CASTLE RICHMOND. * Goon wine needs no bush. We need not
tell our. readers that Castle Richmond is a clever and amusing novel, for its author's name is warrant enough for them of that fact. Critics may shake their sagacious heads at the dangerous rapidity with which book after book issues from Mr. Anthony Trollope's hand, but the books are all good, and the critics are silenced. But they are not beaten ; it still remains true, notwithstanding one or another signal instance to :the contrary, that hasty workmanship generally makes bad work ; and Messrs. X., Y., and Z. may be assured that the odds are enormously against them if they be tempted to follow Mr. Trollope's example. Even he himself, with all his extraordinary nimbleness, cannot avoid paying some small forfeits to time. Capable as he is of writing pure, racy, and plea- sant English, nothing but over-haste can account for the lapses into slovenly and ungrammatical language, of which he is habitu- ally guilty. Such phrases as "whether or no," "those sort of things," "to do other than," are of frequent occurrence in all his novels—for instance, "She did not ask herself whether or no she would ultimately accept his love" (Barchester Towers, p. 72), "Whether he had done anything that he ought to be ashamed of or no" (Castle Richmond I., p. 53). Let us see how these sen- tences look after a little transposition and filling-up of ellipses, thus—She did not ask herself whether she would or [wouldj no ultimately accept his love. Whether he had done or [had no [done] anything, &c. To use the word "other" instead of "otherwise," as in the following sentence from Barchester Towers, is not justified either by analogy or authority: "It was impossible that man or woman should do other than look at her." Which and what are not interchangeable, though the heroine of Castle Richmond thinks other, as Mr. Trollops would say. "And And now, Clara, what is all this ? ' said the Countess. 'All • castle Richmond. A Novel. By Anthony Trollope. In three volumes. Pub- lished by Chapman and Hall. which, mamma?'" is Lady Clara's reply ; and the author asks, "Can any one blame her sn that she so far equivocated ? " In another place, he thus apotrophizes his readers, "Oh, my friends! be not hard on him in that he was thus weeping like a woman." In both sentences/or would have been more germane to the mat- ter than in. One of the grossest offences against grammar to which Mr. Trollope is much addicted, is exemplified in the fol- lowing sentences. "Eleanor [the Warden's daughter) had in- tended to have gone with her sister."—" Had his decision not have been sudden, might not the life of that old baronet have been saved ?" This is equivalent to stating that the decision had have been sudden, and that Eleanor's intention had been to be after going with her sister, as they say in Ireland. Mr. Trollope's new novel has its scene in the south of Ireland, in the year of the Famine ; but none of its main issues are evolved out of that great calamity. Their connexion with it is casual, and just close enough to furnish in a suitable manner the secondary machinery and incidents of the story, to supply occasion for some of the comings and goings, the occupations and the talk of the dra- matis personie, and to give to the story of the principal personages such a background of local and historical reality as serves to heighten its scenic illusion, and does not injuriously distract at- tention from the leading theme. The author's management of this portion of his materials is exceedingly judicious. He was in Ireland during the famine, travelling over its highways and byways in all directions, seeing everywhere the misery of the time, almost with the same fulness of opportunity as if he had been sent on a mission for its relief, but with a freedom of judg- ment which hardly any one could have retained amidst the distract- ing exigencies of such a position. Being, as everybody knows not only a graphic writer but a man of approved administrative faculty, he must have a great deal to say about the terrible event of which he was so close an observer ; but he is too good an artist to say it all in the wrong place. What he has said is eminently worthy of perusal, and will obtain it the more readily, and with the better effect, in consequence of the author's judicious reticence. Love, and the disputed succession to a baronetcy and an unen- cumbered estate of twelve thousand a year, are the pivots upon which the story turns. The hero, Herbert Fitzgerald, is a young gentleman of respectable rather than heroic qualities. Opposed to him is his cousin Owen, who is indeed a man of heroic mould in soul and body, and as like Achilles as, in peaceful times, an Irish squire of 800/. a year can be like the royal and half-divine warrior of Phthia. Owen wins the love of Lady Clara, the daughter of the widowed Countess of Desmond, but the latter for- bids their union, and obtains a promise from her daughter that she will neither see nor correspond with her lover. The wrathful lover, we regret to say, does not solace himself with lyre and song like his great prototype, but with furiously fast living, which brings him into evil repute with his steady-going neigh- bours. Lady Clara, mourning over his apparent unworthiness, believes it her duty to stifle her love for him, and even transfers her affections, in a sober, unimpassioned sort, to his well-behaved cousin. Meanwhile, the beautiful Countess, who is still two or three years on the sunny side of forty, would gladly give her own hand to the man to whom she had refused her daughter's ; but now comes an astounding discovery. It appears that the rightful heir to the baronetcy and the estate is not Herbert but Owen. The Countess would now sacrifice her own secret hopes to the worldly welfare of her dowerless daughter, but her plans are thwarted in every direction. Clara will not forsake Herbert; his misfortune has intensified her lukewarm love for him to passion heat ; and Owen will take neither the baronetcy nor the estate; he will not rob his cousin, but he will hold his own against him, for nothing can shake his belief in Clara's constancy. Such is the state of perplexity to which things have come before the mid of the second volume ; further it is not our cue to go.
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