The Adventures of a Young Rifleman in the French and English Armies during the War in Spain and Portugal from 1806 to to 1816. Written by Himself. Philadelphia. H. C. Carey & I. Lea. 1826. 12mo. pp. 294.

THAT department of literature which is comprehended under the name of fictitious history, although of late origin, is not only one of the most prolific, but also one of the most various and mutable in its forms. We speak not now of the different schools of writing to which the authors belong, nor of the different degrees in which nature is copied or the imagination indulged in their productions, but merely of the manner in which the incidents are arranged. The first works of this kind were a sort of imaginary biography; they were tissues of extraordinary adventures, having little connexion with each other, except by means of the hero, who was made to appear in them all. Gradually the authors of these writings introduced an order and dependence into the events of the narrative, a plot running through the whole, and a catastrophe, to which each was made to contribute, and in which all the difficulties and embarrassments of the story were cleared up by some unexpected piece of good fortune, or sunk in some final and overwhelming calamity. In this manner a sort of epic or dramatic unity of action was perfected, strengthening the impression of each separate incident, by an interest borrowed from what had preceded it, and an expectation of consequences that were to follow. This has been generally looked upon as the most perfect form of fictitious narrative, and so far as writers have ventured to depart from it, they have been thought to lay themselves open to criticism. It will be admitted, however, we believe, that this regular concatenation of incidents does not give the same pleasure to all. There are persons, and we confess ourselves among the number, who, in reading a modern novel, have been greatly distressed by this eternal dovetailing of one event into another, through several volumes. We are not disposed to deny, that this artful arrangement creates and keeps up an interest in the mind of the reader, but we have sometimes felt that it was an unnatural and oppressive one. We have expe

rienced a strong sense of weariness without being quite willing to desist from the task of perusal; a kind of peevishness with the writer for wilfully heaping perplexity upon perplexity, allowing no respite or breathing time to his hero or his reader, but urging on both by a steady and irresistible current of events, all tending

to a single issue, as if they understood each other, and conspired together to produce it. We have been glad, at length, to lay down these elaborately constructed narratives, and to refresh ourselves with some old-fashioned novel like the "Fool of Quality," in which the events follow each other with much of the same loose connexion as in real life; the important and the trivial mingled together, and sometimes ending in themselves, without furthering the progress of the story or in any way influencing the catastrophe.

This artificial order and connexion of the incidents of a novel, has, it is true, advantages. It gives an interest to the minor circumstances of the narrative, by admitting such only as help forward the plot. It leaves a single and strong impression on the mind of the reader. By keeping the personages of the story engaged in adventures which bear a near relation to each other, it gives scope and opportunity for the delineation of character. It detains them, if we may so speak, in one position till we become familiar with them; it makes them sit till their portraits are drawn.

These advantages we are not disposed to undervalue; indeed we freely admit, that the most perfect specimens of fictitious history have been produced with their aid, and that, without this attention to the unity of the piece, the talents of some of the finest writers in this branch of literature could not have been exerted with their full effect. For not only does it give, as we have already observed, an ampler opportunity for their exercise; but the mind of the author, filled with the plan of his work, which is continually growing and perfecting itself under his hands, kindles while he writes, just as our own are warmed while we read, and becomes conscious of powers and capable of exertions which required this extraordinary excitement to call them forth.

After all, however perfect and excellent in their kind these works may be, it is almost certain, that the novels which entertain us most, or rather those to the perusal of which we return with the greatest pleasure, are written on a different plan. The hopes and apprehensions, the constant anxiety, the feverish expectation, raised in the mind by the reading of a work of fiction with a regular, connected plot, cannot be renewed on a second perusal. The several incidents, the descriptions, the sentiments, the disclosures of character then pass for what they are worth in themselves; and if the work has nothing but the artificial interest of the story to recommend it, it is read no more. On the other hand, a work of fiction which owes little or none of its power of

pleasing to the plot, if found entertaining on the first perusal, is equally so on the second, and is placed on our shelves as one of the few to whose pages we recur with delight. This is a distinction, however, to which the novel-writers of the present day act wisely in not aspiring. The multitude of these productions continually issuing from the press, shove on those which preceded them, with a few rare exceptions, to an oblivion from which there is no return. The author has reason to congratulate himself, whose work is once read by the majority of readers, and is permitted to furnish a topic of conversation for the week in which it is published.

