BOOKS.

A CLASSICAL NOVEL.* Tins is a classical novel, or, more strictly, a classical romance, and there is some force and fairness in the consideration that, since the subject is remote from the beaten track, and the learning and labour expended on it are not likely to be appreciated by a very large circle of readers, it deserves particular attention from critics. The "critic clearness of an eye that sees through all the Muses' walk" is not wanted to discern the merits or demerits of such books as Miss Braddon's or " °aide's." They are popular or nothing,—sometimes they are both. Accordingly, the critic finds that such writers are apt to treat him with disrespect, firing off satirical jokes at his expense, and not even condescending to take care that the jokes are good ones. But classical novels, celebrating the fall of Paganism, are not addressed to the vulgar novel-reader ; and their authors, knowing that the public will wait until the land has been surveyed by the critics, and its habitable and enjoyable capacities pointed out, meet those gentlemen with an amiable deference, all the more captivat- ing that it is so seldom experienced. Mr. Sneyd does not, in his elaborate preface, address any remarks exclusiveiy to critics ; it is the reader interested in and acquainted with classi- cal literature whom he seeks to propitiate ; but such a reader is, by the nature of the case, a critic. "I have tried," writes Mr. Sneyd, "to weave into my story such an amount of accurate classical information as would give to the scenes and characters therein depicted the reality of life, without clouding, by the ap- pearance of pedantry, that sunlight which should ever rest on the page which treats of Italy. It was with no ignorance of its diffi- culties that I approach the task. When a flower cannot be intro- duced in a garden, a dish at a banquet, or the fold of a tunic described without adequate authority, it is not easy to practise successfully the ' ars celare artem.' How imperfectly these diffi- culties have been overcome none can be more sensible than myself." We are happy to be able to say that, in so far as we are competent to judge, Mr. Sneyd has attained the object which he declares himself in these words to have had in view ; but we'feel that, while succeeding in respect of classic verisimilitude, he has failed in the quite essential matter of interesting readers. He deserves all the credit due to pains-taking industry ; he describes with elaborate minuteness the feasts, the marriage rites, the funeral ceremonies, the dwellings, the gardens, of Italians in the beginning of the fourth century. He has a richly florid language constantly at command, and its pomp is not without appropriateness to the description of antique pageantry. He writes with perfect clear- ness, and it cannot be said that he indulges in didactic super- fluities. Nevertheless the book is difficult to read. Seldom have we encountered two volumes, containing between them only 600 pages of the ordinary novel size, through which it was so difficult to make way. We are indeed bound to admit that we have no special favour for any kind of literary per- formance, prose or poetic, which is based upon revived classicism. The power expended in this field, even by consummate masters, ap- pears to us to have been in some sense wasted. There may therefore be many persons who will find more exhilaration in Mr. Sneyd's pages than they have yielded us. If the truth must be told, the book strikes us as an expressive illustration of the impossibility of acquiring by force of study the knack of successful composition in the sense of composition which people will like to read. As we scan Mr. Sneyd's erudite notes and mottoes, and trace upon his page the elaborate tesselation of classical allusion, we reflect, almost with a kind of pain, upon the queer witchery whereby half-educated men and women, who have failed hopelessly to master the rules of grammar, but who have the incommunicable knack of writing what it is pleasant to read, take possession of our attention in their opening paragraph, and retain it as long as they please. Why is it that the words of this learned and often eloquent author have less charm than those of the fire-side crone amid a circle of eagerly interested children, or the village story-teller on an ale-house bench ?

