Albert Lunel: Supplement

From an advertisement for the 1872 edition in Wild and Wonderful [1874], following page 330:

THE HISTORY OF THE MYSTERY OF ALBERT LUNEL,
By the late Lord Brougham.

Perhaps few works have made so great a sensation in the literary world as Albert Lunel! It will be seen by the following extracts that the authorship is indisputable. At the time the work came into my hands I was given to understand that Lord Brougham wrote it in 1844, but suppressed it for private reasons at an early date.

The Figaro became indignant at my claiming his late lordship as the author, but it is evident that the reviewer did not take the trouble to read the work, but exhausted his energies in penning a sensational article, in which, as will be seen below, he threw down the gauntlet, using some very questionable terms with respect to myself as the publisher.

I wrote a letter, about half of which was inserted, in which I declared that my object was to produce to the world a literary curiosity, and I repeat it.

In an extract from "Notes and Queries," it will be seen that a letter appeared in the "Spectator" signed "Georgiana Chatterton," who declares that she received a copy of "Albert Lunel" from Mr. Rogers as the work of Lord Brougham.

Olphar Hamst, a correspondent to "Notes and Queries" declares that he has conclusive evidence of the authorship, and the entire press recognise the style of the great man whose name, but a few years back, rang throughout the world.

As the work created so great an interest before it received a genuine circulation, it cannot fail to excite the curiosity of the reading public in whose hands I leave it now, satisfied that a work from the pen of so great a man must possess a more than common interest.

I deny, as I did in my letter to the "Figaro" that anything objectionable exists in the work.

It is a novel betraying eccentricity of genius, the production of a man deep souled, romantic, and visionary.

CHARLES H. CLARKE.

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"FIGARO," Oct. 5, 1872.

Trading on the Dead.—We have received "Albert Lunel" a three-volume novel, published by Mr. Charles H. Clarke, of Paternoster-row, which, according to the preface, "was written by the late Lord Brougham, in the year 1844, but, for private reasons of his lordship's, was not published."

Literary criticism is out of the question. Worse trash was never printed. The plot and the style vie with each other in stupidity. We have not read the whole of the novel. The fourth chapter of the first volume, which savours of Holywell-street abominations, is sufficient to stamp the character of the book. It is a stupidly coarse account of seduction by a monk.

We do not say that the late Lord Brougham did not write "Albert Lunel," but we shall not believe that he did so, unless very weighty evidence is adduced. It is a gross impertinence to ascribe this miserable production to the late Lord Brougham, without at the same time offering some proof of the assertion.

Suppose that a Holywell-street dealer in obscene prints asserted that some of his loathsome prints were the designs of the late John Leech. We could not prove a negative; but, in the absence of confirmatory proof, we should, without hesitation, declare that the statement was a malicious falsehood. So, when such contemptible twaddle is ascribed to the pen of the late Lord Brougham, we shall hold that the name on the title page is an imposition, until some evidence is brought forward to uphold the startling statement.

But, even on the assumption that the late Lord Brougham penned such ditchwater balderdash as "Albert Lunell" the publication of the novel is a disgraceful and ignoble act. If Lord Brougham deemed it expedient not to publish it, who can have a right to publish it after his death, except by express testamentary authority? By the way, "Albert Lunel" was printed many years ago, and, as we are informed, formally repudiated by the late Lord Brougham.

The graveyard can be left ungarded. The most barbarous and the most debased of mankind have an instinct of respect for the dead. But it seems that there are persons who do not object to trading on the reputation of the dead.

If we were the executors of the late Lord Brougham, we would compel Mr. Charles H. Clarke to prove that "Albert Lunel" was written by the late Lord Brougham; and, if he succeeded in so doing, we should compel him to prove how he acquired a legal right to publish the book.

In the meantime, we say that even if "Albert Lunel' was written by the late Lord Brougham, it is a shameful instance of trading on the reputation of the illustrious dead, to publish a work that the author declined to have published.

But we do not believe in the unsupported statement of Mr. Charles H. Clarke, that "Albert Lunel" was written by the late Lord Brougham; and we direct the attention of the present Lord Brougham to the use made of his dead brother's name.

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"FIGARO," Oct. 12, 1872.

Albert Lunel.—to the editor of figaro.—Sir, My attention has been called to an article in relation to myself, which appeared in your paper, last week. You anathematise me for publishing a novel written by the late Lord Brougham. Allow me to inform you that the book in question was sold by the present owner of the title, who, at the time, wrote the subjoined letter:—

21, Berkeley Square, 29th Nov., 1871.

I hereby undertake to make no claim in respect of copyright, and not to take, or permit to be taken, any proceedings at law or equity against Mr. Thomas Millard, in the event of his reprinting in any form he may think fit the book called "Albert Lunel."

(Signed) Brougham and Vaux.

