THE LITERARY SPECTATOR.
INDUCED at length to read Pelham,* chiefly, we will confess, by the assiduous eulogists in the advertisement quarter of the daily
press, we were surprised that the world had not previously detected the identity of its author with the author of Vivian Grey. This fact (by which we come critically only, for it has not been thought prudent to announce it) will save a world of description. Pelham is no other than Vivian Grey, under another name : both and each are their parent's model of an irresistible gentleman, such as he doubtless fancies himself, or at least fain would be. We have in both heroes the same insufferable vanity, the same mixture of frivolity and information, the same smartness of style, the same disgusting presumption. With an affectation of being above all villas's. writers both in his horrors and his gentilities, he is as vulgar in the first as a Leadenhall-street romance-writer, and in the second not a whit less silly than the shallowest scribblers of the
Almack school. We recognize the same clever young man, the same ingenious improver of trifling observations, the same ra
pidity of manner, the same ardour of description. Joined to these,' there is a coxcombry and an impudence, and oftentimes a silliness, which tasks our patience almost beyond that of any other writer of fiction.
Mr. Pelham is a young gentleman of high birth, moderate for tune, and lofty expectations : his characteristic is, that he is uni versally accomplished in all the arts and ornaments of life : in no capacity is he at a loss, from the statesman to the cook, from the perfect gentleman to the never-failing player at single-stick. Read
ing deeply, and employing his leisure in hard study, he cloaks his learning under a veil of the most exquisite dandyism, and reserves the full fire of his genius for scenes in which surprise may facilitate the triumph of ingenuity. These displays are frequently introduced in the form of dialogue, and present a strange mixture of good sense and absurd affectation. While Mr. Pelham informs us of the exclusiveness of his pretensions to fashion, of his unceasing conquests whether of men or women, of the fascination of his -address, of the universality of his acquirements, it might be expected that some consequences of note would attend his course through life. But no ! on the contrary, when his actions are not absurdly romantic, they are truly commonplace. He goes to Paris, where he of course intrigues with ladies of the first rank ; he returns to London, and intrigues again—sometimes with women for love, and at others with men for place. He succeeds only with the former ; and marries a wife, whom, if we were not told that she was not utterly unlike all heroines in novels, we should suppose we had read of in half the thousand-and-one novels which grace the library of Messrs. Saunders and Ottley. The second hero, and the most melodramatic person of the piece, is the brother of the heroine ; and precisely what the author declares he is not—viz, a vulgar Corsair of the Byronic school : a person of noble air, exquisite features, who lives in mystery and gloom, at one time found prostrate on a grave in a country churchyard tearing his hair in the moonshine, at another grinning over the ruin of a victim in the lamplight of a low hell in Paris. This same SirReginald is moreover an orator in the House of Commons, and astounds the world by his eloquence : notwithstanding which. he puts off the motion on which the fate of the Ministry deperds, to run about the country in disguise, that he may find an opportunity of assassinating a quondam friend who refuses to fight him. It is worth while to mention the offence of this friend : he had committed violence on the person of Sir Reginald's mistress, and afterwards confined her in a private madhouse. The fate of the offender is anticipated: some low persons of the drama murder and rob him : suspicion, however, falls upon Sir Reginald, who is only saved from Newgate and the new-drop by an exploit of Mr. Pelham's. He finds out an asylum of thieves in the purlieus of London, Where, it seems, a club of desperadoes confine repentant accomplices lest they should "peach." This place, at the risk of his life Mr. Pelham enters, in the disguise of a pickpocket and a parson— the first to deceive the guardians of the place, the second to extort the confession of a ruffian therein confined by his brethren. He succeeds, after a valiant fight—for Mr. Pelham m a passage of arms is a match for the whole world—he succeeds in bringing off the person, whose testimony clears the character of his intended brother-in-law. Is this like real life ? Is this the nature and truth to which the writer makes such huge pretensions ?
