The Press. — London, England, 1854-07-15 00:00:00

164 In these outpourings of his grief to his friend. He was unlucky in his wooing, and he writes on one occasion : lam dead to all but the agony of what I have lost. She was my life—it is gone from me, and lam grown spectral. If it is a place I know, it reminds me of her—of the way in which my fond heart brooded over her. If it is a strange place, it is desolate, hateful, barren of all interest—for nothing touches me but what has a reference to her. There is only she in the world—" the false, the fair, the inexpres sive she." If the clock strikes, the sound jars me, for a million of hours will never bring peace to my breast The light startles me, the darkness terrifies me—l seem falling into a pit, without a hand to help me. She came (I knew sot how) and sat by my side, and was folded in my arms, a vision of love and joy—as if she had dropped from the heavens, to bless me by some special dispensation of a • favouring Providence—to make me amends for all. And now. without any fault of mine hut too much love, she has vanished from me, and lam left to wither. My heart is torn out of me, and every feeling for which! wished to live, It is like a dream, an enchantment—it torments me, and ma', es me mad. I lie down with it—l rise up with it—and I see no chance of repose. I grasp at a shadow—l try to undo the past, or to make that mockery real—and weep with rage and pity over my own weakness and misery. * I had hopes, I had prospects to come—the flattering of something like fame—a pleasure in writing—health even would have come back to me with her smile. She has blighted all—turned all to poison and drivelling tears. Yet the barbed arrow is in my heart—l can neither endure it aor draw it out, for with it flows my life's blood. I had dwelt too long upon truth to trust myself with the im• mortal thoughts of love. That might have been mine —and now never can : these are the two sole propo sitions that for ever stare me in the face, and look ghastly in at my poor brain. lam in some sense proud that I can feel this dreadful passion. It makes me a kind of peer in the kingdom of love. But I could have wished it had been for an object that, at least, could have understood its value and pitied its excess. • • • The gates of Paradise were once open to me, and I blushed to enter but with the golden keys of love ! I would die—but her lover—my love of her—ought not to die. When lam dead, who will love her as I have done? If she should be in misfortune, who will comfort her? When she is old, who will look in her face and bless her ? • • • Oh, answer me, to save me if possible for her and from myself ! Much original matter of this kind imparts interest and a certain degree of value to the book, though mixed up with trifling details and worthless criticism. Mr. Patmore is sadly deficient in judgment. In excuse of Count d'Orsay he relates that in England no married man in high life is thought the worse off, or treated the worse, even by the female Mends of hie wife, for being suspected of having a mistress or two, and that every unmarried man in high life is compelled to keep a mistress whether he likes it or not, unless he would put his character in jeopardy. His acquaintance with high life is not so intimate as to qualify him to pronounce a positive judgment on this or any other point relating to it. The Flitch of Bacon ; or, the Custom of Duumow. A Tale of English Home. By William Harrison Ainsworth. London • Routledge and Co. Tax title of this story awakens expectations which the narrative fulfils in an excellent spirit. It is, as it professes to be, a story of English life, illustrating one of those tradi tions which touch the heart of our old man ners, and which, long after the usages have passed away. linger pleasantly in the memory of the people. Two capital pictures are brought out with truthful effect in the course of the tale —the interior of the ancient inn of Dunmow, and the household of a genuine foxhunter of the last century. These are not merely lively bits of description, but essential elements in the progress of the actin. The characters are carefully individualised, and are placed in circumstances that ex hibit the modes of rural life in England at a time when lumbering waggons did duty for railroads, and lords of manors might hunt the whole country wide without being compelled to breathe their horses while a train swept by. We pass under the sign of the Flitch into the hostelry of that name, and find ourselves in the presence of a company that express in their costume, conversation, and specialities, the ooleur locale of the period. We go up to the Squire's house, and from the kennel to the drawing-room we are introduced to a state of society of which few traces now remain, except in the pages of Addison and Fielding. The establishment of Mark Monk bury, Esq., of Monkbury place, commonly known as the " Squire " in that part of the country, is the most successful piece of painting in the book. The " Squire" is a jovial foxhunter, THE PRESS . who, in a hard-drinking age, retains at seventy the full vigour of his constitution, who hates town, keeps a first-rate pack of hounds, loves freedom and hospitality, and who, although, by virtue of manorial rights, himself the donor of the flitch, can never be induced to commit matrimony. His establishment is managed by his niece, Bab Bassingbourne, a perfect beauty of seventeen. She fills her onerous office to admiration. She is as keen in the saddle as her uncle; she sits her steed with incomparable grace; she knows the dogs as well as old Will Crane, the head huntsman ; She is the delight of the whole country. Everybody is in love with her, from the lord of acres to the swain that tills them. But Bab is as wild as the air, and as difficult to catch as a sunbeam. She has a hundred offers, and refuses them all ; and, what with her beauty and her bright spirits, she is the heart of the story. Her portrait is charming as she is first introduced on a crisp wintry morning in the grass court of the kennel, in her' sky-blue riding-habit lined with silver, and her broad-leaved white beaver, with its sportive feather dancing in the wind. Were thiS a mere description we should pass it over in silence ; but Bab acts her part as well as she looks it. We will not attempt to dwarf the story into our columns. It is a little too much compli cated for abbreviation; but we may observe that it is constructed upon an ample base of characters, and is well sustained. A some what dark thread of romance runs through the domestic tissue. There is a ghost-chamber, with incidents of appropriate mystery, which are redeemed from the indifference with which such sources of interest are regarded in these practical