I have purchased from Mr. Thomas Millard all his interest in the above work, and if Lord Brougham's executors have no objection to the publication of a posthumous book, surely I am not to blame for giving to the world what is, in reality, a literary curiosity. The author may have withdrawn it from publication, owing to a nervous dread of hostile criticism. Possibly, the Athenæum of those days was the prototype of the Figaro; but it seems to me, that anything written by a great man must possess a world-wide interest. I deny that there is anything objectionable in the book, and I contend that, if there were, it should be regarded as the eccentricity of genius, for which I, as the publisher, am not in any way responsible.

Chas. H. Clarke.

13, Paternoster Row, 8th Oct., 1872.

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"NOTES AND QUERIES."

Lord Brougham's Novel.—On the authorship of Albert Lunel the following letter, signed "Georgiana Chatterton " appears in the Spectator:—"As the authorship of Albert Lunel is now being discussed, it may not be amiss if I state what came under my own knowledge respecting that novel. I was with Mr. Rogers at one of his well-known little breakfast parties when Albert Lunel was brought to him from Lord Brougham. He gave it to me to read, as he often did when he had not time to begin a new book at once, charging me to read it quickly, and not to say who had written it. I did so, and finished it by the time I went to a dinner party, on the following day. In the evening I met Mr. Rogers, and he told me that he had sent to my house for the book, as Lord Brougham had ordered it to be suppressed, the reason (as he had heard) being that many of the characters were from real life. I have never met with anyone who had read it before its suppression, except the late Dean Milman—nor since its suppression—till within the last few months."

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"NOTES AND QUERIES," Aug. 16, 1873.

Albert Lunel.—The Figaro of the 31st of May last, in a notice of my Bibliographical List of Lord Brougham's Works, observed that I had rejected all doubtful publications, including a "resuscitated novel." The Figaro was quite right. When I wrote the above list I was of opinion that Albert Lunel was not by Lord Brougham. I am now of opinion that Lord Brougham was the author of Albert Lunel, and that there can be no doubt about the matter.

In your last volume Mr. Bates concluded one of his exhaustive and interesting notes by asking, Who was the author? He, apparently, had not personally inspected the "privately-printed volume" he refers to (No. 133 in my List). It conclusively proves Lord Brougham to be the author, without the corroborative evidence I have since obtained. In one of his letters Lord Brougham says he obtained Mr. Rogers's copy from his executors; and on p. 71 that he had 1,000 locked up in a cellar.

Olphar Hamst.

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"LIVERPOOL MERCURY."

A Puzzle for the Critics.—A controversy has arisen in literary circles, which, as affecting the character of a man whose memory belongs to the nation at large rather than to any given section of it, possesses a wider interest than such controversies generally do. The question is, did the late Lord Brougham write a novel called "Albert Lunel," just issued with his name on the title page? The only voucher for the authenticity of the authorship contained in the work itself is the following brief note facing the title—" 'Albert-Lunel' was written by the late Lord Brougham in the year 1844, but, for private reasons of his lordship, was not published." For the rest, though the title page and the binding are new, the body of the work, as is evident from the colour of the paper and ink, has been in existence for some years. Moreover, it bears the imprint of the firm who printed for the late Lord Brougham's publishers. This is all the evidence furnished by the work itself—except, of course, the literary evidence of matter, style, and so on, to which we shall refer presently. The book having, immediately on its publication, been pronounced by one journal to be an imposition, the publisher wrote to the editor to say that he had purchased it of a Mr. Thomas Millard, who, in his turn, had bought it of the present Lord Brougham, who gave him on the completion of the purchase, the following "undertaking"—"21, Berkeley-square, 29th Nov., 1871.