The great work of Le Sage is a striking example of the truth of these remarks. Notwithstanding the offensive nature of some portions of "Gil Blas," we yet know of no work of fiction which possesses so inexhaustible a power of pleasing. The grace and ease with which the story is told, the variety of the adventures, the knowledge of mankind shown in the work, its playful wit, delicate satire, and distinct painting of external manners, win upon us more and more at every perusal. Yet it has no regular plot, and it is fortunate perhaps that it has none to divert our attention from these qualites on the first reading, or to oppress us on the second with the stale repetition of contrivances which can no longer produce their effect. This celebrated work is a series of adventures which bear no relation to each other, except that they all happen to the same individual, and all happen in Spain. The scene is successively laid in different provinces of that country; the hero is continually passing from one station of life to another, and at every change he is provided with an entirely new set of associates, unlike in manners and character to the old, of whom, for the most part, we hear no more. Almost any of the adventures might be retrenched without leaving a visible gap in the work; and the story might terminate nearly as well at the end of either of the books, as at the end of the last volume. Yet it would be difficult to point out a work of fiction which detains us more agreeably in the perusal, or to which we recur with greater expectation of being amused. "Robinson Crusoe," also, the inimitable "Robinson Crusoe," the delight of all countries, a book for readers of all classes and ages, a book which is put into almost as many hands as the Bible, owes nothing of its attraction to a regular arrangement of incidents terminating in a regular catastrophe. It is the mere diary of a shipwrecked sailor; a catalogue of the ingenious methods, by which he contrived to alleviate the hardships and guard against the dangers of his situa

tion; and it ceases when he is finally taken from his solitary island. Some modern novels, also, written in violation of this unity of action, which has been thought of so much importance, seem to have gained by it more than they have sacrificed. The "Memoirs of Anastasius," for instance, which is acknowledged to be a work of great power, is written in the biographical manner. We recollect an instance or two in which the novel has been disguised under the shape of a book of travels, and made to derive its interest from the novelty of the manners ascribed to the people among whom the hero was thrown, and from the accidents of voyages and travels. Of this kind is Campbell's "Over-land Journey to India," which appeared some twenty years since, and which many persons have read with great pleasure, for it is very ingeniously fabricated,—as a genuine book of travels. The "Travels of Damberger," also, though admitted to be a forgery, are not an uninteresting one. We wonder, it is true, how the supposed traveller could have observed so little; but we follow him in his captivity and his wanderings through the desert, from one pastoral tribe to another, with no small share of sympathy.

Lately some English writers have fallen upon the plan of putting the hero of a novel into a war, and letting him, as the learned Scriblerus expresses himself, work his way through. They seem to have imagined, that such of the events of a campaign as might be supposed to pass under the immediate observation of an individual, with a due mixture of his own personal dangers, escapes, and other adventures, would form a sufficient basis for an interesting work of fiction, without any other plot. The author of "Recollections of the Peninsula " was the first who led the way in a work, framed upon this plan, and the success of his experiment showed that he was not mistaken. Several others soon followed it, among which we think the one before us as amusing as any. This is probably by no means the last of its kind. As long as the demand for these works continues, they will not be wanting; a newly discovered country, in which gold is to be found, is soon filled with adventurers. While we are writing this, we learn, that the "Adventures of a French Serjeant" is just republished in this country. We shall now probably see all the events of the late European war, served up, one after another, in a similar form, until we are surfeited with battles, sieges, marches, burnings, and robberies, and begin to be almost willing to read. a pastoral.

The work before us relates the personal adventures of a common soldier, a German, who is supposed to have enlisted in

the armies of the emperor of France, in the year 1806, when his native country was the seat of the war. From Germany he passes through France into Spain, where he arrives in 1808, and serves in the succeeding campaigns, until taken prisoner by the English in 1811, at Almeida, a Portuguese town, while attempting, with the rest of the garrison, to cut his way through the forces by which it was blockaded. After some hard treatment from his captors, finding the life of a prisoner rather uncomfortable, he wisely concludes to change his party, and enters into the English service. From Spain he is taken successively to England, to Malta, to Sicily, a second time to Spain, and back again to Sicily, then to Naples, and finally again to England. Here he obtains his discharge, in 1816, after having given neither the emperor of France nor the king of Great Britain reason to complain of his behaviour, since he had divided the ten years of his military life impartially and exactly between them. Our readers will see that the writer has allowed himself ample ground for the collection of materials, in the number of important occurrences, which took place during the period and in the countries we have mentioned.

We have called this a work of fiction. It is so, without doubt, in a great measure, although we are quite ready to believe, that the view which it gives of the life and habits of a common soldier is as just as it is curious; and that most of the adventures it records have either been witnessed by the author himself, or related to him by somebody to whom they had happened. It is probably true, that the writer has visited some of the countries he describes; that he has seen somewhat of the life of a camp, and observed carefully the manners of the soldiery, and listened attentively to the recital of their adventures. There is indeed an air of verisimilitude about the work, which is almost sufficient, on the first perusal, to leave no suspicion of its authenticity. The acts of the hero and the accidents of the day are related with very great minuteness and simplicity, without the least apparent attempt at embellishment. Mingled with the military part of the narrative and personal fortunes of the supposed writer, are a great many amusing particulars relating to the countries he has seen, and the manners of their inhabitants. It seems very certain to us, however, that no person in the condition of life in which the author is supposed to be placed, could have written such a book. In describing countries and places, and in speaking of the events of the war, he could not have so entirely avoided all mistakes of ignorance. Least of all could he have made such a selection