THE MAN IN CHAINS.* The Man in Chains sounds neatly
sensational, with a triple flavour of Newgate, Tyburn, and Old Smithfield. Expectant novel-readers, however, ought to be warned at once that the only flavour of this kind is in the title, and that the book itself is utterly destitute not only of sensation, but of sense. As to the attractive title, its meaning is thus explained. The chains are not meant to be ordinary fetters, but "those chains that no man can ever see, but which are clanking in every thoroughfare and in every crowd ; clanking with a sound that none can bear, although it can be felt ; clanking in the senate, on the judgment-seat ; amidst the scenes of revelry and mirth ; beneath the surplice of the high eccle- siastic and the coronet of the great patrician ; clanking amidst the jingle of tinselled fashion ; everywhere clanking with a sound that none can hear, and yet which vibrates to the very heart, and sometimes blights it." The meaning of this imposing piece of fine writing is not apparent at once, but leaks out in drops in the course of the three volumes. To be "in chains," "clanking," "blighted heart," and all that, is, in sober prose, to be in debt. It is a refined sentiment, the exposition of which would do honour to the blank verse of Dr. M. Farquhar Tupper.
The hero of the book, the "man in chains," is one Silvester Langdale, a young barrister•at-law, tall and good-looking, and the luckiest fellow that ever was born in a novel. The reputed son of a country schoolmaster, he sets out in his career friendless and penniless; "he knows nobody in London, and his stock of money is almost as limited as the circle of his friends." But this wonderful barrister, who "knows nobody," becomes famous in a week by a very wonderful accident. Getting a brief for defending a retired prize-fighter accused of manslaughter at the Old Bailey, he acquits himself of his task with such extraordinary success as to rise at once to the very top of the profession. At the trial, the Court is crowded with noblemen—what more natural at the Old Bailey ?—and one of them, Viscount Montalban, forthwith invites the young barrister to dinner. Silvester Langdale goes, and veni, vicli, vici, falls in love with Augusta Montalban, only daughter of the noble Viscount, a very proud and haughty beauty, who at once returns the ardent affection of the young barrister. It is so natural for proud and noble ladies to get enamoured of men successful at the Old Bailey ! Although being a "man in chains," Silvester's course of true love runs very smooth. He asks for the hand of the Viscount's only daughter, and gets it without opposition, neither her father nor any other of her high and noble relations having the slightest objection to the match. As a pastime, previous to his marriage, Silvester Langdale is elected member of Parliament for the place where he has been at school. Then, twelve months after he has got his first brief at the Old Bailey, the young barrister is united to Augusta Montalban, and the two are sent travelling on their honeymoon, with the author's blessing. It runs:—" Speed away, Silvester Langdale, with your happy, beautiful bride ! You are both in all the sublimity of bliss. You are flying onward, and heaven upon earth seems opening round you. Cherish her, Silvester Langdale; cherish him, Augusta! ye are both worthy of each other. Onward, onward, to the heaven that is before you! Good bye ! farewell! your path is lined with flowers. Farewell !" &c. Angels must weep at this "sublimity of bliss."
It is almost needless to say that, besides a sublime hero, there
is a wicked person, incarnation of all that is corrupt, in The Man in Chains. The enemy's name is Marl Baskerville. Outwardly smiling, he is inwardly full of evil, manifested in sundry ways, and particularly in that most atrocious occupation of lending money at ten per ceut, interest—if he can get it. This fiend in human shape has some old grudge about some old sweetheart against the noble Viscount Montalban, and in order to ruin his foe lends him some money. To ruin him the faster, he lends some cash, too, to Silvester Langdale, now the Viscount's son-in- law, and to various others of his relations and friends. From the moment they touch Marl Baskerville's money, they all become "men in chains." To accelerate the process, a lawsuit is brought against the Viscount, tending to deprive him of all his landed property, which is claimed for some unknown heir. But when it • The Man in Chains. B7CJ. Colin& Three solo. Loudou, J. Max well (All rigida resell ed.)
