ABSTRACT

We had many and serious objections to raise against Wilkie Collins’s former novel, Basil, in balance of our praise; en revanche,1 we have very hearty plaudits to bestow on this one, with only just enough criticism to serve as ballast and to ‘trim the boat’. In the first place, there is praise loud enough and rare enough in the fact that we read the three volumes through page by page, hurried on by the story, yet never ‘skipping’, reading the book, and not running as we read. There are few novels which can hope for such a compliment…. There are no lofty conversations swelling out the volumes while the author takes breath and thinks of how to prepare the next incident. There are no redundant platitudes sprawling over the fatigued pages. There are no ‘How often do we finds,’ no ‘So true it is that man,’ &c. No sermons. The dialogue is dramatic-put there either to carry on the story or fetch out the traits of character. The writing is bright, clear, nervous, often felicitous, occasionally extravagant, but never slip-slop.