An incident, in Montorio, of monastic oppression, is represented by the episode of Ildefonsa. A young lady held in a convent against her will was a special favourite with the novelists of terror; the episode in question is, no doubt, suggested by the history of Agnes de Medina in The Monk. For the liberation of Agnes, also, an appeal is made to high ecclesiastical authorities, whereupon the tyrannical abbess compels her to swallow an opiate which plunges her into a death-like state, arranges a mock funeral and has Agnes conveyed to the hideous dungeons of the convent. In The Italian, too, the heroine is placed in a convent where she feels but ill at ease under the government of an unkind prioress; however, she succeeds in escaping with her lover. Mention is also made of a stone chamber ‘within the deepest recesses of the convent’ where disobedient nuns have sometimes been confined—but thither the gentle authoress forbears to conduct her readers.

Yet another episode in Montorio is inspired by ‘the powerful and wicked romance of the Monk,’ which was, in Maturin’s opinion,[36] ‘the most extraordinary production’ of the time of its appearance. It has been told that Annibal’s servant, Filippo, incurs the displeasure of the count for assisting at the investigations of his master, and is sent away from Muralto. His guide conducts him into a large house where they are expected by a party of bandits. Filippo is ushered into a room on the upper floor and there finds out that he is to be despatched during the night, yet effects a hair-breadth escape by a passage below the apartment. The episode, though of considerable length, is completely detached from the main plot and introduced solely for the sake of delineating Filippo’s sensations when threatened with horrible and immediate death. Lewis relates, with the same laudable purpose, how Don Raymond and some other travellers pass a night at the house of a man who turns out to be the leader of a gang of robbers, and how they, too, succeed in eluding the danger. Differently as the adventures are made up, still one conspicuous detail in Montorio comes very near direct plagiarism. In the first as well as in the second story the victim is made aware of his danger by the hostess of the house, who, though of a surly aspect, appears to disapprove of the impending proceedings. The robber’s wife, in a whisper, warns Don Raymond to look at the sheets of his bed, which are stained with blood; Filippo is called by the hag who manages the household of the bandits, to examine a particular corner of his room which he, also, finds to be blood-stained. Otherwise the episode in Montorio is certainly much more exciting than the one in The Monk.

Aside from these instances of immediate influence from some of the most admired productions of the Gothic Romance, Montorio exhibits many minor traits characteristic of the school in general. Among these is the committing, either consciously or unconsciously, of great wrongs against near relations. The happiness of Orazio is destroyed by his brother, and Orazio himself unwittingly ruins the life of his sons. Of secondary characters, both attendants of Annibal at Muralto are very typical of a genuine Gothic story: the old and decrepit domestic who, in a provokingly imperfect way, attempts to satisfy the curiosity of the hero, and the young and ready-witted fellow, who stoutly follows him in his breakneck adventures. Yet in one vital point Montorio occupies an almost exceptional place within the Gothic Romance, namely, with regard to the highly tragical issue of all its incidents. In spite of its blood-curdling qualities, the novel of terror by no means excludes a happy end for the hero and the heroine; the reader may be made to wander about in charnel-houses for ever so long, but finally he is led to a nuptial chamber as infallibly as in other stories that have boasted of a wide and merited popularity. This rule was, rashly enough, disregarded by Maturin; when Helene Richter[37] says that ‘alle Schauerromane haben ein glückliches Ende, und würde es auch an den Haaren herbeigezogen,’ she evidently forgets Montorio. Maturin adhered faithfully to the programme he had fixed for his romance—to found it upon the passion of the supernatural fear alone, not troubling himself about the traditional compensation for the horrors. There is, in fact, no heroine in the book; it was not without cause that Montorio, as Maturin states in the preface to his next work, was pronounced to be ‘deficient in female interest.’ Ildefonsa is there to fill but a short episode, and is, moreover, discovered to be Annibal’s sister. As a type she is modelled according to the innocent and persecuted young ladies in Mrs Radcliffe’s stories, being in no wise remarkable among the female characters Maturin has depicted. Still less likely is Rosolia to satisfy the demands for a heroine. Matters never develop to an understanding between her and Ippolito; her sex is not even revealed before it would be too late to invent a happy solution. Rosolia is introduced into the story, in the development of which she takes no part, merely in order to intersperse it with her lyrical effusions. A character like this is not uncommon in the Gothic Romance. It may be mentioned that Don Raymond, in The Monk, also has a page who composes ballads which he, like Rosolia, subjects to the benevolent judgment of his master. The diary Rosolia presents to Ippolito is rather unsubstantial in matter, but some of the prose passages are exquisitely graceful and truly Maturineian in style.—