—I hereby undertake to make no claim in respect of copyright, and not to take, or permit to be taken, any proceedings at law or equity against Mr. Thomas Millard in the event of his reprinting in any form he may think fit the book called 'Albert Lunel.' (Signed) Brougham and Vaux." Since this, nothing further has been done in proof of authenticity; so that, so far as the publisher is concerned, we are supposed to take it for granted, on the ipse dixit of an unknown person, backed up by the declaration of the present Lord Brougham that he will not claim the copyright of "the book"—not his brother's book, you mark—that "Albert Lunel" was written by the late Lord Brougham. What wonder that the critics should be sceptical? especially when they found on referring to the book itself a dedication to Samuel Rogers beginning thus—"It is natural that the countenance of a great name, the certainty of obtaining an enlightened reader, the benefit of having a candid though severe critic, should be sought by one who has no name at all!" This, from Lord Brougham in 1844, after all England had rung with his name for four and twenty years, and when it had been long known in politics and science the wide world over. But this is not all. The unknown author goes on—"Should such an accident ever happen as your indulging in any curiosity upon so trifling a matter, you will find the mystery in which your unknown admirer is wrapped impossible to pierce. Your sagacity may, from internal evidence, serve to point a conjecture towards France and her colonies as his country—her language as that in which his book may have been written." Lord Brougham was not a Frenchman, nor did he hail from a French colony, nor was it likely that he would write a novel in French for the mere pleasure of re-writing it into English before publishing it. There is little doubt after all that Lord Brougham did write "Albert Lunel." Turning to the 1856 edition of "Men of the Time" we find a notice of Lord Brougham, the leading facts in which would, in ordinary course, be either furnished by his lordship or submitted to his correction; and in that notice, winding up the catalogue of his literary works, is this sentence "His lordship has also published a novel, which he suppressed after a few copies had been disposed of." Thus far we have evidence of "a novel." For the name of it we turn to M'Gilchrist's "Life and Career of Henry Lord Brougham" published by Cassell and Co. immediately after Lord Brougham's death in 1868. At page 245 we find this passage "In 1844 a novel was published, entitled (we think) 'Albert Lunel, or the Château of Languedoc.' It was withdrawn from sale after a few days' circulation. It is believed that Brougham wrote it. We think there can be no doubt of it; for we know that Lord Jeffrey, who was most likely to be correctly informed, had it bound uniformly with the works of his friend, and set beside them in his library." That the "novel" of "Men of the Time" and the "Albert Lunel, or the Château of Languedoc" of Mr. M'Gilchrist, are one and the same book, we cannot very well doubt. It is equally clear, we think, that the "Albert Lunel, or the Château of Languedoc" of Mr. M'Gilchrist, is identical with the "Albert Lunel" just issued by Mr. Clarke, for it so happens that throughout the greater part of the story the scene is laid in a château in Languedoc. Besides, Brougham did not write the novel for the plot. The highly melodramatic hero, the crafty villain, the usual consumptive young lady, the wicked countess, the all-accomplished baron, the constant though persecuted heroine, are all but so many pegs of which the author makes ill use to expose his views upon philosophy, art, literature, history, and science physical, political, moral, and social. It is here that we find unmistakable traces of the great restless mind that "ransacked the universe for topics of speculation" The quality of the thought, equally with the diction in which it is clothed, is pure Brougham—not the Brougham of 1844, but him of 1821 or 1822, flushed from his recent triumphs in another arena, and panting for new conquests in fields yet unexplored. With the unevenness and eccentricity which characterised his purely literary work about this period, he sometimes descends to depths as much beneath his average range as he at other times ascends to heights above it; but we have no doubt that in the main the work was his.