For one thing, he has no idea of the art of literary parsimony, no notion of the advantage of subduing one's splendours and being chary of one's high lights. He squanders his fine words. He eschews plain and homely terms. We hear not of the blue sea, but of ocean's azure breast ; not of CEesar's crown, but his diadem ; not of the west wind in sweet-smelling gardens, but of zephyr gathering aromatic odours from myrtle thickets, and

• Cyllene; or, the Fall of Paganism. By Henry Sneyd, H.A. 2 vols. London: Longmans and Co. 1873.

sighing regretfully among the roses before he strews the ground with their crimson flakes. We have soil "gemmed with blossoms which riot in sweet luxuriance, purifying the air from the hem- lock's vapour," and a grove of ilexes "whose gnarled trunks seem.

coeval with Time's birth." Mr. Sneyd has, we think, been too. much influenced in his style by Lord Lytton's romances. Here is a sentence which seems actually to have strayed from some one of his lordship's books, and to have been impounded by Mr. Sneyd : —" Varied as the changing scenes of this Elysium of sense were the groups by which it was peopled ; and while wandering Plea- sure folded her painted wings, content to rest awhile in this her- chosen abode, and breathed her soft poison through the veins of youth ; Care, shrouding herself in sable veil, dogged the steps of Age." This would be all right if there were a moderate allow-

ance of it, but such is the prevailing style and manner of Cyllener and the perpetual glare is fatiguing.

In the next place, Mr. Sneyd seems to us never to penetrate quite to the heart of his characters, so as to make them live. He does nob. enable us to get hold of their personality. Every one of them.

talks like a book, and more like a book of blank verse than of downright, every-day prose. His lovers speechify so finely that we cannot for a moment believe them to be in earnest. Claudius. loves Cyllene, and wants to know whether he has found favour its her eyes ; "the azure breast of ocean, dimpled with its myriad smiles, reflects Aphrodite's image," and the scene is otherwise- appropriate for a declaration. Accordingly,—

" Cyllene,' said Claudian, with eyes still fixed on the glowing West, think you, when the soul goes forth—whether its journey be to those regions which bask ever in yon golden light, or whether it soar up- wards to the heavens—think you that the trammels of creed can bind it then ? Beautiful Cyllene, the soul which breathes within us both was immortal from our birth. Clog not, then, the spirit's joy on earth with fetters which shall fall off from it at the first moment of its emancipation from its earthly prison. Forgive me, Cyllene, if my lips. betray the secret which they tremble even now to utter. Have I loved you? Does the flower turn lovingly to the sun's bright beam? Have I thirsted for you in absence ? Does the traveller in the burning desert hear in his dreams the music of the babbling brook ? Have I yearned for your coming ? Does the sea woo the first breath of the zephyr which toys gently with its wavelets ? Oh! Cyllene, count all the prayers and number all the vows you have ever offered before the, altars of the gods. it would not reach the measure of untold homage which I have paid to you. If this be love, adored Cyllene, truly I have loved. I may have erred,—yielding to you the worship which, as your creed teaches, the immortal gods brook not to see offered to a mortal woman. It may be my punishment to be torn from you for ever. But could I live those hours again,-'--I could not, I would not, wish to live them. otherwise. It was my heaven to be with you ; I knew not, nor hoped for greater joy. Think not that my words are idle flattery; he who' has truly loved could never flatter. In your presence my tongue was ever dumb, and my faltering lips refused to speak the adoration of my heart. Forgive me if my rash words offend. I could no longer bear about with me this torturing secret. And now, Cyllene, reject. my love, if it be your will. Bid me leave you ; banish me from your presence for ever. This I can bear; for in my greatest joy the whis- pered voice of warning was never silent. The clouds which lower over our country are big with woe for us. The Fates may dissever us, even if you do not. One boon alone I crave : oh ! tell me that you have loved me. That knowledge will gild the darkest hour of coming life, and then I shall know at least that I have lived."

In justice to ourselves, as well as to Mr. Sneyd, we have quoted the whole of this oration. We submit that declarations of sincere and vehement love are not made in this way. Mr. Sneyd tells us that the excitement of Claudian's feelings carried him on to the end. But excited feelings would not express themselves in these' balanced and pompous sentences. Strange to say, they do' not put Cyllene asleep. She does not even yawn. She takes to murmuring softly, and making other demonstrations that the long-winded man has prevailed. " Then the full heart found' relief in tears,—tears which flowed gently forth, she knew not whence." This is a new effect in pathos. How should she have been at a loss as to where her tears came from ? It could not be from her ears or the roots of her hair. Had the young' lady, after all, been lapped in slumber by her lover's harangue, and was she talking nonsense in her sleep ? "lb was not joy nor sorrow, nor hope nor fear ; it was the bursting of the heart's springs which the dead weeds of philosophy had choked. It was

the melting of the snows of doubt and reserve. Henceforth she had one true heart wherewith to hold communion ; and by that thought all other memories were effaced." Very well, but surely,

she might have recollected that tears come from the eyes, and experienced no difficulty on that question. Even the Claimant's memories were not so completely effaced as this.