There is, however, within the compass of Montorio, one complete and consummate story where female interest is also attended to. Orazio’s account of his early misfortunes—immediately preceding the disheartening explanation of the details of his revenge—admittedly contains the best parts of the book.[38] The progress of the violent action is admirably concentrated, and the rapidity and poignancy of the style is powerfully indicative of the anguish felt by the writer. The character of Orazio, before he becomes the superhuman being known as father Schemoli, is illustrated with a few vigorous strokes. The motif itself—a tragedy ensuing from the groundless suspicions of a jealous husband—is not original. Mangan[39] points out that the idea had been utilized by Edward Young in The Revenge (1721), though, he adds, ‘Maturin has contrived to invest it with a new and overpowering interest.’ In Young’s tragedy the revenge is taken by a Moor called Zanga upon his master, a distinguished Spaniard, who has wronged him. Zanga helps him first to marry the lady he loves, and then ingeniously awakens his jealousy by means of forged letters and pictures deposited in suitable places. The lady, upon finding herself suspected, commits suicide, and her husband, when undeceived, follows her example. The plot of Orazio’s narrative certainly bears similarity to The Revenge, and it is not impossible that Maturin may have received an impulse from Young, although it seems somewhat far-fetched to refer to this comparatively little known play, as long as Othello remains the great prototype of a tragedy of his kind. In this respect, at least, Maturin shows originality, that he allows Orazio to remain alive and only after a long interval be informed of his fatal mistake. Fantastic as is Orazio’s situation on the islet, it required unusual imaginative power to treat it so as to render it credible; however, Maturin was equal to the task. Here are to be found the most splendid proofs of his prose-style—compared to which the metrical pieces scattered through the work are of very great inferiority—showing to what degree of excellence it was capable of rising even at that early period. It is most pathetically described how the innocent victims of Orazio’s rashness are never out of his mind—how they seem to threaten him when nightly tempests are roaring around him and how, at moments of fortuitous tranquillity, he endeavours to imagine them in a state of glory:

There are, in the prefaces to Maturin’s both second and third work, hints that his first romance had been subjected to unfavourable criticism on the part of the reviewers. In the leading periodicals of the time, however, no such are to be found. The only article upon the book, that of Scott in the Quarterly Review, did not appear until three years after the publication of Montorio. It is not quite so panegyrical as maintained by some of Maturin’s biographers, although the conspicuous talent of the rising novelist is readily admitted. Severely condemning the Radcliffe manner as little better than humbug, the reviewer speaks of Mr. Murphy’s adherence to it with disapproval and regret:

This article was to become of the greatest consequence to Maturin’s literary career, and will be returned to further on.

