The History of Henry the Fifth: King of England, Lord of Ireland, and Heir of France
By . New York: D. Appleton & Co.
THE doubt whether Mr, Towle is writing historical romance or romantic history must often embarrass the reader of a work uniting the amiable weaknesses of both species of composition, and presenting much more that is tedious in narration, affected in style, and feeble in thought, than we have lately found in any large octavo volume of five hundred pages. We begin with four introductory chapters recounting the events which led to the usurpation of Bolingbroke, and the succession of Mr. Towle’s hero to the English throne ; we go on with two chapters descriptive of the youthful character and career of Henry the Fifth ; we end with six chapters devoted to the facts of his reign. Through all this, it appears to us, we are conducted at a pace of singular equality, not to be lightened by the triviality of minor incidents, nor greatly delayed by the most important occurrences. Nearly all the figures of the picture are in the foreground, and few' are more prominent than the least significant accessory of the landscape ; and, for once, it is Scarcely possible to say that the picture would have been better if the painter had taken more pains. Indeed, we incline to think the contrary, and would have been willing to accept a result somewhat less labored than that given us. We confess, for example, that it is a matter of small interest to us to know that the Duke of Lancaster’s wife is the “ fair Blanche ”; that, when Katharine consented to wed Henry, “a blush mounted her clear temple”; that over every part of her wedding dress “glittered the rarest gems of Golconda”; that Henry's heart “ ever beat affectionately for his beloved isle ” of England ; that at a certain moment of the battle of Agincourt a large body of the French forces “ shook in their shoes ” ; that the crossbow was “ an object of wonder and delight to the children of olden chivalry” ; that Shakespeare “ caressed the fame of the hero-king with the richest coruscations of his genius ” ; — not to name a multitude of other facts stated with equal cost of thought and splendor of diction. But Mr. Towle spares us nothing, and sometimes leaves as little to the opinion of his readers as to their imagination. Having to tell us that Henry learned, in his boyhood, to play upon the harp, he will not poorly say as much, but will lavishly declare, “ He learned, with surprising quickness, to play upon that noblest of instruments, the harp which is, indeed, a finer turn of language, but, at the same time, an invasion of the secret preference which some of us may feel for the bass-viol or the accordion.
The same excellent faculty for characterization serves our historian on great occasions as welt as small ones. Of an intriguing nobleman like the Duke of Norfolk, he is as prompt to speak as of the harp itself: “ He was one of those politicians who are never contented ; who plot and counterplot incessantly; who are always running their heads fearlessly, to be sure, but indiscreetly, into danger of decapitation.” This fine analytic power appears throughout the book. Describing the enthusiasm of the Londoners for Henry of Bolingbroke, and their coldness towards the captive King Richard, the historian acutely observes: “ Ever thus, from the beginning of the world, have those been insulted who have fallen from a high estate. The multitude follows successful usurpation, but never offers a shield to fallen dignity.” The bashfulness and silence of Prince Henry an ordinary writer would perhaps have called by those names; but Mr. Towle says ; “ He was neither loud nor forward in giving his views ; he apparently felt that one so young should never seem dogmatic or positive on questions in regard to which age and learning were in doubt,” Such a sentence might perhaps suggest the idea that Mr. Towle’s History was intended for the more youthful reader, but when you read, farther on, in the analysis of Henry’s character, “ It was fitting that so fine a soul should be illustrated by brilliancy of intellect and eloquence of speech, that so precious a jewel should be encased in a casket of beauty and graceful proportion,”—or when you learn, in another place, that “ the eloquence of Stephen Partington stirred the religious element of Henry’s character, which appreciated and admired superior ability of speech,” — we say, you can no longer doubt that Mr. Towle addresses himself to minds as mature as his own. It is natural that an historian whose warmth of feeling is visible in his glow of language should be an enthusiastic worshipper of his hero, and should defend him against all aspersions. Mr. Towle finds that, if Henry was a rake in youth and a bigot in manhood, he was certainly a very amiable rake and a very earnest bigot. “ There can be no doubt,” says our historian, in his convincing way, “ that he often paused in his reckless career, filled with remorse, wrestling with his flighty spirit, to overcome his unseemly sports” ; and as to the sincerity of his fanaticism, “ to suppose otherwise is to charge a mere youth with a hypocritical cunning worthy of the Borgias in their zenith.” Masterly strokes like these are, of course, intended to console the reader for a want of distinctness in Mr. Towle’s narrative, from which one does not rise with the clearest ideas of the civilization and events of the time which he describes.
We can understand how great an attraction so brilliant and picturesque an epoch of history should have for a spirit like Mr. Towle’s ; hut we cannot help thinking it a pity that he should have attempted to reproduce, in such an ambitious form, the fancies which its contemplation suggested. The book is scarcely too large for the subject, but it is much too large for Mr. Towle, whose grievous fashion of padding must be plain enough, even in the few passages which we have quoted from his book. A writer may, by means of a certain dead-alively expansive style of narration, contrived out of turns of expression adapted from Percy’s Reliques, the Waverley Novels, the newspapers, and the imitators of Thackeray’s historical gossip, succeed in filling five hundred pages, but he will hardly satisfy one reader; and we are convinced by Mr. Towle’s work that, whatever other species of literature may demand the exercise of a childish imagination, — a weak fancy easily caught with the prettiness as well as the pomp of words, — a slender philosophy incapable of grasping the true significance of events, — a logic continually tripped upon its own rapier,—and a powerful feeling for anti-climax, with no small sentiment for solecism, — History, at least, has little to gain from them.