The reader has before him materials from which to judge of Mr. Sneyd's power of describing sentimental situations. We shall. now give a sample of his manner of handling wilder and harsher incident. Cyllene, on one occasion, was the object of an attack by a body of kidnappers, who approached the villa in which she lived, by making way through, or under, a garden-wall. The lady was guarded by a mastiff :—

" As the evening wore on "—we quote from Mr. Sneyd—" she (Cyllene) retired to the house, but still her faithful guardian kept watch. It was not long before a slight sound attracted his attention, and creeping noiselessly along, sniffing the air as he went, he crouched down behind the wall which bounded the garden, where an ilex which leaned its boughs against the crumbling masonry had spread a carpet of dead leaves. Presently there was a movement among the leaves, and the head of a man appeared working his way cautiously through the super- incumbent rubbish. The dog drew back for an instant, and then with a swift bound he sprang upon the man, dragging him without effort from his hiding-place ; and, as with low smothered growls ho shook him, tho mangled wretch gave vent to a scream of agony that rang through the night air. Then from beneath the wall came the sound of hunying feet, and the murmur of voices ; and the dog lay down again to watch, mouthing his prey at intervals, as though to make sure that all life was extinct."

A man entering a garden by a hole run under a garden wall would clear away the earth with pickaxe and spade, and make room for his head ; he certainly would not push his skull through earth and rubbish. Still more clearly, the part assigned to the dog could have been played only by a lion, if by that. No dog in the world could pick a man from a hole as if he were a rat, and kill him with a shake. What the dog would have done in this case is obvious. He would have fixed his fangs in the man's throat.

The death of the latter would probably have been almost instan- taneous, and the body would have fallen back heavily into the hole. Mr. Sneyd's imagination seems to play vaguely about the facts, without veritably realising them. Neither his dogs nor his lovers are felt to be alive.

It would be hardly fair to Mr. Sneyd to lay before our readers an abstract of his story. There is no plot in the strict sense, but there is no lack of action or incident. The heroine Cyllene is loved by the hero Claudian, and the course of their true love refuses to run smooth until Mr. Sneyd reaches his closing chapters. A personage called Numerian loves Cyllene, and resorts to a variety of diabolical contrivances and conspiracies in order that he may gratify his passion. All which, by the grace of Mr. Sneyd, are satisfactorily baffled, and Mr. and Mrs. Claudian are left at last in the peaceful enjoyment of "moon and honey for two." Of terrors and horrors, ghastly situations, hairbreadth escapes, thrilling adventures, there is a reasonable allowance. Bandits, gladiators, soldiers, mobs, martyrs, and maniacs play their picturesque and exciting parts. We cannot say that we wept much, or that our hair stood on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine ; but it must be stated that we once took a course of Miss Braddon, and are, therefore, difficult subjects for the sensational operator. The feasts are delightful. " Whoever supped with Libella found every dainty which the world could offer. Earth, sea, and sky, through every province of the wide empire, were ransacked to grace his table. There were turbots from Ravenna, and Sicilian lampreys, well-fattened field-fares and truffles, brought from the confines of Libya. Flamingoes had contributed their tongues alone to the feast, and innumerable birds their brains." On the whole, our advice to those interested in the fictitious literature of the day is to order these volumes from Mudie, and try them. The author is a man of classical culture, with great command of diction and of imagery, and his style is coloured and vivacious; he has failed to interest us much, but the fault may be partly at least ours, and our readers ought to judge for themselves.