The Family of Montorio brought to its author nothing more substantial than fame in his nearest environs, for, notwithstanding the pseudonym, it was universally attributed to Maturin.[40] His income thus remained as scanty as ever, whilst his family kept on increasing; his son William Basil, afterwards a well-known member of the Irish Church, was born in July 1807. Nonetheless Maturin resolved to try his luck once more and produced, in 1808, a romance titled The Wild Irish Boy. This time his task was executed under circumstances peculiarly embarrassing; harassed by clamouring duties in every direction, Maturin was often forced to ‘borrow from the hours of night to complete his story.’[41] The book was intended, more directly than most of his productions, to bring in some remuneration and by every means to attract the attention of the reading public. Its very title was chosen with a view to exciting curiosity, suggesting a counterpart to Lady Morgan’s (then Miss Owenson’s) story of The Wild Irish Girl, which had appeared the previous year and proved an eminent success. Another attempt in the same direction was a lengthy dedication to Lord Moira[42]—written in very bad taste and containing the hopeful assurance that the work in hand would now determine whether the author possesses talent or no; for, if he does, the book cannot fail to secure his lordship’s notice. At the same time Maturin was fully aware that his talent was here by no means displayed to its advantage. Montorio was written in a spirit which he felt to be his special power; The Wild Irish Boy was calculated to please all—except the author himself. That the audience appealed to was not the most cultivated part of the public is rather candidly alluded to in the preface. Maturin states that his head is full of his country, but that he can perforce not give vent to his thoughts, being compelled to resort to other material, better relished by the public:

From the last sentence it has, naturally enough, been inferred that Maturin entertained but a mean opinion of novel-writing. Yet his prefaces cannot be taken literally. The tone of apology which, more or less, pervades nearly all of them, is much akin to the passing humility following close upon the heels of intoxication; and as prefaces are always composed after the conclusion of the respective works, these were written in moments of weariness attendant upon great mental exertion and extravagant sallies of imagination. Maturin was not lacking in literary ambition, nor did his poetical vein ever flow more richly than during his short period of, not exactly independence, but something like tolerable circumstances. His unfavourable judgment of novel-writing, in the present case, was probably due to the fact that he was not himself pleased with The Wild Irish Boy.

This, of course, is no excuse for the book, which indeed shows inferior work to a degree truly astonishing. Were it not for certain episodes where genuine power is displayed, and for the fact that the book was entirely a work of imagination, without any hidden aims of personal import—it would not fall very short of that species of composition, the producers of which Maturin once characterized[43] as ‘infamous and ephemeral scribblers, who pander for the public lust after anecdote that vilify the great, debase the illustrious, and expose the unfortunate, under the titles of a Winter, a Month, or six Weeks at the metropolis or some place of public resort.’ The Wild Irish Boy is brimful of august personages, lords and ladies, represented in a most unfavourable light, distorted and exaggerated by the feverish imagination of one who knew nothing of his subject. The fashionable world is condemned as sinful and utterly demoralizing, high life consists but of high vices, described and investigated from every side; while the kind of pure, old-fashioned, religious, home-like existence that is recommended as its contrast, is not found interesting enough to be illustrated otherwise than by very imperfect glimpses. Extravagant as the tone is, it becomes perfectly absurd when the moralist comes into conflict with the patriot. The author appears to have feared that the feelings of the public whose taste he is trying to gratify, might be offended by too much abuse of the British aristocracy—the pride of the nation!—and occasionally the tendency bursts into quite an opposite direction. The young fool of a hero—whose autobiography the book represents—has been painting the whole lot in the blackest of dyes, indulging in the grossest of dissipations and capable of the most contemptible baseness; yet once, seeing them all collected at a royal birth-day, he hits upon comparing them to the ‘courtiers’ of Napoleon—whom he has never beheld—with the result that he is ‘elated with confidence, with exultation, with pride,’ and feels satisfied that the English upper ten yet ‘loved their king, and worshipped their God,’ and, with many vices, ‘yet were the first on earth in national virtues.’ The sense of national superiority in the English public is flattered by a sweeping condemnation of everything foreign—it is clear that the glorification of Ireland must consequently be rather loose and rhapsodical—; especially are all Frenchmen and -women represented as monsters of malignity and immorality, and Voltaire and Rousseau mentioned with Puritan abhorrence. It was in vogue at that time to introduce into a ‘fashionable’ novel discussions about the leading writers of the day, and this duty is also carefully fulfilled. These passages are to be considered among the most interesting in the book, although they have no bearing upon the story proper. Among wicked writers who corrupt both taste and morals are Goethe (Werther), Godwin, and Mary Wollstonecraft. Miss Edgeworth, on the other hand, is enthusiastically lauded as the author of Belinda. It is curious to see Maturin here defy the mental parents of his own production, and make ineffectual efforts to free himself from that which has, even in the present work, too strong a hold upon him: without Rousseau and Werther the opening chapters of The Wild Irish Boy, containing a series of letters from a young lady attached to the hero in a thoroughly romantic fashion, would never have been written; whereas there is not a single page for which Miss Edgeworth would have been willing to take the responsibility. As for Godwin, he was of all the writers of the age the one who exercised the strongest influence upon Maturin’s work.—The purity of the manners and descriptions of Southey is gratefully admitted, while the literary qualities of his epics are subjected to vigorous criticism, very uncommon at the time, but agreed to by the judgment of posterity. The Anacreon of Moore, as might be expected, does not escape censure. The following passage is an example of the nonsensical style which prevails in the book; it is uttered by a boy of eighteen, who has just been cured of a desperate passion for his own mother-in-law:

