LITERATURE OF THE MONTH.

THE HISTORY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.*

THIS is the commencement of an important national work. Still, it is, to a certain degree, complete in itself-its general plan being to record the History of the House of Commons, in the lives of its Speakers, and other distinguished members. Nor could a better plan be perhaps devised; certainly none so likely to afford that entertainment which is nowadays so essential to the success even of a work of utility; for the age is Utilitarian in name alone, and exhibits as strong a craving after amusement and excitement as it did when the word and the thing were equally unknown.

It is singular how many persons have played a distinguished part in the House of Commons, whose names are scarcely known even to the general student of our country's history: a fact which is noticed by the author of this work, and has doubtless formed one of his reasons for entering upon his important undertaking, and there cannot be a more conclusive or legitimate one. "The name of Powle," says Mr. Townsend in his preface, "to whom belonged the peculiar honour of presiding over the Convention, sounds almost strangely in our ears; Sir John Trevor is chiefly remembered by the erroneous statement of Granger, that he put the question to the vote on his own expulsion; of the violent declaimer, Foley; the scheming Lyttleton; the one Smith' who occupied the chair of the first Parliament of Great Britain -scarcely more than a few empty titles and dates are recorded." Again "The venerable trimmer, Serjeant Maitland; the "gentle Somers," who redeemed his learned brothers from the charge, too common in that age, of universal corruption; the tainted learning of Lawyer and Williams; the stout-hearted Price, who rescued by his eloquence so fair a portion of the principality from the prodigal gifts of King William; the black-letter Jacobite, Sir Bartholomew Shower; the impetuous Leechmere; the much-quizzed Sir Joseph Jekyll, that good old neutral member who never changed his politics or wig,'"

&c. &c.

It is the amusing and most valuable office of Mr. Townsend's work, to tell us "all about" these people, and a host of others of more recent date. In like manner, as he says, "The History of the House itself is not less concealed from popular gaze, locked up, as it were, in its voluminous Journals, State Trials, Parliamentary Debates, and Precedents of Hatsell."

These treasures it is the business of this work to unlock, collate, and so sift and weed of their superfluous parts, as to allow of their being presented to the reader in a succinct and consistent form; and the

*

History of the House of Commons, from the Conventional Parliament of 1688, to the passing of the Reform Bill in 1832. By W. C. Townsend, Esq., M.A., Recorder of Macclesfield. Vol I.

present volume comprises an era commencing with the Convention of 1688, and ending with the death of George I. in 1727. This era is by no means a favourable one as compared with those which are to follow it; but still the result is a volume crowded with matter of import as well as entertainment; and there can be little doubt that its success will command a rapid fulfilment of the entire plan, which, so far as may be judged of by what is here accomplished, will be comprised in two more volumes.

HARGRAVE; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A MAN OF

FASHION.*

Is the second title of this new production of Mrs. Trollope's prolific pen, a touch of that satire which (to speak paradoxically), is as much the forte as it is the foible of this distinguished writer? Does she desire the world to understand by it that the construction and constitution of "fashionable" life are such, that the cynosure of fashionable eyes-the idol of the aristocratic world-the head and front of all that is commanding in station, captivating in manner, and consummate in taste and social tact,-does she mean to inculcate that such is the falsehood and hollowness of the principle on which fashionable society is based, that a man may be all this, and yet at the same time be living in the commission of the most monstrous and atrocious crimes?-nay, that such crimes may, for years together, have been the sole means of maintaining such a position? Yet if Mrs. Trollope do not tell her " Adventures of a Man of Fashion" with some such moral view as this, what is the secret of her choice of such a subject? and for a work, too, on which she has evidently put forth her very best powers, and has, in fact, shown herself not inferior to the most popular writer of his class in that department of composition which he has most cultivated-the romance of the actual life of the day.

However these questions may be answered, certain it is that Mrs. Trollope has, on the present occasion, chosen a subject, and adopted a style of treating it, that, while they show her talents in an entirely new light, make a more distinct and direct appeal to mere popular favour than is to be found in any one of her previous works; and we have little doubt that the result will be a still more extended circulation than she has yet attained. Nor has she made any sacrifice to obtain this object; on the contrary, we do not recollect any one of her works on which she appears to have bestowed more skill on the construction of the plot, more care on the development of the characters and the action, and more finish on the graces of mere style.

