ABSTRACT
The resurrection of the Secret, after all, brings no terrible consequences. In fact, too much is made of too little mystery. Now, this story, although an exaggeration of melo-drama, is cleverly told: the writing is keen, spirited, graced occasionally with happy allusion, and equal to the exigencies of the slowly-moving incidents. But the slow movement we allude to is a signal defect in Mr. Collins’s method. There is an abundance of pale Dutch painting bestowed upon trivial objects: we detect continually where touches have been elaborately multiplied to deepen the pathos, to intensify the mystery, to finish the dramatic parts. So much patient manipulation has been devoted to every chapter, that it is with unaffected regret we confess the result to be not commensurate with the author’s ambition. After reading and rereading an entire novel by so proficient a writer as Mr. Collins, we are disappointed to find that no character has left an impression upon us, and that not a single epigrammatic saying has been added to our memory. What we do recollect and admire is the power of certain dramatic passages, which, if the action were more rapid, would make the blood tingle as the narrator proceeded with his story: the construction is everywhere excellent, although upon too large a scale. Now and then, when the artist seems inspired by his own creation, some real and noble tenderness suffuses a scene of love, and penitence, and sorrow….