comes to trial, the unknown one is found to be Silvester Lang- dale himself, the lucky chained fellow, who now becomes heir of Lord Montalban's estate as well as husband of his only daughter. The extraordinary affair does not alter much in the circumstances of the respective parties, except in making the fiend more fiendish than ever. Marl Baskerville, detennined to have revenge on his old enemy, stalks into Lord Moutalban's house and threatens to drag him in "purple and fine linen to a culprit's cell." Though not happening to be dressed in purple, the noble Viscount dislikes the threat, whereupon lie and his credi tor shoot at each other, and—" Lord Montalban seized oue of the pistols, Marl Baskerville instantly grasped the other ; a moment, a flash, a ringing report, and Lord Montalban and Marl Baskerville both lay dead upon the floor." A truly touching variation of the beautiful story of the two Kilkenny cats !
The little shooting episode properly finishes the novel ; not, however, without the orthodox appendix chapter, which describes the subsequent fate of all concerned. In this case all are made as happy as possible. Silvester Langdale is "no longer a a man in chains," the death of the money-lender, from whose stiff hands he succeeded in taking sundry compromising papers, having happily released him. Several inferior personages, more or less in chains after the like fashion, get out of their difficulties by the same lucky event. The rest of the people, who have come to grief in the three volumes by falling in love or borrowing money at ten per cent., are freed, under the statute of limitations, by "Time, the great obliterator, whose unerring finger rubs out inscriptions upon brass, and crumbles panegyrics that are pro- claimed in marble out into obscurity ; whose unseen band smooths out the sad remembrance of a dread calamity, and pointing onward to the future turns sorrow into hope." This fine flight of language, and the gorgeous picture of the "ob- literator" who "crumbles panegyrics out into obscurity," worthily finishes the story of The Man in Chains.
We have had no time, in our rapid survey of The Man in Chains, to glance at minor beauties of scenery and language. Among the most remarkable of these are some sketches of theatrical life, with which the author seems to be intimately ac- quainted. "Time chorus corps in a opera," he remarks," is always an object of great interest with us." But he regrets not to be able to say much about this "chorus corps" for the following• reason :—" The scenes of horror, of degradation, of ecstatic joy, of terrible misery, of boundless wealth and abject poverty, that we have seen the leading members of that corps conspicuous in, are beyond the reach of the coherent romancist." This should be noted by all who aim at the proud title of "coherent romancist." However, although the author is forbidden, under these circumstances, to say much of the "chorus corps" of which he knows so much, he is not above giving sketches of a few of the more prominent chorus characters. Here is ono, a gem in its way--but the read er must bold his breath, for though the sketch is short, the sentence is long :—" We have seen him [a chorus singer] as one of a desperate band of brigands scowling through a wild chorus, which with a crash proclaims that they must be silent as the grave, for the victims approach, in performing which clanging crash indicative of the silence the band must observe in consequence of the close propinquity of
the unfortunate victims, the members of the chorus affectionately 'tap long knives that they carry in their belts, and some, the little sturdy man always does, draw them forth and flourish them in the air, and having thus roused all the slumbering echoes of the surrounding mountains, they steal off the stage • with their fingers to their lips, preparatory to stealing on when the unsuspecting victims, two ladies and a child, have got through the grand scene that they have to perform in that situation." This may be set forth as a fine model of the style a writer ought to adopt who claims to be a "coherent romancist.'' There is much more of it in The Man in Chains, to which the attention of all admirers of fine language ought to be directed. The author hints that some day he may gratify the public with a complete novel on the "ecstatic joy, terrible misery, boundless wealth, and abject poverty" subject, mixed with reminiscences of the blessed time "when we were a child delighting in the panto-
mime." The title of the new novel might be, "This Wild Wanderers or the World; or, Warblers Wailing with War-Worn Washerwomen."
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