There is much ability
displayed in her "Court of France"; and she has written a very clever
story, entitled "The Romance of the Harem." But this book is thoroughly
feeble and commonplace. The customary rich and whimsical nabob, whom we
all know so well, has returned to England, and is deliberating upon the
claims to his wealth of his several relations. His decision is soon
formed, but shrouded in an impenetrable mystery, which is open to the
usual objection to the novelist's impenetrable mysteries, of being
perfectly transparent. Having divined who will be the heir, after
reading forty pages, we are a little impatient that Miss Pardoe should
cherish the secret with every imaginable precaution until the 350th
page, when she brings it out with a flourish, as if no human sagacity
could possibly have discovered it.
This keeping secrets that are no secrets, the besetting weakness of
novelists, was once quite affecting. When Nicholas Nickleby acted at
Mr. Crummles's theatre, a thrill of terror ran through the
unsophisticated spectators, as the wicked relation poked a sword at him
in the dark in every direction except where his legs were plainly
visible.
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