BOOK REVIEWS. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS AND HER LATEST ENGLISH HISTORIAN. A Narrative of the Principal Events in the Life of Mary Stuart; with some remarks on Mr. Froude's History of England. By James F. Meline. New York: Hurd and Houghton. It is the duty of those who have surrendered their judgments to Mr. Froude and who have formed their opinions of historical characters under the influence of his seductive rhetoric, to read this book, We only wish there were reason to hope that the duty would be fulfilled. It is so much more pleasant to float through pages of picturesque narrative, sweetened with mellifluous sentiment, than to inquire whether the narrative is true. There could not be a stronger proof of the general ignorance of history and the general carelessness as to historical fact than the reception given to the writings of Mr. Froude. Unfortunately the reproach cannot be confined to the mass of readers, who have no access to original authorities and no time for critical investigation. Professed critics, writing in literary journals, have disgraced themselves as much as the most gullible girl. Worse than that, Mr. Burton, in his recent history of Scotland, not only joins in the general adulation of Mr. Froude, but follows him almost blindfold. Our own estimate of Mr. Burton's trustworthiness was never very high, but in common repute he holds a respectable and even an eminent position. The secret of Mary Stuart's character is buried in her grave and in the graves which hold so many of the secrets of those dark and tragic times. No one trained to historical investigation and sensible of the duty of measuring his judgment by the evidence will commit himself to a decisive verdict. We confess, however, that Mr. Meline has made a strong impression on our mind in Mary's favour. Above all he has, we think, completely turned the balance of evidence against the authenticity of the famous Casket Letters which form the most important element of the case against her. We may almost say that he has proved them to be forgeries. And if he has proved them to be forgeries, he has not merely relieved Mary of the weight of their testimony against her, but created a general presumption of her innocence; since, if her enemies deemed it necessary to resort to forgery, they must have been conscious that there was no genuine evidence sufficient to support their accusations. Not only so, but their villainous conduct towards her in this instance renders it highly probable that in all other matters between her and them, respecting which historical controversy has arisen, the villainy was on their side. But whatever may be the result of the inquiry as to the character of Mary, Queen of Scots, one thing is certain. Unless Mr. Meline can be answered, he has convicted Mr. Froude not only of inaccuracy, not only of carelessness, not only of prejudice, but of tampering with documents, perverting evidence, practising disingenuous artifices and habitually disregarding truth-of offences, in short, which if committed in the ordinary affairs of life would entail a loss of honour, and which can hardly be regarded as mere literary blemishes when committed by a writer of history. It would be impossible for us to lay before our readers, in the form of extracts, adequate specimens of the investigation and its results. Such artists as Mr. Froude do not in general lay themselves open to palpable and overwhelming exposure by broad mis-statements and gross fabrications. They weave a pervading web of artifice and misrepresentation, the unravelling of which is a minute and intricate process, and can be appreciated only by following it throughout. Even the garbling of documents is usually managed so as to be distinctly appreciable only by those who are thoroughly aware of its bearing upon the case which it is intended to affect. One or two instances, however, may perhaps be selected. Mr. Froude, well understanding how essential are the Casket Letters to the case against Mary, labours with all the artifices of which he has a sinister command to prepossess the mind of his readers in favour of their authenticity. But not contented with this he attempts to involve Mary herself in an admission of the existence of the letters prior to the date at which they were produced, and at which, if they were forgeries, the forgery in all probability took place. He gives an elaborate account of the interview between Murray and his sister at Lochleven, founded on a letter of the English envoy, Throckmorton, who had the details from Murray himself. Throckmorton is represented by Mr. Froude as writing "He (Murray) had forced her to see both her ignominy and her danger, but he would not leave her without some words of consolation. He told her that he would assure her life, and if possible would shield her reputation and prevent the publication of her letters." The effect of the words in italics is obvious: they import at least a tacit admission on the part of Mary of the existence of letters compromising to her reputation: in other words, of the