VII. DOCUMENTARY HISTORY OF THE REVOLUTION Documentary History of the American Revolu- tion. Published in Conformity to an Act of Con- A Complete Hebrew and English Dictionary on a New and Improved Plan, containing all the Words in the Holy Bible, both Hebrew and Chaldee, with the Vowel Points, Prefixes, and Affixes, as they stand in the Original Text; together with their Derivation, Literal and Etymological Meaning, as it occurs in every Part of the Bible, and illustrated by numerous Citations from the Targums, Talmud, and Cognate NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW. No. XCVIII. JANUARY, 1838. ART. I. Gleanings in Europe. By the Author of "The Spy," &c., &c. Philadelphia. Carey, Lea, & Blanchard. 2 vols. 12mo. To write a good novel, we hold to be one of the highest efforts of genius. Many talents are required to this end, which are rarely combined in an individual. The novelist must unite in his own person the functions of the poet, the philosopher, and the dramatist; he must invent, discriminate, and hold the mirror up to nature," in the portraiture of character and passion, acting in their peculiar scenes and producing their characteristic effects. Though free from the shackles of rhythm and metrical arrangement, which embarrass the poet, he is bound to greater truthfulness in his exhibition of nature. He must not soar so high, that clouds may cover what had better be concealed; he must be distinct, graphic, true. Incidents are to be invented, not so common as to create weariness, nor so marvellous as to excite unbelief. Unity of action is essential; the story must have a beginning, middle, and end. A string of events, connected by no other tie, than the mere fact, that they happened to the same individual, or within a given period of years, may constitute a fictitious history or memoir, but it does not make a novel. due regard to probability forms no trifling restriction. It is not enough, that incidents may be adduced from real life more No. 98. VOL. XLVI. 1 wonderful than those narrated. History is often stranger than fiction. The novelist is an imitator, and his subject is the ordinary course of things; not the wild accidents and romantic adventures, which now and then diversify the monotony of life. From this difficulty in the way of inventing a probable and consistent plot, both ancient and modern playwrights have usually borrowed known historical facts, or the traditionary stories that form the debatable ground between history and fiction, or the acknowledged fables of professed story-tellers. The action of a play is comparatively narrow and confined. Characters are brought out more by dialogue than incident; therefore the portrait is less finished. The exhibition of a single passion, the sketch of one peculiarity in feeling or conduct, is enough to constitute a dramatic figure. The picture is complete, only as the imagination of the reader, stimulated by the suggestive power of the poet, fills up the outline thus presented. But the novelist works with greater freedom, and as the characters which he draws may be presented under any modification of manners and circumstance, he must paint at full length, and place less dependence on the reader's activity of mind for completing the costume and expression. An extended and minute observation of life, a facility at unravelling the complexity of motives, which regulate human conduct, and a microscopic power of detecting, in trivial events, the developement of peculiar mental features, are thus essential to the office of a Fielding, an Edgeworth, or a Scott. Again, the personages of a novel must be individualized sufficiently to command the sympathy of the beholders with their actions and feelings, while they must have common traits enough to stand as the representatives of a class. The annalist paints with sweeping strokes and little discrimination. His pages swarm with characters, who perform a certain round of events, make war and peace, marry, die, and are forgotten. Face answers to face; having nothing distinctive in themselves, we are as little interested in them singly, as in the successive waves that break upon the beach. Interest attaches to them, only as each is concerned in the great tide of human events, which advances a step as every head rises for a moment, and then disappears for ever. In history, moreover, individuals appear only in their connexion with great actions, the very nature of which is to call forth passions and powers that remain latent in the common occurrences of life. We have somewhere met with the remark, that manners display character more definitely than events. Trivial actions, and those frequently repeated, as they occupy far the greater portion of each individual's history, are all that distinguish the members of the multitude from each other. Novels are pictures of life; and the characters presented in them must have that diversity and even contrariety of feeling, motive, and conduct, that inconsequence of thought and action, which we daily witness among our friends, or we do not acknowledge the fidelity of the imitation. If we may borrow a phrase from the painter's vocabulary, the picturesqueness of the effect depends wholly on the art, with which this compound of dissimilar ingredients is effected. It is only with such imperfect beings that we can sympathize, or take any interest in their concerns. The task is comparatively easy, to imagine personages of unmixed good or evil, to present catalogues of virtues and vices, to portray the monster without spot, and the monster nullâ virtute redemptum. But a Sir Charles Grandison never lived, and an Iago is a mere dramatic exaggeration. The most inhuman person has yet some touch of our common nature; the most perfect is not stainless from the universal infirmity. And it is precisely on these spots of sunshine or shade, that we fasten with an interest proportioned to the contrast they afford with the other traits of character. Only the great masters of fiction, only Shakspeare and Scott, have copied nature faithfully in this respect. Shylock is not utterly detestable, when he deplores the loss of his daughter, or when he resents the gratuitous insults, that force him to revenge. Whenever beings of unmixed atrocity are introduced, they fill only a subordinate part, acting with the other machinery to bring out the principal figure. Regan and Goneril are necessary to the portraiture of Lear. But to imagine a series of connected events, all tending to one point, and hinging upon a single action, and to fill up a group of imaginary characters, is not the only, perhaps not the most difficult, task assigned to the novelist. When he has done all this, he has but chosen the canvass, and sketched in chalk the outlines of his intended view. It remains to color the whole with the hues of nature and life; to make a proper distribution of light and shade, according to the relative importance of the parts; and to charm the eye by variety, with out offending it by forced and sudden contrasts. Propriety in garb and manners must be preserved, according to the time and place which the artist aims to present. If he goes back to a former period, he must combine the knowledge of the antiquary with that of the historian, or the keeping of the work will be defective, and it will belong to the class of modern antiques. He must identify himself with the spirit of the olden time, before he can bring others into the illusion. A traveller's acquaintance with distant scenes must be attained, before he can divert his reader's imagination from the view of his native plains and hills. If he prefer remaining at home and sketching domestic scenes, he will find it hard to dignify what is common, and to excite interest without violating probability. Events and characters in humble life must be ennobled by the elevation of passion and sentiment, or invested with the soft charm of affection and quiet, or rendered lively by ridicule and humorous contrast. The monotony of rank and society, the uniform and decorous manners of the higher classes, among whom enthusiasm does not exist, must be varied by wit and disquisition, or exposed by satire. From all these materials, instruction may be obtained, and useful hints be drawn, wherewith to construct a philosophy of life. We aimed at displaying the difficulties of the task, which the novelist undertakes, but we have rather shown the extent of the field that is open to him, and the effect which he may hope to produce. Indeed, there is hardly a mode of talent, or a kind of information, which may not be made available for his purposes. Every thing of interest connected with public or private life, belonging to the present or past times, and happening abroad or at home, all kinds of sentiment and description, and all ways of appealing to the heart, the imagination, or the intellect, fall within the limits of his province, and may be used as legitimate auxiliaries to diversify the result, and heighten the pleasure imparted. Yet this species of writing is (in the West, at least) a modern invention, the earliest proper specimens of it dating no further back than the revival of letters. Had the ancients practised it, they would have left on record far more minute and satisfactory information respecting their characters, tastes, and habits of life, than any which we now possess. As it is, we know them rather in their public than in their private capacity, in their political more than their social relations. Fiction is often the most |