But the story, involved as it is, remains to be told. The book opens with a letter to one Miss Elmaide St. Clair from an old maiden aunt, who, possessing some knowledge of her niece’s character and the pernicious tendencies of the age, warns her against false sensibility and fancies too romantic. Then follow the letters of Elmaide herself, who at once informs her correspondent (not the aunt) that the admonitory epistle was received too late: she is already, and irrevocably, in the fetters of a romantic attachment to the hero, a young man, almost a boy, whose wild and dissipated habits the whole of Dublin is talking of. She is fully persuaded of the hopelessness of her case, understanding that he suffers himself to be led into such a mode of life in order to forget an unfortunate love-story of his own, the subject of which is a woman living at present somewhere in Western Ireland. That woman is widely celebrated for

The retirement of Lady Montrevor—such is her name—has taken place under extraordinary circumstances. Her husband, a statesman of much influence, has illegally held the title and fortunes of the earldom of Westhampton for thirty years; at last the legitimate heir, long pursued and oppressed by the usurper, has made his appearance and laid claim to his own. To the usurper naught else remained but the title of Montrevor and his Irish estates, whither his lady, who was wholly ignorant of the story, has accompanied him. Here the hero of the tale has met her and subsequently become fatally infatuated; he has then been sent to Dublin in the company of a relation who introduces to him that class of pleasure which now forms the torture of Miss St. Clair. Her correspondence ends with the intelligence that he has unexpectedly set out for the West.

Now the hero, whose name is Ormsby Bethel, rises to speak. It appears that he has returned to the neighbourhood of Dublin and lives somewhere on the coast. Miss St. Clair, happening to move near the place, hits upon the expedient of leaving anonymous letters addressed to him, in a recess amongst the rocks where he is in the habit of strolling. In these she requests him to tell her all about his life. He complies and places letters for her in the same recess.

This is mentioned in letters from the parties concerned, but at this point the story itself commences: an autobiography of the hero, written to an un-named friend, which he begins by the narrative he has written to Miss St. Clair.

