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PREFACE.

THAT species of literary composition called the Novel has been carried to so consummate a pitch of perfection during the last twenty or thirty years, that, in its power of delineating, exciting, or soothing the human heart, it almost rivals the Drama itself. True, the Novel must ever want that great advantage of the Drama which the name of the latter implies, that of representing by action; and it is also inferior, inasmuch as it can never soar into poetry. This, however, cannot be done even by Rhetoric, with all its flowers; and both this species of writing and Rhetoric itself must always be content to be prose. And yet, as the Drama charms us in the closet without being acted, and also without being always poetry, there is no reason, à priori, why a Novel, founded on human nature, and not confined to mere pictures of things, should not assume as high a tone, and possess as much influence over us, as any unacted dramatic prose composition. As to representation, we are often more charmed with Shakspeare in our libraries than even upon the stage; and the plays of Miss Baillie on the passions speak to our minds as forcibly, and as beautifully, as if they were presented to the eye and ear by the best acting of Kemble or Siddons.

We allow, however, that the Novel, being confined to prose, loses, not only the elevation of poetry, but that inexpressible charm which arises from beautiful, mea-' sured, and lofty language. The subjects of the Novel, too, being for the most part busied with ordinary life, cannot entirely compare with the higher subjects of the Drama. In the Novel, whatever may have been done for it by exalted genius, we can scarcely expect to witness

"Gorgeous Tragedy, In sceptred pall, come sweeping by;"

though the author of Waverley has made even this almost doubtful.

A greater authority, indeed, than ours carries its sentiments in favour of the Novel, as compared with the Drama, much further than we do; for in point of limit, and, as it were, in the abstract, it gives the preference to the Novel. "There is no element of dramatic composition," says the Quarterly Review, "which may not be successfully employed in the romantic; but the Drama being essentially a much more limited representation of life than the Romance, many sources of interest are open to the latter from which the former is completely debarred." The writer adds, that "it is altogether out of the question to limit, in any manner whatever, the dominion of the sister art,' meaning novel-writing. Finally, he says, that "as to materials, the empire of Romance includes that of the Drama, and includes therein perhaps its finest province."*

T'hese sentiments, as they regard the subjects of Romance, are certainly correct. But inasmuch as they do not even allude to the great, if not the only, reason for the superiority of dramatic composition (distinct from its capability of representation), namely, that its vehicle is, or may be, poetry,-they are abstractedly perhaps not quite so just as they were intended to be. With this exception, however, the argument of the masterly article in the Review is unanswerable.

To

Take poetry from the Drama, and, from its limited range, it becomes instantly inferior to Romance; for even in point of language its superiority is lost. this latter fact our few tragedies in prose bear testimony. In regard to comedy, too, even though sustained by dialogue and visible action, there is no reason (except as drawn from the merits of the respective writers) why it should bear the palm from the narrative mode of composition.

We have mentioned the author of Waverley. What dramatist, except Shakspeare, surpasses him? Who else can even approach him in his delineations of char

*See Quarterly Review for Sept. 1826, p. 364,-"Lives of the Novelists.".

acter; his knowledge of the human heart and mind; the beauty, variety, and magnificence of his descriptions? Waverley, Old Mortality, Kenilworth, Ivanhoe, Quentin Durward, Rob Roy, and the Heart of Mid-Lothian produce all the effect of perfect dramas, except that they are in prose. The first, but for this exception, might rank even as an epic poem. Yet all these are Novels.

As to knowledge of mankind, nothing forbids (on the contrary, every thing requires) that the novelist should be at least as consummate an observer of the pas sions as the writer of dramatic poetry. There is, perhaps, more knowledge of the heart and more acuteness of observation in Gil Blas than in all the plays of all nations put together, save only those of Shakspeare. If, therefore," the proper study of mankind is man," the Novel should never have lost its relative consequence in comparison with the Drama. It did lose it, however, after Fielding and Richardson were no more; and, with the exception of the Vicar of Wakefield, some few other elegant compositions, and the novels of Smollet (which are broad satires, rather than pictures of mankind), this species of writing dwindled into trash, in the hands of feeble men or of mere fanciful women.

For the honour of the sex, however, it was woman that restored the Novel to its usefulness, and therefore

to its consequence. Witness Madame d'Arblay, who led the way; and Miss Edgeworth, who pursued it with an effect, an attraction, and a success which all admit. The last, indeed, showed that the sunken and despised Novel might, when restored to its vigour, be converted even into an instrument of a nation's good. If the love, the respect, and often the admiration which their English fellow-subjects now feel for them are of any value to the Irish, in exchange for the cold and most unjust disparagement with which the Irish character was once treated here, I will venture to hazard an opinion, that to this change Miss Edgeworth has very much contributed. To both nations, therefore, she may be considered as an amiable benefactress.

In all these respects, then, the descriptions of character (by which I do not mean mere passing manners) to be found in such novelists as I have mentioned may be not unworthy the moral philosopher himself; and if History is, as it has been called, Philosophy teaching by examples, so also may be the Romance, if properly conducted. The difference, indeed, appears at first sight to be a marked one; for History is busy with real, Romance with imaginary events. But the difference is only seeming; for, if the imaginary events are (what they ought to be) perfectly consonant with nature, the lesson is the same. Who inquires whether the workings of Macbeth's mind on the stage-his halfresolves his fear and remorse, and final surrender of himself to wickedness,—who inquires whether these are true or false in regard to the Macbeth of history? Most probable they were all imaginary, and only conceived in that wonderful brain which had observed them elsewhere.

All this eulogy, however, of the species of writing we are upon only increases the difficulty which the author has to encounter, in introducing his own work to the public: for, in proportion as the line of writing he has chosen is important, his responsibility for pursuing it must be perilous; and it would, perhaps, have been better policy not to have extolled an art in which, on that very account, he may only be found the more wanting. Nevertheless, his respect for many professors of it is so great, that he could not resist this tribute to it, considering how much it formerly was undervalued.

With regard to the following work, as it has taken Ambition for its subject, one would think little would be necessary to explain it further. We all of us know this to be one of the great passions, if not the greatest passion, of the human mind. It has, at least, been the cause of most of the great crimes of mankind; and most materially, therefore, is it interwoven with the happiness and the actions of men. He, indeed, is either more or less than man who has not at one time or

other felt its power. It therefore generally shows itself by producing great situations, ending in great events.