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"MORNING ADVERTISER" Oct. 4, 1872.

The machinery, by which the story is worked out is as eccentric as the aim of the work is vast and ambitious, being no less than to exhibit the state of Society in Europe and the New World, immediately following the establishment of the American Republic, and preceding the outbreak of the French Revolution.

At the opening we are introduced to one of those old châteaux which glorified the ancient régime of France in Languedoc, where are assembled, enjoying the hospitality of its noble owners, the Marquis and Marchioness de Bagnolles (Huguenots, the Lady being of Scotch parentage and a Calvinist), a party of noblesse, chief of whom are the Count and Countess de Châtillon, a "blue" and a strong-minded woman who, despising love, strongly affects politics; the Baron de Moulin, a Flemish noble of the "Admirable Chrichton" style, and his niece Emmeline, a young lady of the "Minerva Press" school of character, consumptive and sentimental, but for whom alone her brilliant uncle lives.

A Catholic and a Royalist, the Countess somewhat spitefully watches the doings of her hostess, the Marchioness, who as a Huguenot is given to the fast-advancing levelling opinions of the time. Her suspicions being aroused as to a political intrigue, from noticing the fact that the Marchioness is in the habit of leaving the house nearly every day with a basket, ostensibly holding flowers, but obviously too large for that purpose, and which comes back empty, sets a watch, and having, as she thinks, found the proper clue, orders her weak but good-natured husband to follow it up. The Count obeys, and finding a cave, descends, when to his surprise he is clutched by the throat and discovers a dagger at his breast. The threatening weapon is held by a tall, handsome, but haggard recluse, who perceiving the Count is unarmed, throws down his dagger, and strangely enough, at least as far as the art of construction is concerned, commences to relate to the Count his history and adventures. This melodramatic personage is Albert Lunel, the pivot, character upon which the whole story revolves. His tale is both sad and long, and so takes many days to tell. The scion of a noble family, Albert Lunel, although destined to the Bar, becomes, through the means of a good father Jerome, a Monk. Influenced, however, by the advanced opinions of the time, his not by any means strong mind soon becomes shaken as to his fitness for a holy life; but on becoming acquainted with the beautiful Louise Orange, and a mutual affection springing up between them, he morbidly meditates upon the unnaturalness of a life of celibacy, and yet the sinfulness of breaking his vows to "Mother Church." In this dilemma, a tragic chance comes to his aid. In the same convent with him is a Father Ambrose, who is handsome, learned, accomplished, and in Albert's opinion possesses those arts which win women; but worse than this, the fact that he can at all times gain admittance to her mother's house arouses in our hero the passion of jealousy. Thus jaundiced, he one evening follows Father Ambrose to the house of the Countess Orange. Ascending a staircase, which being under repair has a rope instead of a railing, he hears the voice of Louise in converse with a man, then the sound of a kiss; believing the man to be Ambrose, and infuriated by jealousy, he rushes forward, and hurls him over the rope into the depths below. Upon this incident what there is of plot hinges, for the man whose neck he has broken proves to be good Father Jerome, Father Confessor to Louise, who simply kissed his hand in return for the blessing he had just bestowed upon her. The good Jerome dying, conscious who was his murderer, gazes upon him in pity, but speaks nought. So far Albert is safe from justice; for his crime is known, as he believes, only to Louise, who, by the way, not only pities but loves him still. But there is a Nemesis at hand, in the shape of Father Ambrose, who, suspecting the cause of Jerome's death, extorts the truth under the seal of confession from a dying servant of Louise Orange, who had witnessed the deed, and this becomes known to Louise, who now exhorts and aids her lover to escape. Now an outcast, an outlaw, tortured by conscience, and "fearing in every bush an officer," he finds his way, in the disguise of a peasant, to the house of a Huguenot pastor at Nismes, who receives him warmly. Shortly after, however, a peasant of Nismes is arrested for the murder of Father Jerome, and is about to be put to the torture. But Albert Lunel's conscience for bidding him to permit an innocent man to suffer for his crime, he resolves to give himself up to justice. This, however, the pastor prevents, by the connivance of the General-Commandant of the town, who obtains from the authorities a respite for the accused, and then permits him to escape from prison. None the less alarmed for Albert's safety, M. Gardein gives him a letter of introduction to his brother-in-law, M. Girard, also a Huguenot minister at St. Maurice. At this stage of the work, the author gives a lengthy chapter, entitled "The Philosophy of a Languedoc Pastor," which is without doubt one of the finest in the book, exhibiting as it does, in bold relief, the tone of mind and feelings of the Huguenot minister, then still suffering from the persecution consequent upon the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, as also a sketch of the French police system, which might serve as a satire upon that of our own day and country. Passing on his way, meeting at every point with some incident that keeps awake his conscience and alive his terror. Albert at length reaches M. Girard's house, where, disguised with red whiskers and green spectacles, he passes as a clergyman! Under this hospitable roof Albert meets with his first love, Louise Orange. As the latter, however, being a rigid Roman Catholic, has dismissed him from her thoughts for his having adopted the reformed religion, the plastic-hearted Albert transfers his affections to M. Girard's grand-daughter Emilie. But the poor girl being accidently drowned, he and Louise Orange become reconciled. A letter from the good Pastor Gardein shortly afterwards warns him of approaching danger, and advises him to quit France. Now commences that career of wandering and adventure which seems the chief object of the author to depict, and which will, perhaps, more than the preceding portion of the work, stamp it in the minds of its readers as being from the pen of Lord Brougham.

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"LLOYD'S WEEKLY NEWSPAPER."

Albert Lunel.—This novel in three volumes, published by Charles Clarke, Paternoster-row, bears the honoured name of Lord Brougham. In a note appended to each volume, we read that "Albert Lunel" was written by the late Lord Brougham in the year 1844, but for private reasons of his lordship's, was not published. It seems to us that this note does not sufficiently explain the strange fact, that no mention has been made by Brougham anywhere, of this work of his; and it is startling to see a familiar and an honoured name recalling to us not only the great statesman, but the steadfast friend—brought into contact with a work of which no indication was ever given. The novel is, we need not say, especially interesting to the reader under the circumstances; and it is finely written, in the old-fashioned courtly style, dealing with the polished language, elegant manners, and fashionable vices of the past century. We cannot pretend to pronounce, if the work be that of Brougham, but it seems to us that if it be, Brougham was sufficiently astute to perceive that "Albert Lunel" could not enhance his fame, and therefore, it was never published in his lifetime: albeit there are many passages in the work which deserve and attract serious consideration. The two or three pages devoted to the delineation of the German characteristics, are full of observation, and are keen in judgment.

We are afraid, however, that whether "Albert Lunel" be the work of Brougham or not, its style is too antiquated to please the novel-reading world of to-day, in which the faults that Brougham (?) touched with all the delicacy of language at his command, are openly paraded, spades being called spades in the most unblushing manner.

With these few words, then, we leave the reader to turn to "Albert Lunel" for himself, if he be prompted. The question of authorship makes no difference in the quality of the work, and "Albert Lunel" is replete with wisdom, observation, and humour of a refined and courtly kind, that is rare in these days, when wit has degenerated into burlesque.

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"STANDARD," Sept. 12, 1872.