His birth and childhood are involved in a deep mystery. Born in France, he has faint reminiscences of having been hurried from place to place, until, at the age of seven, he is taken to London and committed to the care of an old and wealthy couple. Here he also visits a school, where he enters into friendship with a boy called Hammond, who subsequently plays a certain part in his story. One day he hears his father mentioned and after this knows no rest; his health declines, and he is sent to a parson in Cumberland, where he pursues his studies and improves both in mind and body. His stay here is interrupted by a message from his father, who announces his desire that Ormsby is to set out for Ireland and forthwith to graduate at the University of Dublin; from his father’s letter Ormsby learns that he is illegitimate. After having spent some time in the Irish capital, he is summoned to join the family in the West. He travels there with his father’s confidential servant, a Frenchman, from whose very impious conversation he gathers that his father is a worn-out libertine. Mr. Bethel is, indeed, a wretched invalid, who is constantly tormented by the memories of pleasures he has lost the power to enjoy, and who regards his son with feelings of envy because of his youth and strength. The rest of the family consists of his daughter Sybilla, a gentle and pure-minded girl, and her gouvernante, a Miss Perceval, an atheist and admirer of French writers; one episode occurring in the family life is that Miss Perceval tries to prevent Sybilla from reading the Bible, and would even be on a fair way to succeed but for the intervention of Ormsby. Among his neighbours he finds his school-fellow Hammond, whose father, an old drunkard, owns an estate in the vicinity. The most remarkable person there, however, is an elder brother of Mr. Bethel, called De Lacy. He leads a life in the style of an ancient Irish chieftain, but, unlike most ‘Milesians’ he is rich, and Ormsby at once becomes his favourite and heir-apparent.—Upon this the Montrevors put in their appearance, and turn all the country upside down with their splendid fêtes and assemblies. Ormsby has been interested in the brilliant and unhappy Lady Montrevor even before he has seen her, and when he actually meets her he is perfectly overwhelmed by her attractions. Her husband, for his part, only expects to be called back to England as soon as his recent scandal has been forgotten and his talents and influence are required again. Meanwhile he employs his time in canvassing votes for his son, and pretends, to that end, to be intent upon proposing all sorts of reforms and improvements for Ireland. There is no love lost between him and his lady, who, in opposition to his suavity and courteousness, treats her neighbours with capricious ridicule. Among their younger children there is Miss Athanasia Montolieu, whose French gouvernante is doing her utmost to corrupt the soul of her charge with the literature of her country.—The whirl of pleasures comes soon to a tragical end as far as the Bethel family is concerned. One night Miss Perceval insists on following Ormsby and his sister to a grand entertainment given by Lord Montrevor in some public place. Ormsby is sitting with Lady Montrevor and her daughter, when a gentleman approaches and requests the ladies to allow him to escort them away from the place, the house being unfit for them, as there is a woman present who is the mistress of Mr. Bethel; she is recognized by the speaker himself and another gentleman, with whom she has formerly been on intimate terms. A violent scene ensues, and the fête is broken up. The following morning Ormsby receives a visit from a relative who confirms his worst doubts, namely, that Miss Perceval is not only the mistress of his father, but is also Ormsby’s and Sybilla’s mother. He declares that a duel seems inevitable, but that Ormsby is disgraced for ever if he takes part in it; the consequences must fall upon his father, whose age and feeble health may, perhaps, excuse him from sending a challenge. Ormsby is convinced of the justness of his argument and keeps away the whole day, but on returning he sees the thoughtlessness of his conduct. His father, greatly astonished at his absence, has been engaged in a duel, burst a blood-vessel, and now lies dying. His uncle, the old Milesian, who is also convinced that Ormsby has refused to fight a duel, has disowned him and forbidden him his presence. Miss Perceval has taken refuge in the house of the adversary in the recent duel, her former acquaintance. Upon Ormsby falls the painful duty of taking her off by main force, but, incorrigible as she is, she flees and takes with her the greater part of Sybilla’s money. Fortunately, Sybilla has been secretly married to Hammond, but as his father, too, leads a life which the son must blush for, he cannot take her to his home; he succeeds, however, in procuring her a refuge elsewhere. Ormsby, standing now alone in the world, resolves to leave the country, yet an unexpected event changes his plans.