The Press. — London, England, 1858-10-16 00:00:00

THE PRESS, OCTOBER 16, 1858 1008 ther, and it was piteous to see how she folded him to her arms and cried. After a while the nurse carried him away, and laid him out in his little bucket-eradle, just below Emmie's bed, where she could look into it. . . . In the evening, Emmie, who had been very quiet up to this time, and had been intently watching baby's face as he lay beside her in the cradle, had an alarming hystencal fit. . Dr. Partridge desired he might be buried next day, as he said it was of the greatest importance he should be taken away from Emmie, for that hanging over him and gazing intently on bum, as she never ceased to do, was having a very bad effect upon her in her weak state. She did not make much objection when I told her. When I awoke in the morning, she was still gazing on her child. At ten o'clock Captain Hayes and Dr. Partridge came. I had asked the former to come, and bad also asked for the use of • little close carriage of his to carry the baby to the cemetery. He brought his broughum too, and he and Dr. Partridge went in it, and I with my dear little boy in the close carriage, the only ride we shall ever have together! But, first, there was the cruel task of taking him away from his mother. She begged to have him a hide while longer. She had him taken out of his cradle and put on a pillow by her, and then she folded him in her arms and wept over him in a manner which made me feel more than 1 ever felt in my life. Then she had the coffin put where the cradle had been, and placed him in it herself, and put some little dark red roses, which grow in great luxuriance in our garden, and of which she is very fond, in his hands and on bis breast; and then she bravely coy ered him up, and 1 carried him out and fastened down the coffin out of her hearing. But this was not all. With that idolatry, that clinging to symbols, so becoming and even en dearing in woman, the bereaved mother, during her husband's momentary absence, had caused her own and his daguerreotype to be brought to her, and had placed one of the little baby's ‘‘ hands on one and one on the other, and the " Bible, which her mother gave her, against his " breast." Not lightly would we embark in the same skiff, on a stormy sea, with the man who could read these passages with unmoistened eyes. But time presses, and there is yet much to be noticed —more, far more, than even can be glanced at in a weekly journal. Clearly and distinctly are the outlines sketched of the earlier mutinies, and bravely did the chaplain of Lucknow prepare himself for the coming storm. Of himself he thought not at all ; his wife he commended to her Creator—to his neighbours and parishioners he would do his duty at the cost of his life. And that forfeit was demanded of him at an early period of the siege, though not before he had availed himself of every opportunity of going about doing good, and of proving himself a not unprofitable servant. At last he too was stricken by a bullet, from the effects of which, however, he had partially re covered when cholera supervened, and this noble soldier of Christ was gathered to his fathers. How did his loving wife bear this great trial, this unutterable affliction ? Listen to her words of faith as she tells his death to his mother : Oh, had you been with me to watch the entrance of that blessed soul into the glory that awaited it, to see the per fect serenity and ➢eace that was his through that last short but painful illness, you would not think it strange for The to say that I have never known what it is to have one re pining thought since he was taken away from me. It was impossible to feel anything but rapture in the thought of his having entered into his Master's joy. . . . . He had not the least fear of death. He said to those who came to see him on hie deathbed, " I am not in the least frightened, and I know exactly how I am." And his beautiful tearless smile must have proved to them how little dread there was for hint in the prospect of death. . . . . I cannot tell you what a strange unearthly sort of peace I had at the time of his death. Through that last day end night of his life, up to the moment that he died, a marvellous kind of triumphant feeling mime over me. 1 cannot explain it, but 1 felt as if I were watching his entrance iuw the joy of his Lord ; and I seemed to feel the joy myself. This feeling continued fur days after, in a greater or less degree, and only became less radiant as the death like blank in my own life became more ap• parent. Humbly and respectfully would we allude to one other point that irresistibly fbrces itself upon our attention. Quite incidentally is a second cha racter introduced into the saddened associations of this domestic drama. No reader imbued with the ordinary feelings of man will lay down this