The Press. — London, England, 1854-11-11 00:00:00

1074 " day." The work was published twenty years ago, and, so far from being " neglected," it enjoys considerable popularity, has passed through repeated editions, and at the time of its appearance drew attention to the author from many distinguished quarters. The poems by the same writer have also been successfully reproduced, and many of them are repeatedly quoted. His life also has been written at great length, and a melancholy narrative it is. In one instance (before his talents were known), after having been three days without food, lying in a garret at Holborn, he was rescued from a death of misery by a chance call from Maginn, who warmly exerted himself on that occasion in behalf of Griffin, an act that ought never be forgotten when the cha racter of Maginn is under discussion ; and there aro other instances within our know ledge of Maginn having acted with equal goodness of heart. " L. E. L." has been gossipped about enough, and it is time that her remains, and all the circumstances of her death, should be allowed to rest. Mrs. Thomson's sketch of her is not so graphic as her picture of Maginn, and in the days of her first appearance in London society, in the heyday of her popularity, "L. E. L." was a very remarkable, and, in some respects, cap tivating personage. Galt is another subject for Mrs. Thomson's pen. His latter days were clouded with misfortunes ; but, though neglected by many of his friends, there was one who recollected him : I spoke of the few friends who tried to cheer the breaking heart of the poet in his retirement at Barnes-cottage. Among these was one whose kindness contributed much to soothe the wounded spirit, and to appease the cravings of that which merited not the name of mortified vanity, but which might be termed a consciousness of unjust desertion by the world. She 3ame—l dare not pen her name—still beautiful, always gifted, better than all, ever kind, in all her loveliness of delicate apparel, in all her gems and splendour. She sat by the sick man's easy chair, the soft air blowing about hercostly veil Ind other appurtenances as she stooped ; whilst in the lane stood her gay coach at the door, its proud steeds pawing the ground, its five balls and coroneted panel attracting the surprise of many a passerby, as he contrasted the lowly entrance with the sumptuous vehicle. She came pitying and sorrowing, and ever and anon leaving behind her something to solace the dark hours which succeeded the return of the omnibus from the foul city. She knew, gay and gorgeous as was her attire, she too knew how the world's censures eat into the heart. Kind, beautiful, yet erring being ! The world casts you from it—in some mo ments of reflection, for come they will, when the heart challenges the memory, and regret and sonow bedew your eyes with tears, know that you comforted the infirm man in his infirmity—that you left him soothed and thankful — that you, of all the gay dames who were wont to smile upon his happier hours, forsook not his decline. It needs no conjurer to tell that Margaret Countess of Blessiugton was the lady alluded to here. She was very capable of generous conduct, for a kinder being seldom lived. We observe that memoirs of her are announced as shortly about to appear. We do not like having the errors of men who have recently deppated from amongst us brought again under our gaze. Mrs. Thomson says in her preface : I give these recollections as they were originally printed ; and am confident that, whilst there may be many who may differ from me in my opinions and predilections, there will he no one who can reproach me with a harsh or unjust expression towards those who are beyond the reach of human sympathy. And her book shows every desire to conform to the rule laid down, but at p. 130, vol. ii., she writes of Thomas Campbell in italics of " the dark sluulow which followed his course " through life," and then proceeds : It was one which the righteous might have ventured to pity, the rigid to forgive. It was the fatal effect of a sensi tive mind too severely tried; it was the remnant of old conviviality, the sources of which were poisoned, and were converted into self indulgence. It was an evil, a curse — resisted when too late—destroying by inches the fine in tellect—eating into the constitution, sparing nothing save the kind, afflicted heart. It was a vice—yes, I grant it—a vice produced by long anxiety, by companionless care, and increased by the neglect and desertion of old friends who might have solaced, have warned, have controlled. It was a vice which society, disgusted and sorrowing, visits once and never withdraws her ban. this : - - Without "venturing to pity or forgive," it would have been better for an anecdotist who makes use of Campbell's name as a source of attraction in her volu►nes to frryet. Silence in such cases is better than a Mrs. Candour style of apology. Mrs. Siddons