Sometimes, however, he does succeed in a kind of caricature that brings life as it is to the mind of the reader : this, with the aid of a certain smartness of expression, is the grand claim which Pelham presents to be considered a work of genius. The smartness we have spoken of is a cheap kind of wit : it consists wholly in contrasting similarly-sounding words of different meanings, or clubbing together incongruous images in the same breath. Thus, for instance, the author talks of a shooting-box crowded with single gentlemen and double-barrelled Mantons : or, in describing a road on a solitary shore, he says he met nobody but two crows and an officer on the preventive service. To show by one brief anecdote the spirit in which the whole work is written, we will quote the description of an exploit of the elegant and fashionable Mr. Pelham. He sees a spirited horse in the act of throwing a gentleman's groom from the windows of a drawing-room full of company—a very rare sight, we will venture to say. Mr. Pelham, to the admiration of the ladies, rushes to his assistance, mounts
the groom's horse! tames him by his exquisite mcn4e, and then returns to his sofa with an air of the most ridiculous nonchalance. This is the lofty spirit of unaffected heroism in which Pelham is written.
" At this moment, an elderly gentleman, who had been lounging on a chaise longue near the window, and who was the only person inattentive to my display, called out, For God's sake come here ! A poor man will certainly be thrown from his horse. Will nobody help him ?" That will I,' I cried, starting up, and hastening to the window, all the groupe crowding after me. One glance was sufficient to show me that the horse was the one of Glanville's I had so lately admired, and that his rider (the groom I had spoken to) was in the most imminent danger of being dashed to pieces. He was already half off his seat, with his head hanging down, and clinging to the mane and neck only by one hand. 1 sprang to the door, cleared the stairs at a bound, rushed through the hall-door, and caught the enraged animal (whom no one else, of all the surrounding loiterers, dared approach) by the rein. [Oh, what stuff!] The check, momentary as it was, gave the man, who had not lost all presence of mind, time to extricate himself from his situation, [This must have been the lady's-maid, and not-the groom, on horseback,] and the next instant .1 had sprung into his saddle. [Here was a position for a hero !] I found all my attention requisite to soothe my Bucephalus, who had recommenced kicking and plunging with redoubled vigour. [We would stake a good deal that the author of Pelham never took a fence in his life : men who dream this kind of dreams are the least practical of heroes. We have heard of castlebuilding, but this is all sheer baby-fancy.] There never was any situation of life in which I have lost the possession of myself. [The excuse of the writer is that he must be very young.] At first I was contented with bending my limbs and body with every motion of the horse. [What does the coxcomb mean ? How could he prevent himself from following the motion of the horse ? The only art applicable in the case is a very considerable grasp of the muscles of the thighs.] Nor was it till after several minutes of intense exertion on his part that I used any evident authority of my own. [Stuff!] Ten minutes more sufficed to begin and complete my triumph. I dismounted at the door with my usual nonchalance, and giving the panting but now tractable animal to the groom, I re-entered the hall. [What a rider the gemman is ! This is only to be equalled by the more vulgar exploit of arresting two frightened horses about to rush down a precipice with a phaeton, containing a young lady, adored by the gentleman who so opportunely and courageously starts up, and rushes to the horses' heads.] The mob of gentlemen and gentlewomen gathered round me as I sauntered into the drawing_ room. [This fellow's hands would have shaken for a week after riding the said horse round the square.] Lady Roseville gave Inc a smile that weighed more with me than the compliments and congratulations of all the rest. Believe me, said 1, escaping from them all on a sofa in the next room, riding is too severe an exercise for me ; it is only fit for the robuster nerves of women. Will any gentleman present lend me his essence-bottle ? ' "
Will any critic properly chastise the writer of such pestilent stuff? From this, and a thousand other examples, we may learn what the youth of talent of the present day consider a model of perfection —a pattern for imitation, for all lovers of good taste. We have written a good deal of this book, but are far from feeling satisfied that we have conveyed the precise idea we entertain of its character: had we said at once, that we did not read six pages
without feeling a strong desire to kick the author for an impudent puppy, we should have perhaps reached our mark with less trouble. Strange to say, the author of Pelham, with all his pretensions to aristocratic distinction, is a smatterer in Bentham and Utilitarian
ism. An ancient peer is actually made to give a sketch of Mill's
Essay on Government ; and it is moreover evident, that either Bentham at first hand, or the Westminster Review at second, has
taught him something of the elements of political science. It was scarcely to be expected that Utilitarianism would be expounded by a gentleman who breakfasts and reads the paper in his bath ; despises Windsor soap as grossly vulgar ; and retires into the country with a bottle of wrinkle-water, to preserve his countenance unruffled, at the age of twenty-three !
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