The Treasure-Seeker of Herculaneum. By Horace St. John 213 259 The Strange Bed. By Alfred Robinson 180 What the waves are always singing. By W. S. Passmore END OF THE NINTH VOLUME. 497 HOOD'S MAGAZINE. THE TIMES; OR, MODERN PHILOSOPHY. A NOVEL. BY THE EDITOR. INTRODUCTION. CHAPTER I. WHICH IS PURELY INTRODUCTORY, SOMEWHAT DISCURSIVE, AND NEED NOT BE READ BY THOSE WHO DO NOT CARE TO UNDERSTAND. THE novel writer may be regarded as standing in the same. relation to social life as the historian occupies in the political world. Whilst the latter selects only, those great events which have engaged the attention and occupied the thoughts, and employed the hours, of the "busy great men" of past ages, and which have exerted a material influence, whether for weal or for woe, on the destinies of nations and the fate of millions, and thus occupies, in the mind's eye, a position of vast importance, the former applies himself to the social habits of an age, and entering the palace of the king, the mansion of the peer, or the hut of the peasant, pourtrays the customs and manners of a people, or of an individual, and holds up to public gaze, to public indignation, or to public approval, the folly or wisdom, the vices or virtues, of those whose characters he essays to delineate. There is, however, one great difference between these two chroniclers of the drama of life, which is, that the historian is expected by all, and believed by many, to give to mankind a true record of that which has occurred, and is not supposed to indulge in any flights of fancy or wanderings of the imagination, which might cause him to diverge from the path of truth. The novel writer, or historian of social life, on the conJAN. 1848.-VOL. IX., NO. I. B trary, enjoys, by common consent, a great latitude in his career, and is permitted, not only to "appeal to his imagination, for his facts," but also, to deviate from the real world altogether, and to record as facts that which passes the bounds of probability and trespasses closely on those even of possibility-a permission which is not always thrown away on many who profess to record the features of the passing age, or the characters of the days which are gone. The latter is also permitted to be equally oblivious, as to dates, and is by no means expected to be a respecter of persons; he may select his hero from the first and transfer him to the last century; or take his heroine from the cottage and seat her on the imperial throne. It is enough if he represent his character "true to Nature," either as she is or as she ought to be; nay, he may even create an imaginary being, possessed of all the virtues of an angel, or all the vices of a demon. He may present man without a failing, woman without a fault, and give to the creations of his imagination, qualities which are not the attributes of humanity. He may pourtray the man of wealth, the follower of Mammon, as also the servant of his God; he may represent him as the possessor of all that this world can bestow, and the sharer of a share of the bounties of Providence with the creature of sorrow and the child of sin; or state that whilst his heart is filled with an insatiable thirst for gold and silver, and fine things, it is yet open to the impulse of charity, and not shut against the cries of imploring famine, the sufferings of fallen ignorance, or the suppliant prayers of the prostrate penitent. He may represent the statesman as legislating, not for himself or a party, or any of the great interests, as they are termed, of a nation, but for the general welfare of all classes of society, and promoting, with all the zeal he possesses and the power which he wields, the diffusion of the blessings of peace and plenty, and education and religion, over a happy and contented people. Indeed, there is nothing too extravagant to the pen of the novel writer, which does not surpass the bounds of possibility; his privileges are all but unlimited, the greatest limit being usually, and often fortunately, the ability of the writer. The advantage thus on the part of the novel writer appears to be great indeed, as time, place, and circumstances are at his disposal; he has only to look around and take his choice. The benefit, however, to the novel writer, is only apparent-the historian has the real advantage. The former must write truth; at least that which is true to nature, and usually does so-yet he is not believed; his is a story of fiction, and no one is expected to credit it; few, therefore, place much confidence in it. It is written to be printed and published, and sold, and read-it is so, but it is not believed, and is soon forgotten. The tale of love, which warms the heart of youth, and even thaws the chill of age, is soon cast away for the gaudy trappings of the festive ball, or the sensual pleasures of the midnight revel-or that of woe, which has melted the stubborn heart of the maiden fair, or even unclenched the grasp of modern avarice, is soon forgotten, and the tear of mercy is rapidly dispelled by the laugh of the worldling. It is but a tale-a story-a novel-a romance-a fiction! And yet, the realities are around us. We do not hear with our own ears-nor see with our own eyes-nor think with our own thoughts-nor feel with our own hearts-we pay people to hear, and see, and think, and feel for us. Is not that sufficient? We do everything by deputy, except that which relates to ourselves; who can say that we are selfish, or wanting in charity-the charity of the heart? The historian, on the contrary, is believed by all, and yet frequently deviates from, or perverts the truth. He is usually the chosen one of his age, and is commonly employed to praise, or calumniate, as it may be, our ancestors, at the expense of posterity. Kings, queens, lords, statesmen, warriors, people, and nations pass before him in review, and he dresses them up, or strips them bare, or clothes them in rags, as will best suit his views, and will best answer his purpose and that of others. Shall I appeal to Hume, and Smollett, and Clarendon, for the truth of my assertions? Perhaps the reader may say, these are the historians of past ages, and deserve only to be reprobated and forgotten; they lived in times when men were blinded by passion, misled by prejudice, or steeped in ignorance, when the precepts of Christianity were unheeded, and the voice of Charity unheard. Shall I turn to historians of more modern times, and seek in the pages of Southey or Scott for the records of truth? Or, if these be not sufficiently modern, shall I appeal from the dead to the living, and ask the historians of the present age, for what is the real? What shall posterity say of them? Contrast the productions of all, or any of these, with the writings of Fielding, or Godwin, or Cervantes, or Bulwer, or Dickens, and then say, where is the false, where the true, where the imaginary, where the real, where the history, where the fiction! 'Tis an old saying, and, none the worse, because it is aged, that "Truth lies at the bottom of a well." She may not rest in so dreary an abode, yet she may be as effectually concealed by the garb of the historian. The profligate monarch may be decked out in the page of history, as the paragon of perfection, all his vices, and crimes; concealed, and his virtues, if he had any, put prominently forward. Who would recognise in such a man, the abandoned profligate, the cruel husband, the plunderer of the poor, and the executioner of the wretched creatures, whom his rapacity had reduced to poverty, and driven to want and crime. The cries of imploring famine were unheard and unheeded; the hand of guilt sought to appease the cravings of hunger, but the arm of the executioner alone satisfied the wants of Nature. The imbecile monarch, who had reduced his people to poverty, and this fair land to bankruptcy; who dared to violate the principles of the Constitution, which had given to him a people and a throne-whose follies had sacrificed his native land to the intrigues of the Anglo-French faction which formed his court, and had prostrated the best energies of the kingdom, before the designs of a wily French minister-he, I say, may be presented to posterity, as the wisest of men, and the best of monarchs; or may be recorded as the martyr, not, to his own follies, if not crimes, but to the rebellious spirit of his much oppressed, and long enduring, and patient subjects-nay, he may find admirers, and meet with, even in this age, men who hold his memory in their hearts; but the admirer of truth, and justice, and right, strips off the cloak, which conceals the fool, and the tyrant, from view, and arraigns him before the bar of public justice, and of public charity, as the man whose weaknesses has deluged the plains of Marston Moor, and Worcester, with the blood of his subjects, and fellow countrymen, but were at last expiated on the scaffold at Whitehall-If we execrate his life, let us lament his death. The man who, wrung by oppression, at length raised his voice and his arm, and avenged his country's wrongs, and, with the puppet, overturned the designs of the knaves, who |