Casket Letters. Now, Mr. Meline declares that Throckmorton's letter, which he cites in due form (Keith, vol. 2, p. 734) contains nothing of the kind. He asserts that what Throckmorton really says is merely: "They began where they left over night, and after those his reprehensions, he used some words of consolation unto her tending, to this, that he would assure her of her life and as much as lay in him the preservation of her honour." Mary's damaging admission, therefore, appears to be pure invention on the part of Mr. Froude: anything less culpable than invention it cannot be called. Again, in the scene of Rizzio's murder, Mr. Froude introduces a colloquy pregnant with deadly significance between the Queen and Damley. Catching sight of the empty scabbard at his side she asked him where his dagger was. He said he did not know. 'It will be known hereafter; it shall be dear blood to some of you if David's be spilt.'" "This," remarks Mr. Meline, "is a specimen of able workmanship. According to Keith, Mary's answer was, 'It will be known hereafter.' According to Ellis, Mary had previously said to Ruthven, 'Well, sayeth she,' speaking to Ruthven, 'it shall be dear blood to some of you.' (Ellis, vol. II. p. 212.) Now, let the reader observe that Mr. Froude takes these two phrases, found in two different authorities, addressed separately to two different persons, reverses the order in which they are spoken, and puts them into one sentence, which he makes Mary address to Darnley. Do you see why so much industry and ingenuity should be exerted? Because in this form the phrase is a threat of murder; and thus the foundation is laid broad and deep in the reader's mind for the belief that from that moment Mary had a design upon Darnley's life." In another place Mr. Froude gives what he pretends is a version of a letter from Mary to Elizabeth: "In an autograph letter of passionate | gratitude Mary Stuart placed herself, as it were, under her sister's protection; she told her that in tracing the history of the late conspiracy she had found that the lords had intended to imprison her for life, and if England or France came to her assistance they had meant to kill her. She implored Elizabeth to shut her ears to the calumnies which they would spread against her, and with engaging frankness she begged that the past might be forgotten; she had experienced too deeply the ingratitude of those by whom she was surrounded to allow herself to 3 tempted any more into dangerous enterprises; for her own part, she was resolved never to give fence to her good sister again; nothing should be wants, to restore the happy relations which had once exist ** between them; and should she recover safely from her confinement, she hoped that in the summer Elizabeth would make a progress to the north, ard that at last she might have the opportunity of that «ing her in person for her kindness and forbearan Mr. Meline prints the real letter by the side of this pretended version, and it appears that the passages in italics are mere interpolations made with the view of influencing the moral position of Mary ar the questions between her and Elizabeth in a sense which can scarcely be missed by any reader, an. which is glaringly obvious to any one who has the details of the history in his mind. Compared with the garbling of documents or the perversion of facts for the purposes of histor calumny, exaggerations and misrepresentations for the purpose of the romantic and the picturesque are venial evils. Mary Stuart, according to Mr. Meline, says, in a letter, that she has ridden twenty miles n five hours; but Mr. Froude turns five into two, ar! does the ride, as Mr. Meline says, tempo aguato— "away, away-past Restalrig, past Arthur's Seat across the bridge and across the field of Musseburgh, past Seton, past Prestonpans, fast as ther horses could speed." Most interesting traces of character are found by the historian in the handwrung of a fierce, dauntless, and haughty letter from Mary to Elizabeth-"the strokes thick and slightly unever from excitement, but strong, firm and without sige of trembling." The prosaic fact, according to Mr. Meline, is that the letter was written by an amarensis, only the salutation and signature being in Mary hand. A passage in one of the early chapters of Mr Meline's book (which originally appeared as a seri of articles in the Catholic World) drew forth a re;' in the shape of an editorial in the New York Trim so characteristic of Mr. Froude, that we should almost be safe in assuming that it was inspired by him. I' sought to create sympathy, by representing as a charge of "forgery" what in fact was not a charge «i all, but simply a statement that a letter, which Mr Froude had cited as existing in the Record Office, was found not to exist there; and it appealed "s Protestant prejudice against Mr. Stevenson, of the Record Office, who, it seems, is a Catholic. It als attempted to cast the blame on that universal scapegoat the "compositor," who must have a singul method in his misprinting, if he substitutes the name of Randolph, at the head