book without a profound and tender admiration for the brave and loving wife, who was worthy to be the companion, friend, and nurse of this worthy English gentleman and sincere Christian. We seem, indeed, to look on as her character gradually forms and develops itself. Before her marriage, when told that her betrothed must seek a competence in distant climes, " she takes " it very quietly," and he, appreciating her in nate force of character, confidently remarks, "I " have no manner of doubt that she will cleave " firmly to me, and will go where I do." We have already seen what interest she took in the scenes of her husband's childhood ; we next be hold her in the streets of Lisbon, when he writes to his mother, "I could hardly get Emmie to " speak a word (of French). The only thing to " be done was for her to tell me the sentences " when we wanted anything, and for me to speak " them." By and bye she gathers more confi dence, and we read that she " went into fits of " laughter at hearing " her husband " give direc " tions in Ilindostanee ; not that she could do " any better." A little later she is the patient and assiduous nurse by the bedside of the fevered and delirious patient, and, with the true poetic delicacy of a woman's love, divines that whatever reminds him of his first love for her will give him pleasure and do him good. So she lays on his pillow passion-flowers wet with dew, like those she used to send to him in the days of the dream that precedes marriage. But the joyous spirit is not yet toned down. She still clings too fondly to earth and its bright associations—her happi ness is yet too human. She can write to her sister-in-law a long letter about her pet spaniel Chloe, and longs for two "lovely monkeys," de signated by her sensible and practical husband as " nasty brutes." From this innocent levity she was reclaimed by an awful and heartrending affliction, the death of her little babe. Long and strenuously did she battle with her sorrow ; but a more terrible trial than any she had yet under gone now awaited her. Immediately after the commencement of the siege, she volunteered to assist in the hospitals, and her fond husband notes down in his diary, " How proud I was to " see my dear wife going about the wards on her " message of mercy. I could not look at her " without my eyes filling with tears." Yet a few days and he too was to be taken from her; but she was not as those who sorrow without hope. It was only when, for the first time, she went to see the stone and inscription over his grave that her grief overpowered her, and extorted the piteous cry—" What would I not give to be rest " ing there with him ! God only knows how I " have longed to die where he has died, and there " to be buried !" We must here break off abruptly, and with a word of regret. The editors have acted injudi ciously, as it seems to us, in swelling this deeply interesting volume with the letters of condolence they have received from the friends and admirers of their deceased relative. We would not speak lightly on such a subject, but we confess they give us an impression like to that one accepts from the claqueurs at a theatre. Their brother, however, needed no such testimonials to his worth, and we think they might well be omitted in future editions. Curiosities of Literature. By Isaac Disraeli. A New Edition. Edited, with Memoir and Notes, by his Son, the Right Hon. B. Disraeli, Chancellor of her Majesty's Exchequer. In Three Vols. Vol. 11. London : Routledge. Loan BACON has described the uses to which various kind of men apply their knowledge. Some make of it a means of advancement in life, and others are animated solely with regard to philosophic objects; while some employ knowledge "as a sort of terrace on which they " may walk up and down, and recreate them " selves by taking extensive prospects around." It is in the latter category that Isaac Disraeli should be placed. Many of the subjects of which he treated were not logically exhausted by him after a scientific method, and others he has dis cussed cursorily. With such a writer it is often necessary to be critical in accepting his views about literary reputations. In Literature he sought fir pleasure and for amusement, rather than for definite aims of utility ; and we could desire that more pains had been taken about the annotations of this edition of the " Curiosities of Literature." The Chancellor of the Exchequer would naturally shrink from passing any strictures on his lather's opinions, while his occupations as a statesman would of course not allow him the leisure requisite for a critical annotation. We have, in our review of the first volume of this publication, expressed our views as to the literary rank of Isaac Disraeli. John son has said that the criticism which does not give examples is worthless, and we shall illustrate