—In a solitary tower in the neighbourhood lives a mysterious person who never speaks to or visits any one except the poor, whose misery he endeavours to relieve. The night Ormsby prepares to depart he is stopped by the stranger and exhorted to save his uncle. His striking manner induces Ormsby to yield to his exhortations; he hastens to the castle of the Milesian and arrives just in time to save the old man from the hands of a murderer. Upon this a reconciliation takes place. Ormsby is again acknowledged as the heir of his uncle, and the castle becomes his home. His hopeless attachment to Lady Montrevor, however, makes him profoundly unhappy, and at length his uncle sends him to Dublin in company with the relative who gave him the ill-fated advice about the duel. In Dublin his life is what the letters of Miss St. Clair, in the beginning of the story, indicate with so much pain. His disappearance, the mention of which puts an end to her correspondence, is caused by the news that his uncle has been arrested for Ormsby’s debts. Ill as he is, he sets off on his journey in a delirious condition, is once more forgiven by the old man and sent back near the capital where, as has been told, he begins to write down his recollections to his unknown correspondent, Miss St. Clair.—In a letter to his uncle Ormsby confesses that the cause of his dejection may be traced to Montrevor-House, in answer to which the old man summons him back, informing him that he has ‘worked wonders’ in his favour. Though unable to understand the meaning hidden in his uncle’s message, Ormsby sets out for the castle of Montrevor and, on arriving there is, first of all, greeted by the Milesian who draws forward Miss Athanasia Montolieu and places her hand in Ormsby’s. It occurs to Ormsby that this, in fact, was the only rational way of interpreting his letter, but now it is too late for any explanation. He is married that very night; Lord Montrevor, whose star has re-risen in England, entertains the intention of immediately returning there with all his family. Shortly afterwards the old Milesian dies, leaving Ormsby in possession of a large fortune.—The rest of the story is mainly a fulfilment of what was promised in the preface. The company is divided between Bond-street and fashionable entertainments, most of which are held within the family-circle. Lord and Lady Montrevor have several daughters, one of whom has, strangely enough, married the present Earl of Westhampton—an uneducated man of blunt manners—whom her father has treated so infamously. The principal amusement at these entertainments, aside from questionable gallantries, are cards, at which they attempt to rob and even cheat each other. Ormsby before long gambles away every shilling of his property as well as of that of his wife, and once more he comes face to face with ruin. A depraved woman of fashion, Lady Delphina Orberry, the greatest enemy of Lady Montrevor, falls violently in love with him. Ormsby, who fortunately has become amorous of his own wife, is insensible to attentions of this character, yet Lady Orberry contrives to become his sole creditor, thus to get him, economically at least, at her mercy. Lady Montrevor, at this time, contemplates a retirement from the world altogether. She has met a man who has loved her in her youth, before she was a woman of fashion, and whom she wantonly rejected; now they discover their feelings to be unchanged. The situation, however, becomes acute in the extreme, when Lord Montrevor, who hates his wife, determines to prosecute Ormsby for adultery with her, and appearances are against them. Lady Montrevor attempts to commit suicide; Ormsby bursts into her room, and tears the laudanum from her, upon which, it is said, ‘all recollection forsakes him.’ When he regains his self-possession, all complications are quickly and wonderfully unravelled. Lady Delphina Orberry takes poison and dies, confessing to Ormsby that she had a daughter who was educated in Ireland in separation from her mother; she gives him some letters whence it appears that her name was Elmaide St. Clair. Lord Montrevor falls in a duel, his wife becoming thus free to unite herself with the lover of her youth. The dramatis personæ once more retire to Ireland, for Lady Montrevor’s lover turns out to be the identical inhabitant of the solitary tower, and, still more strange, the father of Ormsby, a third brother of De Lacy and Mr. Bethel. Miss Perceval had been his mistress shortly before she became Mr. Bethel’s, and Ormsby was believed to be the son of the latter. Ormsby’s affairs are forthwith cleared up. It appears that the often-mentioned relative, who has been his agent, has secretly hated him because of the frustration of his hopes of becoming De Lacy’s heir himself, and thus he has been trying to rob Ormsby of his property and, moreover, to seduce his wife; but so far from succeeding in his designs, he has, at last, shot himself. Athanasia now presents Ormsby with a child, and the book ends with this paradoxical sentence: ‘Let those who cannot feel my felicity, attempt to describe it.’—