We have here a work written by Henry, First Lord Brougham, in 1844, but then suppressed by its author, although probably printed at the time, as the type and paper of these volumes appear to testify. Indeed it would seem to have been written, to judge from the fashion of the language employed, at a much earlier period, when ejaculatory phrases, long sentimental dialogues, and a mysterious machinery of caves and convents were in vogue. Moreover, the chief aims of the book, so far as it touches on public questions, relate to a time twenty years prior at least to the date originally intended for the publication of "Albert Lunel." But the production is none the less curious on that account. The curtain rises upon the grounds of a château in Languedoc, where before the era of the great convulsion, or rather before its culminating outburst, the blue blood of France is lazily cultivating hospitality and æsthetics. The lady of the château has a habit, noticed by one of her noblesse friends, of leaving the house nearly every day with a basket, ostensibly holding flowers, but obviously too large for that purpose, which always comes back empty, and sets a watch. In due season her confidant traces a path; this brings him to a lady's hair pin on a rock. Following up the clue, he finds a cave, and in the cave a man of eremital aspect, all beard and blackness, who threatens with his dagger, but is at last persuaded to recount the adventures of his career. Then ensues a digression which forms, in interludes, a principal part of the narrative. This man has killed a holy father, and has accordingly fled from the world, carrying with him a heavy conscience and a reproaching load of the dead man's teaching. In addition, he has, upon his conscience the memory of certain passionate and jealous struggles, remembered with remorse, which he suffered before becoming an outlaw. An outlaw he was, however, and we have some powerful delineations of his fears and agonies—suspecting himself to be pursued as a murderer, torn by doubts as to his religious condition, hunted by the shadow of his crime, and terrified by hearing that an innocent man had been arrested and was to suffer torture and death for his deed. The slayer of the father becomes the hermit of the cavern, after a series of extraordinary incidents on highway and byeway, which he relates to the lady of the château in Languedoc. On his way in search of solitude he passes a group engaged in executing an assassin, and reflects that this was the punishment decreed for the crime of which he himself had been guilty, and he is fascinated so as to stay until the tragedy is over. Sleeping at a farm-house, he is terrified when a man looks at him; obtaining work as a stable keeper, he is frightened into absconding because a servant maid notices the whiteness of his arms; thus he is induced to abandon these vulgar disguises, put on red whiskers, and proclaim himself a clergyman. It is in the abode of M. Girard that he first practises this profession, and M. Girard has a daughter, and M. Albert has a heart, and the heart and the daughter become inextricably mingled, what with books, relics, guitars, and musical boxes. It is difficult to think of the fierce advocate, the turbulent orator, the unsparing critic, the stern browed Lord Brougham, delighting in these pastorals of fancy, though this one does not last long, for the young girl dies, and the hero of the cave is left to quit "the house of mourning" for "the house of mirth"

Here we see how Lord Brougham can be sensational. He describes the initiatory rites as practised on a neophyte:—

"He was now told that the time had come when his virtue must be tried. He trembled visibly, but answered, 'Lead on!' He was taken, and we accompanied him, into the next room, more dimly lighted, where he saw his own brother bound to a stake, with his shirt off, loaded with irons, and in a posture of supplication. The commands of the invincible tyrants were then read with a loud voice. He was ordered to put the victim of stern justice to death, as one who had been treacherous to the order. 'That the weakness of human nature be spared,' said the president, rising from his seat, 'your eyes may be bandaged while you perform your duty according to the obligation of your oath.' He shrunk, and seemed ready to faint away. He was blind folded; he was led up to the victim; a dagger was placed in his right hand; he was bid to feel with his left where the heart beat, and so to direct his blow. He convulsively grasped the dagger, and, with a loud scream, plunged it in. Loud acclamations rose from all present but me. The bandage was removed from his eyes. It was found that he had slain a lamb with the wool shorn and mouth muzzled, and he was covered with the poor creature's blood."

But Louise Orange—his new ideal—is not entirely lost; she is endeavouring to follow in his devious track; he abandons the fraternity of the dagger, escaping poison while making the attempt; makes a stay in Holland, where he eulogises the Dutch; takes part in a sea-fight between that nation and the English, and he starts for America, passing through a tempest by the way, and landing at New York only to be horrified by the state of manners he found there existing. We have shameful scenes in courts of justice, in whipping-houses, in plantations, in markets, on shipboard, and in private houses; but the interest of most of this is a bygone, and it is rather to be regretted that the work is so overladen with it. Indeed, we have little inducement to linger over these rhetorical invectives. The narrative, after pausing in the New World, takes a sudden return to France, and the progress of the Revolution there, and the hero is surprised to find happy valleys and a free and contented peasantry even in that distracted land. There he witnesses that which recalls to his mind the image and the voice of the priest whom he had unwittingly killed. This is the portrait, drawn from memory:—

"No day ever passed over our head in this happy valley without forcibly recalling to my memory the conversation of dear Father Jerome, and sighing, oh how deeply sighing, that he was not here to find so ample a confirmation of his profound and benevolent doctrines. Among the numberless amiable, and in my sincere opinion also wise, propensities of his nature, one was eminent over the rest-the love which he ever felt for poverty. It always seemed enough to gain his affection that any one was poor; a poor priest, a poor scholar, a poor householder, a young man struggling for advancement against adverse circumstances, a widow toiling to give her child education, a brother labouring to support a sister cast on his care—these were cases sure to touch his benevolent heart, to excite his sympathy, and obtain his help. But he had a speculative as well as a parental love for those in narrow circumstances, and he conceived that there was nothing at all to connect poverty with any squalid or coarse associations. On the contrary, he thought that the indulgences of wealth were more likely to prepare for the contagion of vice than the exhaustion of poverty; that luxury, and even comfort, dispensing with work, introducer of idleness, minister of the passions, is greatly more a corruptor than want. However, he would describe how easily, in his view of human nature, the lot of the peasant and his poverty might be united with not only the most kindly affections, but with great refinement of mind. The culture derived from education he conceived to be quite compatible with a life of hard work, and if it was also a life of hard fare, the risk was lessened of corruption creeping in to taint its innocence, and debase its worth by the worst kind of coarseness."