our views of this work by some remarks. The beauties and the occasional defects lie intermingled together. Thus, when he ---= treats of "Anecdotes of Abstraction of 111 ind," our author happily shows his aptitude for dovetailing in a sort of literary mosaic-work the "curiosi ties" of his reading. His best manner is seen in the following passage : This intense abstraction operates visibly; this pertur. bation of the faculties, might be (emptied, affects persons of genius physically. What a forcible description the late Madam Roland, who certainly was a woman of the tirat genius, gives of herself on her first reading of Telemachus and Tasso. "My respiration rose; I felt a rapid tiro colouring my face, and my voice changing, had betrayed my agitation; I was Eucharis for Telemachus, and Erminia for Tancred ; however, during thie perfect transformation, I did not yet think that I myself was any thing, for any one. The whole had no connection with myself, I sought for nothing around ins; I was them, I saw only the objects which existed for them ; it was a dream without being awakened."—Metastasio describe(' a similar situation. " When I apply with a little attention, the nerves of my sensorium are put into a violent tumult. I grow as red in the face as a drunkard, and am obliged to quit my work." When Malebranche first took up Descartes on Man, the germ and origin of his philo sophy, lie was obliged frequently to interrupt his reading by a violent palpitaion of the heart. When the first idea of the Essay on the Arts and Sciences rushed on the mind of Rousseau, it occasioned such a feverish agitation that it approached to a delirium. fhis delicious inebriation of the imagination occasioned the ancients, who sometimes perceived the effects, to believe it was not short of divine inspiration. Fielding save, " I do not doubt but that the must pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears." He perhaps would have been pleased to have confirmed his observation by the following circumstances. The tremors of Dryden, after having written an Ode, a circumstance tradition has acoidently handed down, were not unusual with him; in the preface to his Tales he tells us that in translating Homer be found greater pleasure than is Virgil ; but it was not a pleasure without pain ; the continual agitation of the spirits most needs be a weakener to any constitu tion, especially in age, and many pauses are required for refreshment betwixt the heats. The instances taken from Mme. Roland, Metas tasio, Malebranche, and Rousseau are happy; and Isaac Disraeli's anecdotes are generally very apposite to the matter illustrated. It is when he utters a strictly critical opinion that our eminent author fails. Thus in the very next article we arc introduced to Richardson, of whom he writes : The censure which the Shakspeare of novelists has incurred for the tedious procrastination and the minute details of his fable ; his slow unfolding characters, and the slightest gestures of his persoiiiivs, is extremely unjust; for is it not evident that we could not have his peculiar excellences without these accompanying defects? It is extravagant to call Richardson " the Shake speare of novelists." In order to obtain an analogue for the powers of Shakespeare in the prose fiction of modern times, we should require the invention of original types of character and great variety of subject, besides powers of appre ciating and sympathising with both human and physical nature. There are various passages in Shakespeare which show the mighty bard's sense of the glory and grandeur of the earth, its land scapes, its heaving sea, its painted clouds, and all the effects called " picturesque." In Richardson there is not, as far as we can remember, any sympathy with physical nature, and his types of character were tew. Since the time of the Waverley Novels the phrase " Shakespeare of Novelists " has by common consent been given to Scott—whether rightly or not, we shall not here inquire. It is not true, besides, that we " cannot have the peculiar excellences of Richard son without his accompanying defects." Richardson had great and particular talent in painting details. So also had Miss Austen, and she had not his wearying minuteness. - - There are some good points and ingenious parallels in the article on " Poetical Imitations and Similarities," but sonic of the comparisons are strained, and the textual emendations cannot always be received. He observes: — De Caux, an old French poet, in one of his moral poems on an hour-glass, inserted in modem collections, has many ingenious thoughts. That this poem was read and admired by Goldsmith, the following beautiful imago seems to indicate. Da Caul, comparing the world to his hour-glass, says beautifully, Vest un verre qui luit, Qu'un souffle pout t latrutre, et qu'un souffle a produit