Dulcamara point of view, which has been
sadly neglected by our brethren of the press ;
which has produced a strong impression on
our own minds ; and which we must now
beg permission to present to the attention of
our readers.

Speaking of novels, viewed of course as
nostrums, in a tone of indulgence which
we gratefully appreciate, the doctor
proceeded to deliver himself of these artless
remarks:—

"There is another class of novels—novels of the
domestic class—which has also a great influence. I
recollect hearing a very eminent Frenchman,
Monsieur Guizot, say, that the literature of France
would match—by which, of course, he meant would
beat—all our literature, with one exception, and that
was our domestic novels. He said: 'In science we
match you; in poetry we match you (though in that
he was quite mistaken); in history we match you;
but we have not got anything in our literature like
The Heir of Redclyffe and your domestic novels. All
books of that class are peculiarly English. They
are books describing a virtuous domestic life—books
describing a simple domestic life. They do not go
to the tragic or dramatic for interest, but they draw
it from the simple springs of natural life. This we
have not got in the literature of France.'"

If the Right Honourable Doctor had
selected "The Heir of Redclyffe" on his
own authority only, as the type and pattern
of all English domestic novels, we doubt
whether the expression of his opinion, in
this matter, would have produced much
impression upon us. But, armed with the
authority of Monsieur Guizot, who is a writer
of books and consequently, in a literary sense,
one of ourselves, he has exerted over our
minds an influence not his own. Besides
acknowledging Monsieur Guizot's claims on
our attention, as a man of letters, we have
felt, of late years, a kind of sympathy
for him, as a political Dulcamara suffering
under the misfortune of having been
found out. On all accounts, therefore, we
have thought it only fair and just towards
Monsieur Guizot to welcome him (under
his present total eclipse as a vendor of state
nostrums in his own country), when he
appears before us in his new character as a
critic of modem English fiction. Accordingly,
we resolved to do, on the recommendation of
this "eminent Frenchman," what we had not
done on the recommendation of any of our
own countrymen—in print or out of it. We
determined, at last, to read "The Heir of
Redclyffe," and see what it is that they
can't do in France.

Our previous want of acquaintance with
this Pusey-Novel arose from no barbarous
indifference to the important literary events
of our age and country. We abstained from
reading it, solely from dread of the effect
which it might have in unfitting us for
enjoying any other works of fiction afterwards.
We were well aware, from our own
personal knowledge, of the disastrous
influence, in this respect, which the work had
exercised over that large and discriminating
portion of the reading public of England
which is chiefly composed of curates and
young ladies. Among other sad cases, in
our own circle of acquaintance, we met
with two which especially struck us. One
instance was that of a curate (still living,
and still, through the scandalous neglect of
his friends, unprovided with proper
accommodation in an asylum for the insane), who,
after reading The Heir of Redclyffe, expressed
himself critically in these frantic terms:—
"There are only Two Books in the world.
The first is the Bible, and the second is The
Heir of Redclyffe."

The other instance is perhaps still more
afflicting. A young and charming lady,
previously an excellent customer at the
circulating libraries, read this fatal domestic
novel on its first appearance some years ago
and has read nothing else ever since. As
soon as she gets to the end of the book, this
interesting and unfortunate creature turns
back to the first page, and begins it again.
Her family vainly endeavour to lure her
away to former favourites, or to newer
works; she raises her eyes for a moment
from the too-enthralling page, shakes her
head faintly, and resumes her fascinating
occupation for the thousandth time, with
unabated relish. Her course of proceeding,
when she comes to the pathetic
passages, has never yet varied on any single
occasion. She reads for five minutes, and
goes up-stairs to fetch a dry pocket handkerchief;
comes down again, and reads for
another five minutes; goes up-stairs again,
and fetches another dry pocket handkerchief.
No later than last week, it was observed by
her family, that she shed as many tears and
fetched as many dry pocket handkerchiefs as
ever. Medical aid has been repeatedly called
in; but the case baffles the doctors. The
heart is all right, the stomach is all right,
the lungs are all right, the extremities are
moderately warm. The skull alone is abnormal.

Knowing of these two cases, and of others
almost as lamentable in their way, we think it
argues no common respect on our part for the
authority of Monsieur Guizot, that we overcame
our natural feeling of apprehension, and
boldly risked the possible consequence of
reading the one domestic novel which he and the
Right Honourable Doctor agree is the roc's
egg not to be discovered in that fair France
which Monsieur Guizot's statesmanship has
happily led to its present Millennium. The
task we set ourselves was completed some
weeks since. After having been carefully
treated with restoratives by Mrs. Inchbald,
Miss Burney, Miss Austen, Miss Edgeworth,
Miss Ferrier, Mrs. Marsh, Mrs. Gaskell, and
a few other charitable ladies, unknown to
Monsieur Guizot, we have recovered from the
disastrous effects of our bold undertaking.