Still Mrs. Trollope has laid herself open to a charge to which no popular writer of our day has hitherto been less liable-that of employing illegitimate and melodramatic sources of interest. Yet if such a charge were made in the present instance, it would be as unjust as that inferred in the disapprobation of the Roman actor who had a live pig

* Hargrave; or, the Adventures of a Man of Fashion. By Mrs. Trollope. 3 vols. 2 P

April.-VOL. LXVII. NO. CCLXVIII.

concealed under his cloak. The truth is, that the conduct and bearing of Hargrave, and their results on the sentiments and opinions of the world in which he moves, are too natural to pass for such in the estimation of ordinary observers-or rather people in general do not observe actual facts at all, but take their impressions of what is natural from books or stage representations, and the consequence is, that the details of fictitious narratives, if they would seem true, must be exaggerated into falsehood.

That the "Adventures of a Man of Fashion" should comprise a tissue of the most atrocious crimes, perpetrated almost in the open face of day; the perpetrator assisting, with a smooth brow and a smiling lip, to canvass and discuss with his fashionable confreres, and even with his own relatives and children, the circumstances under which those crimes have been committed, the probable motives and means of their perpetration, &c.; and this for months and years together, without the smallest suspicion attaching to him in any quarter, or the smallest evidence of his guilt being apparent even to the reader of the narrative until it suits the objects of the author to make it so: all this will, to many, seem incredible and out of nature. But in this it is that the skill, as well as the boldness of the writer, are shown in the present instance; for it is only on the stages of the Adelphi and the Surrey Theatres, that villains placard their villany on their faces, and proclaim it in their movements and whereabout. Witness the innumerable instances that have occurred in our own day and countrythe Beaumont Smiths, the Fauntleroys, &c., and more notably still among our neighbours in France, where the mere "complement extern" of manner and bearing have reached that pitch of perfection at which they actually create the condition of feeling which they seek to express.

But the remarkable character of this new novel of Mrs. Trollope, and our admiration of the singular union of skill and courage, by means of which she has worked out her purpose, have led us into remarks which preclude any thing more than a passing glance at those details which, after all, the reader will doubtless deem superfluous; for this is a work which all who indulge in such reading at all, will of course examine for themselves. It may suffice, therefore, to say that "Hargrave" is entirely different in its general character and construction from any of Mrs. Trollope's previous works, and that it includes much of the good qualities which have given such vogue to the fictions of Sir Edward Bulwer on the one hand, and of Mrs. Gore on the other, without falling into the errors of either-that it often attains to the passionate interest and highwrought eloquence of the first of these accomplished writers, without ever falling into the overstrained "sentiment" which sometimes disfigures his otherwise beautiful delineations; and that it maintains throughout the felicitous ease and grace of Mrs. Gore, without any of that occasional flippancy which, however, are, after all, the fault of her subjects, not her style.

At the opening of the story, Hargrave has long been the chief leader of the gay world of Paris-"the glass of fashion and the mould of form"-his (apparently) inexhaustible wealth, his connexion by marriage with the French aristocracy, and above all, his two lovely and accomplished daughters, having chiefly contributed to acquire him that

position, and to maintain him there; and at the period of our acquaintance with him, he has reached that crisis in his brilliant career at which he has all along been aiming-namely, the establishment of his two daughters (one of them, however, a step-daughter only) in a position realizing the very ideal of his hopes, both as regards his own ambition and their happiness. We find him, in fact, at the very summit of worldly prosperity; but we find also that the ground beneath, and all about him, is undermined, and that a single false movement may precipitate the whole fabric into ruin, and involve therein the fate of all in whom we have become interested. And now it is that the " Adventures" of the " Man of Fashion" fairly commence; and where else in fictitious narrative, to find so intensely interesting a tissue of events, so skilfully concentrated together, so exactly fitted to the purposes for which they are brought before us, and so ingeniously developed-or rather so far only developed as to satisfy the ends of justice without overthrowing the happiness of those who deserve our sympathy, is more than we know.

We must not impair the interest of the reader by further allusion to this, in its way, capital production; but an extract must be given to show the new style which Mrs. Trollope has adopted.

There is no character in this novel more nicely and delicately discriminated than that of Madame de Hautrivage, a Parisian widow of a certain age, sister-in-law to Hargrave; and nothing more natural and characteristic than the ridiculous blunder into which she falls in the following piquant scene between herself and the favoured lover of her beautiful niece, Adèle de Cordillac, on whose behalf she (the aunt) has up to this period, been hourly expecting, through her medium, the offer of his hand and fortune.