From the short précis above it ought to be evident that the story is diffuse and clumsily constructed; that it contains certain good suggestions that are not made the most of, and cleverly built-up situations which lead to platitudes or are forcibly and implausibly dissolved. The cause of this, no doubt, may be traced to the manifold and contradictory considerations Maturin imagined himself to be bound to observe while writing his second book. The autobiography does not attach itself quite naturally to the correspondence that precedes it, and the intrigue, when it once commences, is continually interrupted by discussions and episodes. From the latter, however, is to be sought what interest the book is capable of arousing. The correspondence of Miss St. Clair is, in itself, an instance worthy of note. It has been admired by a critic[44] for ‘its method of pure suggestion of character without incident;’ and the character revealed is that of a heroine typically romantic.[45] Her love is soft and dreaming, made to live on sighs and tears, too platonic and ethereal even for the vicinity of its object:

This self-denying feeling, it is seen, has reached a degree where every positive aspiration ends. The writer is herself aware that she leaves far behind her the sentimental novels she has read:

The story of Elmaide St. Clair is given as a warning example of overwrought sensibility and its fatal consequences, and it might be supposed that this quality in her is, therefore, deliberately exaggerated. Yet that part of the book, most of all, impresses the reader with the genuineness of its conception; it is written with obvious inspiration, and there is absolutely nothing of parody about the style. It is one of the few instances where the author seems to be in perfect sympathy with his subject, and he actually excels in the very kind of composition he at the same time pretends to condemn.—Another of the better episodes is neither romantic nor ‘fashionable,’ but foreshadows Maturin’s best attainments in realistic description of ordinary life of a certain kind. Whether it was an individual trait of Maturin, or whether it belongs to the Irish temperament—few English writers have displayed so intense a horror of a narrow, monotonous existence without any sort of excitement or interest. In The Wild Irish Boy, in Women, in Melmoth, this aversion is expressed more and more powerfully each time. In the present work this feeling is given an outlet in the case of the old couple in London, with whom Ormsby is placed while a child. They have retired from business in order to pass the remainder of their days in quietness; but instead of enjoying an agreeable rest, they are seized by an intolerable tedium, and by and by their life, as it were, develops into a stagnant pool:

The great bulk of the book, as has been said, aspires to treat of modern life in higher circles, of which Maturin, at the time, knew little or nothing. The descriptions, consequently, lack all atmosphere of reality, nor does the characterization augment the value of the whole. The worst of it all is that the hero is so uninteresting, and does not in the least fulfil the expectations roused by the effusions of Elmaide St. Clair. A very self-exulting tone is generally not in keeping with an autobiographical form, yet Ormsby Bethel does nothing to suppress the eulogies lavishly bestowed on him by well-meaning people, eulogies which he certainly does not deserve. He calls himself wild, but wildness is merely an embellishing name for weakness; there is nothing in him of real, refreshing wildness, or youthful recklessness; he is always in an unnatural state of exaltation, either of virtue or repentance. A preacher of morals and defender of religion as he aspires to be in a society that cares for neither, he displays, when emergency arises, no more strength of mind than his neighbours. What is it but a deplorable weakness in a man to publish about himself the letters of Elmaide St. Clair on the pretence that they treat of a period of his life of which he ‘could not speak in the first person?’ It is very doubtful whether Ormsby Bethel ever became popular among the public of circulating libraries. That the reader cannot feel sympathy for the hero is, of course, in itself no fault in a book, but in this case it is only too evident that it is the author’s intention he should.—The wholly imaginary character of Lady Montrevor is too superlative and violently exaggerated, and her wonderful accomplishments, of mind and body, are endlessly repeated in a most extravagant language. Her daughter Athanasia is more interesting; she is one of those delicate and ethereal beings Maturin always succeeded in designing, and of which there are no two quite alike. Athanasia is, like Byron’s Aurora,

