n
of English verses, not he who provoked, from the sister whom he
murdered, the greatest speech in all French tragedy before, and perhaps
not merely before, Victor Hugo. Horatius is the Philidaspes of _Clelie_,
but, as he was bound to be, an infinitely better fellow and of a better
fate. Of course the end knits straight on to the beginning. Clelie and
Aronce are united without an earthquake, and Porsena, with obliging
gallantry, resigns the crown of Clusium (from which he has himself long
been kept out by a "Mezentius," who will hardly work in with Virgil's),
not to Aronce, but to Clelie herself. The enormous interval between (the
book is practically as long as the _Cyrus_) is occupied by the same, or
(_v. sup._) nearly the same tissue of delays, digressions, and other
maze-like devices for setting you off on a new quest when you seem to be
quite close to the goal. A large part of the scene is in Carthage,
where, reversing the process in regard to Mezentius, Asdrubals and
Amilcars make their appearance in a very "mixedly" historical fashion. A
Prince of Numidia (who had heard of Numidia in Tarquin's days?) fights a
lively water-combat with Horatius actually as he is carrying Clelie off,
over the Lake of Thrasymene. All the stock legends of the Porsena siege
and others are duly brought in: and the atrocious Sextus, not contented
with his sin against Lucrece, tries to carry off Clelie likewise, but is
fortunately or wisely prevented. Otherwise the invariable propriety
which from the time of the small love-novels (_v. sup._ pp. 157-162) had
distinguished these abductions might possibly have been broken through.
These outlines might be expanded (and the process would not be very
painful to me) into an abstract quite as long as that of Cyrus; but "It
Cannot Be."

One objection, foreshadowed, and perhaps a little more, already, must be
allowed against _Clelie_. That tendency to resort to repetition of
situations and movements--which has shown itself so often, and which
practically distinguishes the very great novelists from those not so
great by its absence or presence--is obvious here, though the huge size
of the book may conceal it from mere dippers, unless they be experts.
The similarity of the openings is, comparatively speaking, a usual
thing. It should not happen, and does not in really great writers; but
it is tempting, and is to some extent excused by the brocard about _le
premier pas_. It is so nice to put yourself i