of Britain, I protest against such madness,
and affirm that white is the most "expensive
wear" known in the nineteenth century.
Then, there was the Scotch and Irish phraseology
with which those legitimists who laid their
scenes north of the Tweed, or in the Emerald
Isle, indulged. "I dinna ken"—what a favourite
expression that always was; we were in for it the
moment our narrative skipped over the border.
Yet, I have travelled two or three times in Scotland,
and, in their own country and elsewhere,
have conversed with plenty of Scots, but I never
heard the expression. I doubt whether it would
be understood in the land of cakes. This dinna
ken was fearfully and wonderfully aggravating;
but the Legitimate Novel was more to be
dreaded when it crossed St. George's Channel.
Nothing but "mavourneens,"and "macushlas,"
and "machrees," and "bedads," and "at all at
alls." One gets at last sceptical about these
matters, and I have been so long, and so entirely
in vain, looking out for a case of "at all at all"
in real life, that I have got at last to infidelity as
to that form of words altogether.
The Legitimate work of fiction began in one
of two ways: either by stating all the preliminary
matter which it was needful for the
reader to know—and sometimes a great deal
more—in the first few chapters, dedicating them
entirely to pedigrees, to biographies of the grandfathers
and grandmothers of the characters; or
else to pander to the impatience of the student
by plunging at once into the middle of an interesting
scene or conversation, without any preliminary
explanation. At first sight this last
mode of operating would seem to be the more delightful;
but what was the use of beginning in
this gay and sprightly manner in Chapter I., if
the wretched reader caught sight of these awful
opening words of the second chapter: "It is now
needful that we should explain something of the
history of the characters whom we have thus
unceremoniously introduced to the reader"?
And there was another little trial. "We must
now return to Lenora." Or, "the exigencies of
our story now require that we should return to
Lenora." What moments were chosen by the
author for that return to Lenora! We were
dragged back to that young woman just when
we were bent on hearing the termination of that
terrific adventure, in which the hero was involved.
It was a breathless moment in the youth's
fate. The sword was hanging over his head, the
poison-cup was at his lips, the challenge was received,
the dice were oscillating in the air, when
we must now return to Lenora. And we didn't
want to return to Lenora. And when we had
returned to Lenora, and had got over the disgust
of that blessed restoration, and had disciplined
our minds to that degree that they were content
to follow her fortunes instead of those of our
fancy's hero—were we allowed to do so? No.
We must then return to Edgar, and we were
dragged away from her as we had previously been
from him, and were whisked off again to some
uncongenial region,where all was ice and desolation.
And the worst of it was that many of these
tremendous adventures thus rudely arrested,
were never finished; the hero of the situation
being taken in hand again long afterwards in
some altogether different part of his career, and,
perhaps, merely alluding to the termination of
that adventure in which you were once so madly
interested, in a few cursory remarks addressed to
his bosom friend, as the two "lounged together
on the shores of Capri." Edgar having no business
at Capri, observe, and no business to take you
there, and not in the least accounting for himself
even as to that inane passage of his existence.
The termination of the Legitimate Book was
always expected to be very complete and full:
disposing in a satisfactory manner of every
one of the characters introduced, one after another,
in the last chapter, just as in a Legitimate
Play all the persons of the drama are ranged in
the last scene before the audience, and each dismissed
with some small and appropriate morsel
of dialogue. "The old doctor remained to the
last the friend and counsellor of all the poor and
suffering people in the neighbourhood, he never
married, and always retained his caustic humour,
and that real spirit of benevolence, which lay
concealed beneath it, and which caused him to
be beloved by every one who knew him." "Giles
the poacher—Giles the vagabond—Giles the
convict—became at last a reformed character,
and, obtaining the situation of teacher in the
village school, inculcated with an earnestness
which sprung from the remembrance of his own
faults, the precepts of rectitude and morality.
He was frequently the humble guest of our
young couple, and a favourite always, both in
the parlour and the kitchen."—"And Ellen—
what of Ellen? Ellen remained single! Her
life was devoted to the service of the poor.
Often was her slight form to be seen flitting
from cottage to cottage, or seated by the side
of the aged and afflicted, listening to their complaints
and assuaging their sufferings." And
then came the lighter vein of wind-up. "The
Widow Twostrings looked so well in her neat
weeds, and was so frequently visited by her old
lover Stephen Hardy, that rumours began soon
to circulate that she was about to console herself,
and that, nothing daunted by the unsatisfactory
nature of her first matrimonial venture,
she had it in contemplation to speculate in the
marriage market once again. Of course these
are only rumours, but rumours are not always
false, and we can only say that if in this case
report should speak correctly, we wish the lively
widow a long life and a merry one."
MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS.
HANOVER SQUARE ROOMS.
MR. CHARLES DICKENS WILL READ,
EVERY FRIDAY EVENING, AT EIGHT O'CLOCK,
Until Friday, 12th June, inclusive.
Stalls, 5s. Centre Seats, 2s. Back Seats, 1s.
Tickets to be had at the Office of All the Year Round, 26, Wellington-
street, Strand ; of JOHN POTTLE and SON, 14 and 15, Royal
Exchange, City; Messrs. CHAPMAN and HALL'S, Publishers, 193
Piccadilly; at AUSTIN'S Ticket Office, St. James's Hall; and at
PAYNE'S Ticket office, Hanover Square Rooms.
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