lieve, the latest volume in which these shreds of refuse, misnamed history, have been rescued from oblivion. It contains all the faults of her previous performances: history diluted until it loses all significance; things which might be effectively told in a paragraph eked out with ejaculations of admiration, or mild disapproval; characters which a certain class of minds fail to recognize as human beings, under the guise of '* Your Majesty,"' or ** Your Royal Highness.' The details which are given in Queen J/ortense are not only often tiresome and insipid, but are related upon the hypothesis that mere incidental contact with greatness is of the most intense interest. Ancient wisdom, which often comes to us in the form of epigrams, has declared that '*No man is a hero to his own valet." But ancient wisdom is refuted in these pages; for the authoress, although evincing that intimate knowledge so readily obtained by a
valet or waiting-maid, never exhibits her personages in unheroic attitudes.
Such books are at best merely the relic-gatherer's collection, into which a good many pseudo articles may easily creep. These things, besides having the effect of bringing what might be really worthy of veneration or respect into disrepute, are also frequently so ill-selected as to entirely misrepresent character. De Quincy called historical novels 'illegitimate biography. The term 'historical novel"' is, in fact, so paradoxical that in its hydra-headed aspect it eludes criticism. It is incomprehensible, except by faith; and as it has not yet been recorded that any man's faith has been able to remove mountains, we have reason to suppose that that quality of the human mind is limited. But any one who can conceive of an historical novel may hope, in time, to attain the great test. These works, in reality, purport to be history, with the glamour of romance which we usually, but not necessarily, yield to fiction, thrown over them.
If we regard Queen J/ortense as history, history loses its significance as an ennobling science. It has nothing of the spirit, character, or influence of the era which it attempts to represent. It is true, historical characters are thrust before us with a cer
tain recklessness, which the authoress may innocently suppose will pass for reality. But the manikins have so often a self -conscious air of being patted on the head for making a pretty speech, or being propped from the background to maintain a royal attitude, that in spite of their '* good clothes" we can not fail to recognize them as puppets. Such things are supposed to satisfy the claims of history, and we can never more plead ignorance of the manner in which Royalty royally demeans itself under the most discouraging of circumstances.
But as we are supposed to be amused as well as instructed, such works may be at least a partial success, if they are very entertaining. The chief merit in a work of fiction —skill, or even cleverness in the development of plot —is of course out of the reach of this class of novelists; development of character is hardly more within their grasp—or only to the most patient, clear-sighted, and skillful—for we necessarily come upon scenes and characters with which we are at least partly familiar, and while historic interest demands external truth, the fictitious interest also demands a certain verisimilitude to what we might conceive to be the actual experience of characters endowed with given qualities. But compensation, in a certain degree, might be attained by felicity of style or vigorous thoughts, as well as by presenting skillfully collated facts: thus forming out of what often seems chaos a sharp and decisive picture. There is, however, no compensation to be found in Muhlbach, who has, we believe, already produced quite a library of these novels—no doubt to the great advancement of glib popular information. But we should be sorry to have the coming scholar—boy or girl—draw knowledge from such shallow sources. The reader may gather some idea of their reliability as pictures of men and manners from the following somewhat astonishing zoological fact: '* His glance again quailed, as the lion recoils from the angry glance of a pure, innocent woman."We suspect that this knowledge is at least hypothetical, and receive it as one of the instances where history yields to the superior demands of fiction.