of a despatch, for that of the Earl of Bedford. Mr. Froude's hatred of Mary Stuart, which, though always at work, is generally concealed with a good deal of art, breaks out with what most people have|sion rather to Professor Yonge's reverence for his neither of whom was a master of style, or in any high sense an artist. Chalmers also must owe his admis felt to be unworthy and almost unmanly virulence in the death-scene. Here, also, if Mr. Meline's citation is accurate, Mr. Froude grossly falsifies a quotation, to make an eye-witness represent Mary's bearing as theatrical, whereas, the sense of the passage, when fairly cited, is quite the reverse. The falsification is effected by substituting a period for a comma, and suppressing the latter half of the passage. He concludes with a venomous allusion to her false hair, as though it had been peculiar to her, and typical of her falsehood of character, whereas, it was the regular fashion of the ladies of that time in general, and of Queen Elizabeth in particular. character and opinions than to his literary superiority to many writers of the same class who are excluded. Among the notable omissions are Bolingbroke and Adam Smith. Pym's speeches are superior to any which Professor Yonge has given, and those of Walpole are better models of Parliamentary oratory-though not of philosophic eloquence-than those of Burke. The introduction of Alison among the representatives of English literature is ridiculous : there is not a worse writer in the English language. He owes his position, such as it is, solely to his subject, the tremendous interest of which not even the pomp of his ungrammatical commonplaces could destroy. But the weakest thing in the book is the suppression of Shelley's history, on the ground of religious heterodoxy, while an extract—and a pretty heterodox one-is given from his poems. Spectabitur quia non visitur. Professor Yonge's readers there is a weak point in the morality, we may say even in the theology, which turns with pious horror from poor, misguided Shelley, and gazes without scruple upon Swift. It was natural that Mr. Meline's indignation at the artful calumnies which he was exposing, should sometimes disturb the calmness of his critical style, which, however, he had better have preserved. In one instance, he allows his emotion to disturb not only his style but his moral judgment. The Regent Mur-will run at once to a life of Shelley. But surely ray may have been, and probably was, a scoundrel; but this does not palliate the crime of Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, who killed Murray, not because he was a scoundrel, but because he was the great enemy of the Hamiltons. These, however, are but slight deductions from the debt due to one who, by a laborious investigation, for which no meed of popularity can be hoped, sweeps history clear of a mass of slanderous falsehoods. To us the exposure of Mr. Froude's character is no new revelation, for we have long regarded him as one of the most unconscientious and intrustworthy writers who ever tampered with the calling of an historian. We propose, in an early number, to give some of the reasons for our opinion. THREE CENTURIES OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.— By Charles Duke Yonge, Regius Professor of Modern History and English Literature in Queen's College, Belfast. New York: D. Appleton & Co. If the reader of this volume looks for a connected and organic history of English literature during three centuries he will be disappointed. The work merely a course of short biographies, critiques and extracts. The biographies, however, are compact; the critiques, if not profound, are sensible and in god taste; and the extracts are not ill chosen, though we might have proposed some changes-e. g. the insertion of Collins' Ode to Evening, and the ubstitution for the extracts from the Lady of the Lake of the battle in Marmion, in which Scott is at his best, and which is almost the only thing in modern terature really like Homer. A place among great writers is hardly due either to Marryat or to Cooper, Wilfrid CUMBERMEDE ; an Autobiographical Story. POOR MISS FINCH; a Domestic Story. By Wilkie It would be difficult to name two contemporary works of fiction which present stronger or more clearly defined points of contrast than these the latest productions of Dr. George Macdonald and Mr. Wilkie Collins, respectively. It is not merely that the authors are dissimilar in style, in diction, or in the choice and treatment of their subjects. Every writer, whose talents are respectable enough to elevate him above the servile herd of imitators, is sure to infuse a good deal of his individuality into his work. Peculiarities of mental constitution, differences of temperament, the bias of nationality and education, the prejudices of class, profession and religious or philosophical belief, will inevitably reveal themselves, whether the subjects of them are conscious or unconscious of their influence, or even of their existence. Of course, we do not mean to assert that, in comparing the