Goldsmith applies the thought very happily : Princes and lords may flourish or may fade ; A breath eau fu.tlie them, as ,1 breath has matte. I do not know whether we might not read, for molern copies are sometimes incorrect, A breath unartk•ls them. as a breath bus made. If the reading of " unmakes" were adopted, the point would be lost. The " breath " of a sove reign can " make " a prince or a peer, but it can not " unmake" them. The suggested emendation NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMI THE PRESS, OCTOBER 16, 1858 itis to see how she folded him to her scenes of her husband's childhood ; we next be- I treats of "Anecdotes of Abstraction of Mind," our awhile the nurse carried him away, hold her in the streets of Lisbon, when he writes author happily shows his aptitude for dovetailing little busket-cradle, just below to his mother, "I could hardly get Emmie to in a sort of literary mosaic-work the " • ,ula look into it. . . . In curios:- ' been very quiet up to this " speak a word (of French). The only thing to ties" of his reading. His best manner is seen in -hing baby's face as be lay "be done was for her to tell me the sentences the following passage : This intense abstraction operates visibly•, this InNiVltatbae forcible description . 'ming hysterical fit. . . " when we wanted anything, and for me to speak who certainly was a woman of iried next day, he should be "takehne "them:' By and bye she gathers more confi- b the ae rt isolo4nnt es ofo fitaghdeeannifulasciurl,:ltili)aestisiiaallsy. him and gazing dence, and we read that she " went into fits of P the first genius, gives of herself on her first reading of was having a " laughter at hearing " her husband " give direc-Telemachus and Tasso. "My respiration ruse • I felt Sbe did not " tions in Ilinclostanee ; not that she could do ' awoke in " any better." A little later she is the patient rapid fire colouring my face, and my voice 1 ' ' had At e.i.inging, mi.. At ten and assiduous nurse by the bedside of the fevered abnetdraEyremd inn yi a agitationto r T an;crie (17 ahso Ew etiveelirar, till rtionrg lthv liee perfect . mac T had transformation, I did not yet think that I myself was any and delirious patient, and, with the true poetic Ise delicacy of a woman's love, divines that whatever thing,f or any one. The whole had no connection vet reminds him of his first love for her will givet myself, I sought for nothing around rue; I was [hero,l ; ''im pleasure and do him good. So she lays on saw only the objects which existed for them ;it was a pillow passion-flowers wet with dew, like those dream without being awakened."—Metastasio describes a 'ed to send to him in the days of the dream similar situation. " When I apply with a little attention, ttbiemunietrvels of my sensorium. are put into a violent grow as red in the face as a drunkard, and am ^edes marriage. But the joyous spirit is led down. She still clings too fondly obliged to quit my work." When Malebranche first took its bright associations—her happi- up Descartes on Man, the germ and origiu of his philo human. She can write to her sophy, lie was obliged frequently to interrupt his reading •g letter about her pet spaniel b, a violent palpitaion of the heart. When the first rod of the Essay on the Arts and Sciences rushed on the two "lovely monkeys," de- nd of Rousseau, it occasioned such a feverish agitation "ile and practical husband that it approached to a delirium. lm this innocent levity Phis delicious inebriation of the imagination occasioned -ful and heartrending the ancients, who sometimes perceived the effects, to 'e babe. Long and believe it was not short of divine inspiration. Fielding her sorrow ; but says, " I do not doubt but that the must pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears." He perhaps had yet under- would have been pleased to have confirmed his observation ly after the by the following circumstances. The tremors of Dryden, 'leered to after having written an Ode, a circumstance tradition has '•usband acoidently handed down, were not unusual with him; in Is to the preface to his Tales he tells us that in translating "•er Homer be found greater pleasure than is Virgil ; but it was not a pleasure without pain ; the continual agitation ' of the spirits most needs be a weakener to any constitu tion, especially in age, and many pauses are required for freslituent betwixt the heats. instances taken from Alm. Roland, Metas ' talebranche, and Rousseau are happy; and 'sraeli's anecdotes are generally very the matter illustrated. It is when he 'y critical opinion that our eminent 'hus in the very next article we 1 Richardson, of whom he Shakspeare of novelists has erastination and the minute ',lain characters, and the -• is extremely unjust ; 't have his peculiar - defects? " the Shake lbtain an • in the -quire 'ud