was a woman of genius, whose character, apart from her vast powers, we have always heard Broken of with sincere respect THE PRESS. by all who kne w her. We do not like popular writers noting down such an anecdote as I had heard much of Mrs. Siddons from my earliest childhood. Some aged relations of mine were fond of talking of the days when St. John's-wood was a wood, and when Lisson-grove was a grove. In those times there was an old manor-house in St. John's-wood, which the usual course of changes in this mundane state had reduced to a farmhouse. The farmer, or his wife, let off some of 'he rooms into lodgings. The old couple to whom I have re ferred were in the habit of taking apartments during the summer months at the manor-house. It stood quite in the country, and, as fate would have it, old Mr. and Mrs. Kemble, the parents of the immortal trio (for, though last and least, the present survivor was a great actor, and is an accomplished man), had lodgings there also. I have heard my relations say—and they were no ordinary judges—that there never was a more perfect gentleman than old Mr. Kemble, nor a finer woman, nor a more excellent being, than his wife. Both were singularly handsome. Mrs. Siddons had by that time given up ironing her husband's shirts, and was in the zenith of her fame at Drury Lane. Her proud mother was always talking of " Sally," and occasionally the magnificent " Sally" swept across the manor•house garden, and, bowing her lofty head, paid fleeting visits, coming in her own carriage, to her parents. Mrs. Kembla was very desirous of showing Sally" to her friends and fellow-lodgers; day after day she promised to do so, but Mrs. Siddons never could or would wait for the display. One morning my old lady friend heard an altercation between mother and daughter on that very point. Mrs. Kemble persisted. " Well, then," replied the haughty Sarah," Madam, I wait your pleasure." The mother retired and stationed her friend in the hall, where she could see the immortal Sarah returning. In a few minutes Mrs. Siddons came out, preceding her mother —a fatal blemish in manners. She moved, my friend said, as if she would scarcely deign to touch the earth, and, with a distant cpurtesy, passed on; but her dress, her walk, her grand beauty, then in its prime, were long the theme of my old friend's talk; while the words " Madam, I wait your pleasure," were given by her in that deep, distinct tone which none who had ever heard Mrs. Siddons could fail to recognise. This story depends on some " aged relations " of the authoress, and it is unlike the character of Mrs. Siddons. She was stately, not " haughty ;" wits like Tom Moore thought her " dull," and a tragedy queen in the drawing-room has often disappointed those who have been awed by her in the mimic scene. But Sarah Siddons, we firmly believe, was utterly incapable of the heartless and absurd conduct recorded above. The siege of " Ragland Castle" and the de fence of Latham-house have often been re counted. A brilliant descendant of the Smiler ' sets, at a still more formidable siege, is now doing honour to his heroic race. The old spelling of the name, " Raglan," has been adopted by the gallant general. Charles I. always spoke of it as "Ragland," and the Marquis of Worcester dated his letters "from "my poor house of Raglan." In allusion to Fairfax, the authoress is under a mistake. She writes : The name of Fairfax is no longer noble amongst us (neither, indeed is that, of Cromwell) ; and it is singular that the family of Fairfax is, or was, represented by a de scendant who followed the occupation of a miller in the rural village of Barford, near Warwick. The peerage of Fairfax is still in existence, though for the last three generations the holders of it have resided in America. It still remains in the roll of the House of Lords. Within the last few days we were speaking to a descen dant (in the female line) from Sir Thomas Fairfax, in whose family, even to this day, a singular peculiarity in the eyes may be dis tinctly seen. The account of the famous family of Stanley is tamely written by Mrs. Thomson. She is evidently not conversant with all the historical stories of that renowned race, whose present representatives illustrate the family motto of " Sans changer" in their readiness, like their ancestors, to be foremost amongst competi tors of high descent. But even in her com pilation the chivalrous energy of the Stanleys stirs the heart of the most languid reader, and cold must be the English breast which does not feel pride in knowing that, in the field and • in the senate, the Somersets and Stanleys in our own days present such brilliant examples of the right noble qualities of the old blood of England. There is something pleasing in the recollection that the claims of a Fitzroy Somer set to the title of " Raglan " were submitted to her Majesty at the special instance of the present Earliof Derby, while Prime Minister, We