We shall leave to the reader the chapter entitled "The End" because a powerful interest is created, not withstanding the attraction in the fact that it was written by Lord Brougham when he was ardent, romantic, and visionary.

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"SPECTATOR," Oct. 19, 1872.

It has for many years been known that Lord Brougham added a novel to his long list of writings, in order, as may have been suggested, that he should verify one-half of the famous sentence in Johnson's epitaph on Goldsmith. Certainly, if this was the object with which Albert Lunel,—from which we quoted years ago a characteristic passage illustrative of Brougham's character upon the occasion of his death,—was composed, it would enable us to say of his lordship "nullum fere scribendi genus non tetigit."

The plot of the novel, may be told in a few sentences. A party, consisting of some French nobles, one or two lawyers, and some travellers, meets at a château in the South of France, and talks the language of Lord Brougham. One of the party, an intriguing, curious countess, observes the lady of the house taking frequent walks with a basket of provisions, and hopes to detect her in something scandalous. With this view the Countess sets her husband to watch, but all her good intentions are frustrated by the Count's discovery that the provisions are taken to an unfortunate fugitive. This is Albert Lunel, formerly a Benedictine monk at Avignon, but now hiding from the officers of justice. Grateful to the Count for his sympathy, Albert Lunel tells the whole history of his life, beginning with the moment of blind passion and mistake in which he sacrificed the life of his dearest friend; going on with his flight from the monastery, his escape into Switzerland, his stay at Göttingen, where he supported himself as a bookseller's hack, and became member of a secret society, which punished not only treason to itself, but even lukewarmness, with death; narrating then the difficulty with which he made his way from Germany to Holland, his service in an American ship-of-war, and his visits to Charleston, St. Domingo, and Havana, in all which places he was most impressed by the horrors of negro slavery; and ending with his return to France, his meeting with her whom he had loved throughout these wanderings, his recognition by his enemies, and his escape to his present hiding-place. While this history is being told to the Count, the people at the château are coming and going, talking and hearing talk; there have been one or two love affairs, and a fall from a carriage, and now the great Revolution is at hand. Having completed the autobiography of the fugitive, the author has only to wind up the other threads of the story, and to dispose of the various characters. It is not necessary for the reviewer to follow him in this task.

Older men than the present reviewer will no doubt take great pleasure in giving the real names to many of the guests at the château, and will explain some of the personal allusions. Without such help, indeed, we can detect much that is characteristic of Lord Brougham. The dedication to Rogers, with the affected humility of its address, and its boast that the authorship is a mystery which it will be impossible to pierce, is a fitting introduction to a book which its writer was probably ready to avow or disavow, as it suited his convenience. Lord Brougham speaks of himself in the dedication as possessing no name at all, and suggests that "sagacity may from internal evidence serve to point a conjecture towards France and her colonies as his country,—her language as that in which his book may have been written." As the book was written sometime after Lord Brougham had built his house at Cannes, and a few years before he submitted his famous request to be enrolled among the citizens of the Second Republic, this sign of a growing love for France is perfectly natural. If the allusion in a note to "our Cannings" and "their shallow wit seems unworthy of one who had defied Canning as Prime Minister in the House of Commons, the portrait of Lord Lyndhurst is a manly tribute to the merits of a rival. The name of M. de Chapeley is a thin disguise for Copley, just as Baron Bayley, the senior puisne judge in the Exchequer when Lord Lyndhurst was Chief Baron, can easily be recognised under the style of M. de Balaye. But the singular fact connected with this introduction of some of Lord Brougham's former companions is that, in spite of the boasted French origin of the book, he has imported into France the English system of judicial appointments. He must have known that French judges are chosen not from the ranks of the Bar, but from those of the magistracy, yet he speaks of M. de Chapeley as having been a most skilful and dexterous advocate, and having been often opposed to M. de Balaye, when both were at the Bar. It may, however, be worth while quoting the sketch of Lord Lyndhurst at greater length:—