times by the poetical colouring thrown over them. In a literary point of view this is the best of Mr. Ainsworth'a fictions. It is written with unusual care and earnestness, and abounds in passages of pure and healthy feeling. There are several admirable lyrics scattered through the narrative. We will make room for one of them—a roaring song, chanted by the bibu lous Captain Snddock, a sprawling giant, who develops his loose humours for the entertain ment of the company at the Flitch : MY OLD COMPLAINT: ITS CAUSE AND CURE. I'm sadly afraid of my Old Complaint— Dying of thirst. —Not a drop I've drunk For more than an hour : 'Tis too long to wait. Wonderful how my spirits have sunk ! Provocation enough it is for a saint, To suffer so much from my Old Complaint What is it like, my Old Complaint ? I'll tell you anon, since you wish to know. It troubles me now, but it troubled me first, When I was a youngster, years ago ! Bubble•and•squeck is the image quaint ; Of what it is like, my Old Complaint ! The Herring, in very few minutes, we're told, Loses his life, ta'en out o' the sea ; Rob me of Wine, and you will behold Just the same thing happen to me. Thirst makes the poor little Herring so faint ; — Thirst is the Cause of my Old Complaint! The bibulous Salmon is ill content, Unless he batheth his jowl in brine: And so, my spirits are quickly spent, Unless I dip my muzzle in Wine ! Myself in the jolly old Salmon I paint: WINE is the Cure of my Old Complaint Give me full bottles and no restraint, And little you'll hear of my Old Complaint. I never indulge in fanciful stuff, Or idly prate, if my flagon be full; Give me good Claret., and give me enough, And then my spirits are never dull. Give me good Claret and no constraint: And I soon get rid of my Old Complaint! Herring and Salmon my Mends will acquaint With the Cause and the Cure of myOld Complaint! The History of the Propagation of Christianity amongst the Heathen. Since the Reformation. By the Rev. William Brown, M.D. London: Blackwood. THE fact of a third edition of this work being demanded is a sign of the interest taken by English society in missionary labours. It cannot be classed amongst what are popularly called " readable books." Deficient in philosophical grasp, its facts are not arranged so as to indi cate broad results, though its perusal suggests that with historical talents a writer could win no common distinction in thoroughly ex ploring the missionary labours of Christendom. SATURDAY, We confess, too, that in a work of this kind we should like to see a contrast between the toils of the Romish Church, and those of the evangelical communions. Popery boasts that it has a system which can please the intellec tual and dazzle the vulgar, and the deceitful force of its corrupt attractiveness we do not dispute. It has a clergy out off from the en dearing ties of home and kindred, and a thea trical worship, with perfumes, painted win dows, voluptuous music, and a blaze of pomp for affecting the senses. We think that no history of missionary labours can be accepted as complete without a comparison between the propagandist power of the religion of the Bible, and the sacerdotalism of Rome ; nor need Protestants shrink from the results. Few things are more creditable to our Eng lish people than the continuous interest taken in missionary labours. The lukewarm and the sceptical affect to disparage the results of preaching the gospel to the heathen. Yet, even though the end is not always attained, the at tempt to Christianise the heathen is a sub lime purpose, and it would argue a scandalous indifference to our faith if we were to leave to Popery the toil of converting savages, or the glory of braving martyrdom in the name of our Lord. There are practical results from the amour of our missionary societies which ought to conciliate for them more regard from the economists. In many of our colonies the missionaries are useful to our fellow-subjects, whose clergy is o ft en inadequate or ill-sup plied. A strong religious bond is kept up between the outposts of our empire and its central power in England. In saying this, however, we are fully alive to the dangers to which the enthusiasm and indiscretion of missionaries have sometimes exposed their parent States. Yet even in these cases national ' collisions have arisen rather upon pretexts than actual causes for quarrel. The difficulties in the way of missionaries 2 __ are very great. They arise from race, aversion to novelty, savage ig norance, and want of skill in influencing bararians or grossly-preju diced tribes. The apostles had direct inspira tion and miraculous powers. But when the Church of Christ had grown to self-supporting strength it was beautifully ordained that it should further advance, under subjection to trials and social difficulties. It is possible that if communities had more sensitive con sciences they would make far greater efforts in propagating the gospel. The most careless reader of these volumes must be struck with the want of unity and purpose between our mis sionary societies. The propagandism of Rome is left under the control of a special body, di rectly charged with distinct duties. The number of our societies, the apathy of some, the ill-directed enthusiasm of others, the irre gular constitution of their committees, all sug gest that system is much wanted in our British propagandism. Some have asserted that Christian colonies are the true missionaries, and that the gospel can be spread only by collective influences. Their theory is not much better than the laissez faire of free trade, which would leave Paganism to disappear along with the con quered races. Such views are very dispa raging to the vital power of the gospel, which has superior resources to those which result from that combination of manners and political force which composes civilisation. In civil life individuals mould and often control the destinies of empires. Riuhelieus and Napo leons, or a Luther and a Knox, can leave behind them traces of their volition and pow erful individualism stamped upon vast tracts of time. And why should not similar ascen dancy of personal prowess be looked for in the history of the propagandism of the gospel amongst the heathen ? That question at once reveals the master difficulty before the missionary. An adequate communication with the heathen mind is wanted before even divine truth can be seen in its radiant beauty. We may form some estimate of this difficulty by taking illiterate and rustic boors and endeavouring to instruct them in the beauties of Shakspeare. It would require some training and intellectual exer cise before they could be brought to see the transcendant superiority of Lear or Othello over the Surrey melodrama, with its brace of