and, like her, she is also in possession of a portion of common sense and strength of mind, being eventually cured of the malady under which Elmaide St. Clair breaks down. At first, indeed, her case seems desperate. She is grown up into an ‘early, and exquisite, and dangerous maturity;’ she has been educated ‘without example but of vice and folly,’ and left to form her ideas from improper literature, until she is ‘dying to be the heroine of a mad and wicked tale of a Rousseau, of a Goethe, of a Wolstonecraft.’ And to become such a heroine she imagines it necessary for her to have both a husband and a lover. Therefore she encourages the attentions of the relative of her husband, who otherwise is quite indifferent to her. Yet at the bottom of her heart there is a yearning for fidelity, honourable love and quiet happiness, and when difficulties are gathering around her husband, this yearning grows stronger and stronger. At last she understands that the duties of life differ greatly from those of romance, and in a candid and touching letter—which her husband reads while she is sleeping!—she renounces the relative for ever. Now this argumentation would be very well if the aforesaid writers actually did maintain the views ascribed to them; but it is unquestionably a very childish way of understanding them to long for a forbidden attachment even in case you happen to be united to the man you love. Considering that Athanasia has grown up in an environment so corrupt as Maturin tries to depict it, it is certainly too far-fetched to throw the blame upon Julie and Charlotte. Yet it is never explicitly stated that Athanasia has misconceived what she has read; the opinions pass as those of the author. This curious anti-romantic freak of Maturin, whatever its cause, was not of long duration: eight years later accusations of the same kind were brought against himself, in connection with his tragedy of Bertram.—Among the secondary characters in the book that of Lady Delphina Orberry has been pointed out[47] as representing ‘a type of woman rare in English fiction.’ She is introduced as a rival of Lady Montrevor and is her contrast in every respect; her weapons against that lady’s dazzling brilliancy and sparkling wit are ‘soft, seducing manners,’ a ‘timid silence,’ and ‘melting whispers.’ Behind, however, this unterrifying exterior there is a mind totally depraved, whereas the heart of Lady Montrevor is discovered to have remained uncorrupted, in spite of her position in society. Undoubtedly how Lady Orberry clings to Ormsby like something too soft for him to shake off, gently but irresistingly involving her fate with his, is well described, and how she understands to excite his compassion by representing herself as unjustly suspected of that which she most wishes, in her relation to him. But the end, again, is forced and unnatural; it is only because the hero must be got out of his difficulties that she takes poison, confesses all her crimes to him, and gives him the letters of her unhappy daughter.

Notwithstanding all that can be said against The Wild Irish Boy, it is of considerable interest in Maturin’s earlier production, when regarded as a kind of preparatory study to Women, one of his masterpieces. Many of the characters and situations present obvious similarities, and it will, therefore, be necessary later on to refer to the present work. A few words are still required to define its character as an Irish novel, one of the first where elements typically Irish are brought forward.

Anything finished or complete these Irish ingredients do not form; that Maturin longed to speak of his country but felt himself prevented by other considerations has already been pointed out. Of the attempts to treat of Ireland, her past and present, only some diffuse discussions remain here and there, without being naturally introduced into the story. The first idea of Ireland is introduced in a surprising and poetical way. During his solitary wanderings in the mountains of Cumberland, in his earliest youth, Ormsby sometimes amuses himself by imagining a people whose destinies he is to lead and whose sovereign and benefactor he is to become:

These fancies he discloses to the good parson, his tutor, who immediately answers that he has ‘accurately described the Irish nation.’ Shortly afterwards Ormsby is sent to Ireland. He might now be expected to come into some contact with the people of his dreams, but this material is, unfortunately, allowed to run to waste. His first stay in Dublin is occupied by a tedious discourse upon the University, and by a description of a Calvinistic set among the students, who endeavour to draw Ormsby into their circle. In Maturin’s days these passages possibly might have excited some local interest, yet to a modern reader they form a most unexhilarating digression, from the like of which all other works of Maturin are exempt. Ormsby’s second sojourn at Dublin, that which he otherwise avoids speaking of in the first person, contains a lengthy comparison between the Irish and English character. This is somewhat more to the point; but even at that time, when but little had been written about the former, observations of this kind were hardly original: