"
Too much of this sort of thing becomes meretricious; a man is never the
master of his subject, when he suffers himself to be carried away by it.
And though a fault of haste is pardonable, when lost in fine execution,
we must acknowledge that there is certainly something very "Frenchy" in
this scene,--a remark, though, which can hardly be considered as
derogatory, when we remember that altogether the most readable fiction
of the day is French itself. Our author is evidently a great admirer of
Victor Hugo, though he is no such careful artist in language: he seldom
closes with such tremendous subjects as that adventurous writer
attempts; but he has all the sharp antithesis, the pungent epigram of
the other, and in his freest flight, though he peppers us as prodigally
with colons, he never becomes absurd, which the other is constantly on
the edge of being.
The next scene which we adduce is that where the battered figure of a
pale, grisly man walks into the garrison-town of Bayonne, after a
three-years' absence, explained only to his disgrace, mutely overcomes
the guard, and rings the bell of the Governor's house.
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