can recommend these volumes to book clubs as presenting a miscellany of agreeable light reading, savouring plesoantly of old his tory and modern gossip. SATURDAY, Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe. By Grace Greenwood. London : Bentley. HAD any one asked us what novelty we were to expect in the relation of the " Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe," we should simply have replied " none ; " for what no velty can be found in a description of scenes and loealities which for the last thirty years have been looked at, ransacked, and described by inquisitive travellers front all corners of the earth: In the style of writing, even, every form of composition has been exhausted. But, with these obvious disadvantages, Miss Green wood's book will still be found pleasant read ing. Viewed as the journal of a young woman fresh from a country which, we are told, is in general devoid of picturesque scenery, with no beautiful lakes like those of England, uo mountains or views like those of Switzerland, no coasts like those of Italy, no noble cities containing treasures of art like those of Paris or Florence, no quaint old towns, no curious costumes of bygone periods, and but little historical association—allowance must be made for that natural amount of rapture and enthusiasm which a poetic nature would ex perience upon beholding the beauties of a world long spoken of and the hoary records of the " far great Past " of Europe s antiquity. Possessed of a strong poetic temperament and a lively fancy, there is a piquancy and a freshness in her first impressions and an honest enjoyment in her descriptions which are quite enlivening ; yet her enthusiasm is seldom affected, she evidently feels all she expresses, and in her reflections and remarks gives proof of quick intelligence, of varied reading, and of an accomplished and well-informed mind. Her book is written somewhat in the form of a journal, and in general dwells more on the personal feelings and adventures of the author than the places she visited and objects she saw. Arriving at Liverpool, Miss Greenwood stops with some friends for a short time, sees the manufacturing towns, admires the dray horses and the workmen's neat cottages (we are afraid that Mr. Joseph Sturge must have got up some model cottages for the occasion, and treated Miss Greenwood something in the manner that the Russian officials treated Howard), visits Warwick and Stratford-upon- Avon, where, as she comes out of " the shrine " of her highest intellectual worship," she is disagreeably struck by the smartness and insolent newness of some of the buildings ou the way : How I hated the flaring shop windows, with their display of cheap ribbons, and prints, and flashy silks. But I was comforted by the sight of a goodly number of quaint and nioss-grown houses, and I could have blessed a company of strolling players and ballad singers, who had collected a gaping crowd in an open square, for being in harmony somewhat with the place. I could have willed Stratford and all its inhabitants to have been wrapped for ever in a charmed sleep, like that of the fairy talc, when Shakspeare was laid to his rest in that picturesque old church on the banks of the Avon. Nature seems nowhere unharmonious with one's poetic memories of hint—you could almost believe that the trees, and the grass, and e‘en the flowers, were of his day. I remember a rich June rose, hanging over a hedge, its warm leaves glowing through glistening raindrops, and that it seemed to me he might have looked into the heart of this rose and dreamed of the passion-freighted heart of Juliet. We entered the church, passed up into the chancel, and stood before the bust and above the ashes of Shakspeare. Having reached London, she lionises in a quiet way, and with this advantage over her fair sister of " Sunny Memories" reputation, that, not being made a show of, she happily has nothing to relate of individual dukes and duchesses, and contents herself with recording her im pressions of London society in few words. She was introduced to Lord Carlisle, and is taken by him to see the galleries of paint ings at Stafford and Bridgewater Houses. Her remarks upon Raphael contrast advantageously with the presumptuous strictures of Mrs. Stowe : To Raphael it seems no poetio extravagance, no sacrilegious enthusiasm, to apply the term divine. I cannot conceive how one can look on his pictures long enough to get at their soul without believing him to have been often visited with cele ;tie inspirations, that, by close and holy communion wi.h Heaven, he obtained the secrets of creativ.i power—and that thus visions of transcendent purity, of serivhic loveliness and divine beatitude, were vonch,afed to him. Su peculiarly pine and peaceful is ' the atmosphere of his works, that one half believes them ' canopied by angel wings. The holiness of the pictures of wilieh I have spoken is the more impressive from Ma