1832.] Monthly Review of Literature. 351 



raging with frightful mortality, and the author describes the extraordinary inci- 

 dents which took place during that awful calamity, but without giving us too 

 liberal a portion of its horrors. The search is continued for some time after- 

 wards, but without producing any result. While he is residing in Surry, he is 

 alarmed by the reports of a dreadful fire which is destroying London. He sets 

 off in the night on horseback to obtain more certain intelligence. His observa- 

 tions we must allow him to give in his own words. The latter part of the 

 description we think remarkably vivid. 



" Not a soul seemed in bed in the villages, though it was ten o'clock. There 

 was a talk of the French, as if they had caused it. By degrees I began to meet 

 carts laden with goods ; and on entering the borders of Soutnwark, the expectation 

 of the scene was rendered truly awful ; there was such a number of people abroad, 

 yet such a gazing silence. Now and then one person called to another; but the 

 sound seemed as if in bravado, or brutish An old man, in a meeting of cross-roads, 

 was haranguing the people in the style of former years, telling them of God's 

 judgments, and asserting that this was the pouring out of that other vial of wrath, 

 which had been typified by the fiery sword a spectacle supposed to have been seen 

 in the sky at the close of the year sixty -four. The plague was thought to have 

 been announced by a comet. 



" Very different from this quieter scene, was the one that presented itself on 

 my getting through the last street, and reaching the water-side. The comet itself 

 seemed to have come to earth, and to be burning and waving in one's face, the 

 whole city being its countenance, and its hair flowing towards Whitehall in a 

 volume of fiery smoke. The river was of a bloodish colour, like the flame, and the 

 sky over head was like the top of a pandemonium. From the Tower to St. Paul's 

 there was one mass of fire and devastation, the heat striking in your eyes, and the 

 air being filled with burning sparkles, and with the cries of people flying, or remov- 

 ing goods on the river. Ever and anon distant houses fell in, with a sort of gigan- 

 tic shuffling noise, very terrible. I saw a steeple give way, like some ghastly idol, 

 its long white head toppling, and going sideways as if it were drunk. A poor girl 

 near me, who paced a few yards up and down, holding her sides as if with agony, 

 turned and hid her eyes at this spectacle, crying out, ' Oh, the poor people ! Oh, 

 the mothers and babies !' " 



We are initiated into much of the intrigue and plotting going forward around 

 the king, where it seems as if people were born but for two objects, either to 

 cheat others, or be cheated themselves. But we can turn from the dazzling pro- 

 fligacy of the court, to the repose and innocence of the country, where if we do 

 not for a time find happiness, we shall find virtue, and the rest will surely 

 follow. All concludes pleasantly, by more than one extraordinary denouement* 

 Even the very villains have reason to be satisfied. 



The Memoirs of Sir Ralph Esher disclose to us all parties, and bring before us 

 all descriptions of character, male and female, who were in the least distin- 

 guished during the eventful period of the Restoration. There is far more fact 

 than fiction in the narrative, and less romance than many of our readers would 

 imagine. In fact, it is a true picture of society as then constituted, written in a 

 clear and flowing style, occasionally sparkling with wit and humour, and always 

 liberal in wise reflections, gentle feelings, and poetic imagery. 



CHANTILLY. IN 3 VOLS. 



IN all fictitious narrative the test of literary merit lies in the nearness of its 

 approach to truth. Fictions, in fact, are but the shadows, or rather reflections 

 of substances of which they must exhibit a faithful representation, else they 

 become mere monstrous anomalies which can deserve neither " a local habita- 

 tion nor a name" in the sanctuary of literature. Nothing can atone for the 

 absence of verisimilitude ; it is the vital principle of pure fiction. Upon its pre- 

 sence or absence will depend the fiat of just criticism. Where the dignity of 

 truth is once sacrificed to the pruriency of a dreamy imagination, the judicious 

 reader will instantly detect the imposition ; the balance of interest, however in 

 other respects nicely adjusted, will be overthrown, and he will at once feel that 