products of any two independent minds, we can indicate the presence of all these causes of diversity. Individual character is the result of a combination, in proportions infinitely variable, of many elements-physical, intellectual, moral, and spiritual-moulded by such a multiplicity of in fluences that no two minds are precisely alike; and He possesses a subtle and delicate fancy, high and pure aims, sensitiveness of the most ethereal order, and a graceful and nervous style. His works, although strongly impregnated with the religious spirit are not of the species known as "goody." He can be dogmatic enough at times, but his theology seems to sit loosely upon him. An author, who appears to believe, with Schleiermacher, in a Christian consciousness revealing all truth to its possessor, cannot hold to a very strict theory of biblical inspiration. Some keen scenter after heterodoxy is even said to have discovered in Wilfrid Cumbermede the germs of Universalism. It is hardly fair to the author to bring him to logical tests. He appears to look upon fiction as the play-ground of emotion where that peculiar description of fancy, which he would probably call "spiritual insight," may have full and free exercise. We doubt not that, if examined, we shall not say before the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council because that body is notoriously latitudinarian, but say before the Consistory Court, or one of the General Assemblies at Edinburgh, he would acquit himself to the satisfaction of the indubitably orthodox. As a novelist, however, the author of Wilfrid Cumbermede has a theory, in which we presume, he believes more or less, and to which the exigencies of art require that he should be faithful. He approaches humanity from the emotional side. Intellect has nothing to do with the immortal destiny of our race. Belief is the condition precedent of knowledge; knowledge is the fruit of belief. As St. Anselm tells us, we ought not to seek knowledge as the basis of belief, but rather to believe in order that we may know. The author's views, even of external nature are rigidly subjective. He gives us fresh and vigorous descriptions of scenery, but they are only introduced upon the canvass as the back. ground to psychological effects. His dramatis persona have no vitality; they lack the first essential of humanity-as we alone know it-corporeal existence. They resemble rather those beings encountered by Æneas on the banks of the Styx-thin, airy sprites, without body, flitting to and fro under the hollow semblance of a human form. Take Wilfrid Cumbermede himself, Charley Osborne, Geoffrey Brotherton, Mary and Clara and throw old "grannie" and the rest in as additional raw material, and you will not find the makings of one solid, flesh-and-blood man or woman in the mass. The account of Wilfrid Cumbermede's childhood and youth is interesting enough, but so utterly unreal as to be valueless for psychological purposes. The opening chapters of David Copperfield give some reminiscences of infancy which, though fanciful in appearance, have an air of verisimilitude about them; but what shall we say of a hero whose earliest wish, as a child, was that "he had watched while God was making him, so that he might have remembered how he did it ? And so Wilfrid goes on, in maundering and moping introspection, as if life were indeed a feverish sleep, whose highest enjoyment is to be found in the misty splendour of spiritual dreams. Let us give one instance of the manner in which Dr. Macdonald deals with a question of taste. Many reasons could undoubtedly be given for break. ing through the traditional practice of winding up a story to the music of wedding bells. Our author's reason (given in Robert Falconer) is that "not woman but God is the centre of the universe" which, though an undoubted truth, has not the slightest bearing upon the question. The peculiarly spiritual air in which the author seeks to involve his subject, permeates the whole book. We are constantly treated to such sententious remarks as this,—“Death never comes near us; it lies behind the back of God,"which may be a profound truth, for aught we know; if it is, it might be expressed in a clearer and, perhaps, in a more reverent manner. So again"When it comes, death will be as natural as birth." If Dr. Macdonald merely means that both are in the ordinary course of nature, he is putting himself to unnecessary trouble in stating a truism; if more than that, he is transcending the limits of human knowledge, since regarding birth and death alike we are completely in the dark-"our little life is rounded by a sleep." We have thought it necessary to object to the semi-inspired tone in which Wilfrid intelligam." Cumbermede is written because the example of Dr. Macdonald is seductive, and therefore dangerous. He is possessed of abilities of no mean order; he is sure of ardent admirers, and, in consequence, of a motley crowd of imitators. His own motives are unquestionably high and pure, and we have very little doubt that he will be of service in his day and generation. It