"There have been few men more eminent at our Bar; nor would he discredit the most exalted station in the profession he adorns. His father was one of our most eminent artists, and the son has, from college upwards, been always the most distinguished of his contemporaries. At Montpellier he carried away the highest honours as a profound and elegant mathematician, his taste ever keeping pace with his solid substantial acquirements. In manly vigour of mind, in a sagacity that never fails him, be it applied to great purposes or to smaller objects, in a happy power of throwing away the husk of any subject he has to master, and reaching at once the kernel, he stands unequalled in the law. He was, as an advocate, skilful, dexterous, learned, ready, undaunted; as a judge, his calm impartiality, his universal courtesy, his unwearied patience, can only be exceeded by his unexampled clearness and conciseness of statement, the soundness of his views, and the cogency of his reasoning. But if in most things he excels others, in one he seems to exceed himself. I would go any distance to enjoy again a treat I lately had the relish of, when he displayed to its utmost perfection his great faculty of clear, connected, interesting narrative, without a single remark, or any attempt to apply his facts to his purpose, yet so completely effecting that purpose by painting to his auditory a lively picture of the whole case, that the most elaborate reasoning could not have more perfectly secured the adoption of his conclusions. They tell me that he, t'other day, equally astonished the court in which he presides, by a clear and vigourous statement of above twenty ordinances and edicts, giving the dates and the substance of each, without omitting even one figure, though without a single note to help his recollection. They say it was like a code of penal law (for penalties were the subject), from the edict of Moulins to the present time."

It is not so easy to recognise John Wilson Croker in the character of M. la Croasse, for though we hear of his polemical writings, and of his short services in the Naval Administration, he is drawn with such mild and amiable lines as to efface his real character and suggest that Lord Brougham wanted to have his novel favourably reviewed in the Quarterly. Time has perhaps blotted out the memory of Sir Andrew Agnew, the former champion of the Sabbath, yet the picture drawn of him in this book, where he goes by the name of the Chevalier André Agneau, is vivid enough to bring his figure and his habits of mind before those of a newer generation. We do not profess to have identified the originals of these portraits without assistance, for the present writer is not ashamed to own that he was at his first school when this book was written. But the source from which we have derived our information is the best of all sources, a volume of Lord Brougham's letters which has been privately printed by one of his friends, though it has attained more than a private circulation. As one of our contemporaries has thrown some doubt on an authorship of which there is so much internal evidence, it may be right to say that those letters contain the most explicit avowal. Perhaps to those who are familiar with Lord Brougham's style and habits, such an admission may seem superfluous. Yet the world at large will gladly be spared a new literary controversy, and would prefer tacitly to accept this novel as an addition to those curiosities catalogued by the elder Disraeli.

———

"MORNING POST"

Albert Lunel.—This novel, written by Lord Brougham so far back as 1844, but for private reasons withheld from publication, will now be received with great interest. We are by no means unaccustomed to see our great statesmen indulge in the pleasures of authorship. Literary occupation has often proved to them an agreeable relaxation from the toils of government; nor have they scorned to portray in the pages of romance some portion of that life of which they have necessarily seen so much. Still, the reading public will naturally feel a good deal of curiosity as to the kind of novel which a man like Lord Brougham would produce; granting that he possessed the necessary literary qualifications for a work of the kind, it might be expected, considering his immense opportunities for studying character, to be a work of exceeding interest. It might be thought that his great legal experience would afford him examples of men of all kinds, with varying aims and objects, and strange crooked ways of carrying them out, and that he would have given us a plot of great intricacy, entangling us in a maze of perplexity, and finally unfolding in a startling climax. But "Albert Lunel" is a very different kind of book. Availing himself of his long and frequent residences in France, and of his knowledge of French life and manners, the author lays his scenes in a château in a southern province, and in the most straightforward manner tells his story.

A very curious account is given of the initiation of a person into a secret association called the "Fehmgerichte," a name borrowed from the ancient secret tribunal of Westphalia. As Lord Brougham expressly says in his preface that all that relates to manners and customs in his book is strictly true, we may consider that this society and its ceremonial has or had a real existence, and that the strangely thrilling murder-drill, as he calls it, was actually performed. The reader will derive much amusement from the descriptions of the Dutch; so many quaint traits of character not hitherto brought forward are noticed, their piety, especially, and its steady-going, calculating nature; no works of supererogation, godliness being considered practically "a great gain," and furnishing a safe per-centage on the capital laid out. But it is when he comes to America and reads what is said of the slave trade that he will probably be astonished. So much has been written about the sensational nature of American anti-slavery books—and flat contradiction has been given to the statements in Mrs. Stowe's "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and "Dred"—that a large number of persons have been actually induced to believe that a great deal of sympathy has been wasted, and that half of the catalogue of horrors has been invented for a purpose. Let them read the statements of Lord Brougham, who pledges himself for their "absolute truth" Did ever tales of cruelty more terrible, of ignominy and debasement more profound, proceed from the pen of the most "sensational" of writers? No wonder he makes his hero exclaim—

"This free country! Gracious God! and is this country, where I have within the last eight-and-forty hours witnessed more scenes of tyranny—of cruel, capricious tyranny—not in one man, but pervading the whole community;—this country, where half its human inhabitants are groaning, smarting, wailing in a state of bondage more bitter than any which the far-famed despots of the East can bind their subjects;—this country, in which the labouring classes are all, without one exception, held, not metaphorically but actually, in chains and fetters, scourged, tortured, murdered, treated like cattle, and worse than any cattle are treated, only suffered to have the feelings of men that their pride may be insulted, their affections outraged, their hearts torn by every torment that a sentient nature can endure;—is this country to be called free, to boast of its liberty and its inhabitants, even to look down upon the rest of mankind as enslaved and enthralled compared with themselves."

