Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/191

 184 fish. Then back they come to sell. “All fresh! all fresh!” The hungry public buy, and get some fresh, some tainted, some very rotten indeed.

It may be said, of course, that the stock is inexhaustible, for it is as wide as the world; that as no two sheep’s faces are the same, so no two characters are the same—granted—granted. And if only men of first-rate ability wrote novels you would meet with no repetition, but as many novel-writers can see only the broad distinctions in character, and as many characters are only distinguished by minute touches, so in many novels you find either monsters, or persons with “no characters at all.”

As with characters, so with incidents, and if repetition be blameable in the former case, it is still more so in the latter. Variety of incident is much easier to obtain than variety of character, and yet remark the coolness, the brutality with which authors ride incidents to death. Why, you might trace the pedigree of many of them, and as old families boast of having come in with the Conqueror, you will find that in general these incidents “came in” with that great conqueror, Sir Walter Scott.

But it may be urged that these things constantly repeat themselves in real life, then why should they not be repeated in fiction? Yes! but names constantly repeat themselves in real life, but you don’t think of giving the hero of your novel the same name as another man’s hero. An author would think twice, I fancy, before calling his hero Edgar Ravenswood or Guy Mannering, yet he has no hesitation about taking Scott’s incidents and putting them into his own tale. Oh! when are we to hear the last of that terrible water-party where nobody is drowned? Of that house on fire where the lover extinguishes all the professional firemen? Of that man who is supposed to be dead and yet isn’t? Of that uncle who is always turning up at last, just when he is wanted? Of that dear old hardworked, ill-used, bellowing, harmless bull?

Now observe! Here’s a novelist has got his handsome, virtuous, but low-born young man, desperately in love with his beautiful, virtuous, and high-born young woman. What is he to do? The affection is mutual. These two young people are admirably fitted for each other in all respects but this one of difference of rank. What is to remove this dreadful bar? The Earl is inexorable. “Dares the low-born caitiff to aspire to the hand of my daughter—ha! What will become of society—ha! when the insects in the dust—” and all that kind of thing. The Countess won’t hear of it. “Disgracing your family, Amelia, in such a way. What will the world say? Think no more about it, my dear; the County Paris dines here to-night.” But the County Paris will talk his small talk and display his many attractions to no purpose. Our novelist has all the regular remedies at hand. He considers which he shall take. “Fire!” says our novelist. “Blazing rafters—falling beams—shrieking women—shouting men—engines dash up—firemen stand appalled—Orlando breaks through the crowd—plants a ladder—ascends—disappears into the smoke and flame—crowd waits in breathless silence—Orlando reappears, bearing in his arms the Earl, the Countess, and Amelia—shouts rend the skies. Or“Or [sic] shall we try water?” says our novelist. “Water-party—boat overset—Amelia precipitated into the foaming torrent—the wretched parents, with streaming eyes, entreat the company generally to go in after her—the company generally decline—the Earl himself—an old man and feeble, but with all a father’s feelings strong within him—throws off his coat, and prepares to breast the flood, but he is held back by the Countess, and by the company generally, who prefer saving the parent on dry land, to taking the water to save the child—all hope seems past, when suddenly a figure is seen to spring from the opposite bank. Swiftly it cleaves the parting waves. Will he reach her in time? No! yes! No! yes! He does! He clasps her in his arms! She is saved! and by whom? Who is the happy man? Who? Orlando.” Of course: our novelist sent him on purpose. And what can the Earl refuse him after such a service? “Young man,” says the Earl, “you have restored to me my daughter. The life that you have saved she shall dedicate to you. Take her and bless you! Bless you both, my children!” Our novelist may wipe his pen in peace after that.

But if neither of these suit him, that is to say, if he has used them in his previous works—for, otherwise, they would be sure to suit him—there is the uncle for him—the novel-uncle—and surely never relative was so useful. He has, in general, been in India for many years before the first volume opens; and, indeed, for two volumes and a-half, the reader is only kept aware of his existence by some such sentence as this, now and then introduced: “I have here a letter from your uncle Nat. He has had an attack of yellow fever that nearly brought him to his grave.” Or, “Your uncle Nat, when hunting in India some time ago, fell from his elephant into the very jaws of a royal tiger, and had he not had the presence of mind to”, or something of that kind. Of course, being in India and making your fortune are synonymous terms in a novel, so it is quite unnecessary for the author to state that uncle Nat is immensely rich; equally unnecessary to say that he has no liver, is passionate but kind-hearted, provokingly particular about trifles, and a bachelor. About the time that the third volume is beginning in England, then the uncle finds that the climate of India is seriously affecting his health, and that his native air is the only thing to restore him; he therefore determines to return home, and sails accordingly, of course without sending notice of his coming. Things, in the meanwhile, are going on very badly with the lovers. Orlando, in addition to his other trials, has poverty to contend with; or, perhaps, as our novelist always has the uncle ready if matters come to a crisis, Orlando has run into debt. Well! about the ninety-sixth chapter, things get to their worst and mend. The lover, despair in his heart and bailiffs in the kitchen, is utterly at his wits’ end. He does not know which way to look, except towards his razors. While he is meditating whether to commit suicide, or to