does not follow, however, that because some protest seems necessary against the prevailing tendencies of the age, we ought to swing violently round to the opposite pole of thought. It may be well to avoid the Scylla of Materialism, but it is not so clear that, in the effort to do so, we need fall into the Charybdis of Mysticism. Dr. Macdonald's views of man and nature, if carried to their logical results, would place feeling upon the throne of reason, replace fact by morbid fancy, render religion the servant of mere intuition or caprice; and substitute the ravings of hysteria for the soberness of Christian devotion. In Wilfrid Cumbermede the incipient tendencies only may be traced, not the ultimate extravagances. With the qualifications we have made, the work may be safely commended, as at once elevated in design, graceful in style, and earnest and impressive in tone. Mr. Wilkie Collins is a being of another order. He does not trouble himself about psychology, subjective analysis, or the how and the why of individual character. To his view "the main element in the attraction of all stories is the interest of curiosity and the excitement of surprise." Life is a sort of chess-board, in which the pieces have indeed a different value; but this arises not from anything in the material of which they are made, but from the particular moves to which, by the laws of the game, they are restricted. The on-looker must, of course, be mystified as to the progress of the game, but he must make no mistake about the value of the pieces. By one or two strong daubs of colouring, Mr. Wilkie Collins marks his men beyond the possibility of mistake. In "Poor Miss Finch," the author begins by enumerating his human stock-in-trade-" a blind girl, two (twin) brothers, a skilful surgeon and a curious foreign woman." To which needs only be added a little nitrate of silver, administered to one of the brothers to give him a blue face, for the purpose not of distinction, but of confusion-and you have all the materials of Mr. Wilkie Collins' legerdemain. Madame Pratolungo is a very companionable governess, and the story of the blind girl, though rather too finely drawn out, is touchingly told. Herr Grosse is a sort of reformed Count Fosco; he is skilful in his profession, fond of Mayonnaise, and addicted to an unearthly style of swearing, perfectly incomprehensible to us, unless a residence in New York may account for it. We shall not attempt any sketch of the plot, because that would be high treason in the author's eyes. "Poor Miss Finch " is perhaps, scarcely equal to some of Mr. Collins' former works, but it is sure to be read with interest from cover to cover, by any one who once takes it up. We have only to add that these stories are admirably printed and profusely illustrated. They are issued by arrangement with the authors, and form the latest issues of the Canadian Copyright series in course of publication, by Messrs. Hunter, Rose & Co. On this account, apart altogether from their intrinsic value, they deserve the favourable consideration of the Canadian public. RED RIVER. By Joseph James Hargrave, F.R.G.S. Montreal Printed for the Author by John Lovell, 1871. Voltaire, in his Charles XII, makes a remark to the effect that, under the operation of some law of mental perspective, men are apt to imagine that the events of their own time and country, passing, as such events do, under their own immediate observation, are the most momentous that have be fallen the human race since the creation of the world. It is only upon some principle of this kind, that such a phenomenon as the publication of a work like the present can be accounted for. The author is a native of Great Britain, who, in 1861, emigrated to the scene of his labours, where he has resided ever since. A residence of ten years, among a scattered population of less than 12,000 souls, all told, in a remote region, isolated from the rest of the world, seems to have had the effect which one would naturally expect. Events which happen out of the ordinary dull and monotonous routine of life in such a place, no matter how trivial in themselves, or how unimportant to the outside world, have acquired in the mind of the author, solely by reason of their rarity, a historic dignity. The first four chapters, containing a description of the author's journey by sea and land from Liverpool to St. Paul's are quite out of place in a semi-historical work. The trip was more than usually uneventful, and the story of it is not told in a manner to redeem any deficiency in the matter. Besides, it has been told over and over again, and by such men as Lyell, Dickens, Peto, Dilke, Hepworth Dixon, W. F. Rae, Dr. Russell, Anthony Trollope, and others, most of them accomplished writers capable of imparting interest to the dullest theme. But what possible interest is there to a person wishing to study the history of Manitoba, in ordinary commonplace remarks upon the usual stock subjects of travellers to America: the sea voyage, sea-sickness, custom-house troubles, the value of American silver, the railways, |