———

"PALL MALL GAZETTE."

"Albert Lunel," is interesting chiefly as another testimony to the versatility of the late Lord Brougham. "Grammaticus, rhetor, geometres, omnia novit." At eighteen he gave to the world an abstruse mathematical treatise; at sixty-six he wrote "Albert Lunel" a like inversion, apparently, of the natural order of authorship to that which Macaulay notices as singular in the cases of Bacon and Burke, whose later style, compared with the severity of their earlier, was florid and fanciful. "Albert Lunel" however, is not to be regarded as a mere work of the imagination. The declaration of its title-page, that private reasons prevented its author from publishing it, and its mysteriously worded dedication, suggest that all its lifelike characters are drawn direct from life. As the book owes its interest to its authorship, we shall quote at length this curious characteristic dedication to Samuel Rogers:—

It is natural that the countenance of a great name, the certainty of obtaining an enlightened reader, the benefit of having a candid, though severe critic, should be sought by one who has no name at all, and only desires justice and intelligence in his judge. These attributes the writer of this work found united in you, and to you he has taken the liberty of inscribing it. Should such an accident ever happen as your indulging in any curiosity upon the matter, you will find the mystery in which your unknown admirer is wrapped impossible to pierce. Your sagacity may, from internal evidence, serve to point a conjecture towards France and her colonies, as his country—her language as that in which his book may have been written. But upon one subject, no doubt must be allowed to rest. In all that relates to political events and political characters: to the manners, the genius, the conduct of nations; above all, to the state of society beyond the Atlantic, there is no fiction, no colouring whatever, any more than in the sacred doctrines most connected with human happiness—peace and freedom, religion, rational as well as puro morality, uncompromising thought, charitable benevolence, universal but discriminating—which it is the design of these pages to teach.

Albert Lunel was destined by his father for the bar, but under the influence of a youthful fascination with the character and mode of life of Father Jerome, a Benedictine Friar, he preferred to don the priest's cassock rather than the lawyer's gown. No sooner, however, had he taken the irretrievable step under the fascination of friendship than he was seduced into repenting it under the more overpowering fascination of love. The young lady who made so deep an impression on him was visited at once by three holy fathers—Albert, Ambrose, and Jerome—of whom Father Jerome alone was stoic enough to remain true, even in thought, to his vows, in the presence of so much wit, wisdom, and loveliness. Thus a long-standing feud between the hero and Father Ambrose was embittered by jealousy; and in a blind paroxysm of this passion Father Albert kills Father Jerome by mistake for his rival. He is forced to fly into Switzerland to the house of a Protestant pastor, who finds it an easy task to complete the work of his conversion from Romanism which love had already begun, but who is unable to conceal or protect him from the keen pursuit of Rome. From it he flies to Göttingen, to fall into still more deadly peril, and to make a still more narrow escape into Holland from the vengeance of a secret society, whose laws he had transgressed. He quits Holland to serve on board an American ship of war, disembarks at Charlestown, makes his way to Philadelphia, and then to St. Domingo and Havana, to give the author an opportunity of delivering himself strongly on his favourite topic of slavery, and from thence sails for France to find a precarious refuge from the unrelaxed pursuit of Rome in the cavern in which we are first introduced to him. From this harassed life he is relieved by the protection of a powerful brother, whose suicide shortly after leaves him heir to his position and property, and free to unite himself at last to "the cause of all his guilt and all his joy" to quote, not inappropriately, the epistle of Heloise to Abelard. Such in meagre outline is the story of Albert Lunel. Such a plot offers many excellent opportunities for the display of skill, either in the delineation of a character distracted by two of the most over-mastering of human motives, or in the description of a career crowded with stirring incidents and striking situations. We learn from a contemporary that a volume of Lord Brougham's letters, printed for private circulation, supplies a key to the English originals of the visitors at the Château—that M. de Chapeley is Lord Lyndhurst, M. de Balaye is Baron Bayley, M. la Croasse is John Wilson Croker, and that the Chevalier André Agneau is Sir Andrew Agnew, the fanatic Sabbatarian. Of Wilson Croker, his old rival in journalism, he speaks with an enthusiasm that would have astonished the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette, as—

"One of the most distinguished men of the day—a man of extraordinary talents, great information, and an active mind; a fearless assertor of his principles, and one who, to further those principles, was capable of making great sacrifices. Like all men of great talents and success in life, he had his enemies, who pelted him incessantly, sometimes with paper pellets in the daily press, sometimes with leaden pellets in their books; to which he seemed sufficiently indifferent. He was of perfectly good breeding, and could listen as well as talk, and was always sure to contribute something valuable, either in wit, in argument, or in narrative."