There is something very peculiar, and demanding a good deal of observation de près in order to comprehend it, in the tone taken occasionally in France by a pretender to a young lady's hand towards the mother or aunt of la belle. It sometimes happens, without, however, giving the slightest ground for scandal, that ladies so circumstanced, and being still à prétension, like to receive, and actually do receive, a very considerable number of sighs, hand-kissings, and tender glances from the identical men who are soliciting their interest with their direct or collateral descendants. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred this may fairly be understood to express nothing more than a latent regret on the part of the prétendant, that he had not flourished at the time when the lady before him might herself have been free to accept his honourable vows; and though, by gentle degrees, this chastened gallantry merges in all wellregulated families into a tone more consonant to the relationship in which the parties subsequently stand to each other, its existence, while it lasts, is productive of a good deal of sentimental coquetry, which in some way or another is probably amusing to both parties.

Madame de Hautrivage was the last woman in the world to think of marrying a niece without coming in for her full share of this species of offering, and was most pleasantly persuaded that she actually did receive it every time Alfred Coventry offered her one arm, while Adèle hung upon the other, during a crowded exit from the opera, or entrée to the supper-room of a fete.

On entering the elegant little salon to which, by her orders, Mr. Coventry had been shown on the morning that she intended should witness the consummation of her hopes for her eldest niece's establishment, she found him engaged in examining a miniature, of which there were many, cased in velvet and gold, lying upon a table. It chanced that the portrait which at that moment occupied his attention was her own, and it was with a sort of tender smile that she remarked it.

"This is very beautiful," said Mr. Coventry, after paying his compliments to her as she entered. "I have seldom seen a lovelier face."

"Ah, flatterer!" she replied, shaking her head; “I greatly doubt your thinking so."

But for this bashful disclaiming of his compliment, which most assuredly was not intended for her, though it was for her picture, Coventry would never have guessed that the one was a "counterfeit presentment" of the other; for, although Madame de Hautrivage was still what is called "a fine woman," there was but little resemblance between her neatly wigged and carefully rouged face, and the blooming little Hebe he held in his haud. But thus schooled, he of course took care not to betray his own dulness in tracing a resemblance, and gallantly replied that nobody could doubt the beauty of the face but herself. She drew near him, and laid a finger on his shoulder.

"Come, come, my friend," she said, with a slight sigh, “no more of this. It would be great folly to deny that those poor features, such as they are, have been gazed upon by the eye of love; but this is not a moment for you to think of it; your thoughts, cher ami, are, and ought to be, elsewhere. French women are proverbially called coquets-I know it! But trust me, Alfred, we are capable of checking the tenderness of nature, which leads to this, whenever more important business is to be attended to. Such is the case now; I think not that I am capable of doubting it. Speak then, Mr. Coventry, and be assured that it is not an indifferent ear which will listen to you. When Clementina de Hautrivage professes friendship, it is no weak sentiment which fills her breast."

As Madame de Hautrivage concluded these words, she placed her right elbow on the palm of her left hand, and shielding her eyes behind the richly jewelled fingers thus supported, seemed to await his answer with that sort of forced composure, which arises from high principle when struggling with sensibility.

Alfred Coventry understood her perfectly. He knew, as well as she did herself, that she desired he should propose for her niece, and that she was ready to bind him in chains of eternal gratitude by promising her influence in his favour. But rather than have conveyed his fond devotion to Adèle through such a medium, and have suffered the eyes which now languished at him between diamond fingers to catch from those of his beloved the first answer to his acknowledged hopes, instead of receiving that hoped-for answer into his own bosom, he would have endured any thing-he would have done any thing, even to making downright love to the disagreeable personage before him.

In truth, he felt himself placed in so very awkward and critical a situation by this direct and unexpected appeal, that he saw he must make rather a desperate plunge to get out of it; and knowing that words of the most unmeaning gallantry are a sort of false coin which is permitted to pass current in France, without subjecting the utterer to any heavy pains aud penalties, he replied, "My charming Madame de Hautrivage! can you believe it possible that in your presence the thoughts of any man can turn elsewhere?"

Under many other circumstances the exquisite Clementina de Hautrivage might have listened to this, and much more in the same strain, without perceiving in it any thing out of the common way, or calling for any return beyond the dropping of her eyelids, and, perhaps, a slight sigh. But the case was different now. In the first place, she knew, from considerable experience, that the most volage of Englishmen are, generally speaking, infinitely more in earnest, for the time being at least, than the most fidèle of Frenchmen. Secondly, the unremitting assiduity of the young man before her could not be mistaken. If he was not in pursuit of Adèle de Cordillac, he must be in pursuit of some other of the family. The thing was clear, and admitted not the slightest doubt. Sabina Hargrave it could not be, for he had never distinguished her by any particular attention whatever. But with herself the case was far otherwise; he had distinguished her-“Oh, Ciel!" could she doubt it!