the wholesome severity exercised towards adulterers by our present L. C. Justice of the King's Bench.

The family of the Evanses are amiable characters, but do not shine in theological controversy; happily, however, their opponent is still weaker than themselves, so that the cause is not injured by the unskilfulness of its advocates.

The character of Sir William Powerscourt claims our unqualified praise; it is happily conceived and consistently sustained. His peculiarities are free from selfishness and affectation, and his benevolence without the alloy of either ostentation or weakness.

E. [complete]

Provided by Julie A. Shaffer, December 1999.