The Press. — London, England, 1853-12-31 00:00:00

tI ere are five (one in verse), are good; but we cannot Reprove of the machinery of the Sweet South Wind and the lee King in iL work in tended for children. Frost " performs its secret ministry " for purposes as beneficial to man as " the sweet south that breathes upon a bank of violets ;" and it is not wise in correctly to associate in a child's mind good or evil with particular seasons. "Caspar and the Little Hunehbaek " is the best tale. Caspar Thorne, a little boy of nine years old, visits his uncle on his birthday, and in returning home loses his way in a wood, whereupon he begins to cry : _ While he sat thus still sobbing—hark ! he suddenly hears a noise among the bushes. Tramping and crashing, on it comes, nearer and nearer. What van it be? l'er• haps some wild beast! Oh, poor little Caspar, he dares not lookup or wound him ; hut, stooping his head between his knees, the cold sweat stands un his brow, and his little frame shakes with terror. . . Something brindles by him, and then a hand, touching the shoulder of the little boy, gently Klaskes inns : " Hillo, little fellow ! are you asleep ? What Inc you doing here ? " Oh, how delighted Camper was to hear a human voice! He raised his head quickly, and then he was *boost ftight• creel again; for standing before him, plainly revealed in the moonlight which shone brightly around the old oak, be saw a little figure not more than three feet high, with a large hump upon its back, and long thin arms nearly reach• ing to the ground ! No wonder that. Caspar was frightened at the 'snide's appearance of such a strange little figure in that lonely place. Now he had read a great many fairy tales, and wonderful stories about giants and goblins, and about little Men called dwarfs, who lived in hollow trees and caves, and who sometimes showed themselves to travellers to do them mischief; 'and he had no doubt this was one admen) saute little creatures . But although frightened he could nut help thinking the company even of a bilo , or a dwarf, in that old lonely wood, wax better than none at ell ; and, notwithstandit , that pptiOnnip upon his back, th e face of the little man rooked very kind and pleasant. " What are pat doing here, little boy?" again asked the dwarf. lade easpar clasped his hands together, and, falling on hi% knees, cried,— ' Oh, don't hurt me, good Mr. laity! lam a poor little Lip, and I have loot my wsy. Please be so good as to show me the path out of the woods!" The little fellow burst into a hearty laugh. Why, what 'ho you take we for ? lam no fairy. Come, that's chwer. Ha, ha, ha J 4 name is BM Daily, 1 live with my mother and my gvandlitther, away otryonder is the forest. Who art you? and where do you live ? Caspar passes the night in the poor Hunch back's cottage, and then is taken to his own home. He afterwards treats llnnehback c ruelly, but repents; and when the title doses Caspar is a good boy. In "The Disobedient Little Squirrels " the moral is, obey your parents. The squirrels are told to stay at home whilst papa and mamma go out to get nuts, but all except one disobey orders and come to untimely ends. This tale is in verse. The authoress speaks of redbreasts' eggs being blue. In England (the work is by an Ameri can lady) a robin's eggs are spotted like the face of a fair brunette with freckles. The eggs of the hedge sparrow are, like the eyes of Swift, " azure as the heavens." 11. A tale in which two little girls wickedly steal a pretty plate, and, after due repentance, have a similar plate given to them. We doubt the pro) riety of these 'womb for penitence in books intended for young children. 12. Twenty-four well and simply written tales, designed fur very young childwn, illus trative of the habits, chiefly, of birds. The illustrations, by Harrison Weir. are very good. especially the frontispiece—a swallow's nest. 13. This little book, well illustrated by Har rison Weir, relates how a parrot worked a moral reformation in a spoiled boy of the name Of Paul. Poll, having the advantage of a good education, corrected Paul whenever the !otter used naughty words. Oriental Fairy Tales; or, Fancy's TI anderinys in the East. With Thirty-two Illustrations. London ; Routledge. A VERY pleasing collection of brief, pensive. fanciful stories, each with an interest ►wising from the fable itself, but all pervaded with a second meaning, of the vague yet suggestive character which belongs to light l;erman fic tion. Indeed, there are certain foreign indica tons about the book which may be only echoes, but may. for aught we know, certify L THE PRESS. to its foreign origin. Perhaps the first chap ter might as well have been ►►mitted, key-note as it is ; for, although nothing can be more reverent than its allusion, an English Chris tian does not care to see the most sacred of MUMS mingled with fiction or uninspired allegory. But the volume is not only other wise unexceptionable, but a very charming one, and, as a specimen of its contents, here is am! of the shorter tales:— TIIF. SfiTITAIIT FIAIWER. It siontetiones hamlet's that seed of flowers fulls where 11)1111' would look fur it, and that flowers grow where no eye ever sees them ; but on the sky these words an•e written : " No) flower blooming in vain. - Su it hapls•ued that flower opened its blue e . ve, close to the rolulside, at 11111 l g smith and stones, and thorny shrubs, just when the bun was rising. . . " 4:ofelmoniing, Flownd," the Sun said, " what are you doing then. ?" " 1 only am hhe )))) hog and spreading my (atom•." " Not wort► the trouble ; nobody can see you here, and nohody smells your perfume : nay, nobody gathers you even. Now, you should see the flowers yonder, in the gun dens of the Sultan. I jest see them awake from their sleep: they are leading a nuamiticent life, quite dith.rent to what you will do. The gardener's hand nurses them can fully; they are reflecting their laughing beauty in the water of clear fountains,—the brightest eyes look down upon them,—tire mofest hands gather then► at last,—and after a beautiful life they die a beauttful death in yeses of gold or reel s stones, or, whet is nsint beautiful still, in the girdle of rune young sultana." " It must be very fine indeed," said the Flower by the roadside. "I am glad they me so happy ; amid how Ofilid it be, otherwise . ..--.-11111 the sky there is written : ' No flower is blooming in vain.' " The Sall ifillgiled at this simple sagacity, and passed on. A horseman voile past, the first to-418y, and the Flower welcomed him with its perfume. His face brightened, lie waved him lanisd. and said: " Illue eye of her I love, T greet you,"—spurred his horse, pu5! , ..4, and gather...l it nut ; and the rutezzin called the hour front the minaret of the twighbotning town. A foot•passenger 1111 l And s►►w the Flower. - " How sweetly you Killen; how delicate is the colunr of your eholice!" he said, bending over it. " Von tremble at my much. Oh, do not fear me; I shall not cruelly injure you. What should beeonte of you on my solita►y dusty pleb, in my burning and weary hand ? 1114/0111 on, sweet Flower by the roadside, you dill not open for me.•• And On he Went, ►md broke it nut ; and . the muezzin ca!led the I • from the mina►et. _ _ Two wanderers came. One of them carried a tin box, filled with dead dowers—a whole cemetery, indeed, he was running about with; the second, however, carried only his Mein young heart through the world. The blue Flower saw the cemetery from afar, shud dered, a n d turned away. " Oh, such a grave I should not like to have," the Flower whispered. The: gravedigger now called the Flower by a barbarous name, that sounded like dry leaves with which the wind is playing—the Flower had never heard it. "Olt, that is not my name : go on, I am not called so," it said, trembling. " What a dear, blue eyed thing! how did it come here, at the roadside ?" said the second wanderer, who only now remarked it. " I will pit it into my botanieal collection ; go out of my way, friend." Beware rll knit the other. " Have you not robbed Asia of all itr tlowen4 already, and yet you cannot spare this pair solitary dower! Have you not whole pyramids of tlower• u mn►tnies itt Lome, awl yet von cannot let this dear little thing enjoy its short life 7 tiet you gone, I say; this eastern beauty I take miller my protection ; this lady is too fair for your tin Hower-elan. - Then tooth went away laughing, but gathe►ed it not, and the muezzin called the hour (tom the minaret. Ah, a blue stone, bine like a sapphire, upon my ho nour," said a short-sighted collector of stones, who w as fetching atones finm all parts of the world ; and he rushed upon it so hastily that he had nearly des•royed it, tin• his !canted spectacles fell front his nose in his hurry, and he only now saw this lonely child of nature. '• Pooh ! nothing but a wretelosl Hower," he said, and felt too eli contempt to look at it any more. lie put on his spectacles again, continut d his way, lint gathered it not, and the tnnezzin called the hour from the minaret. Iligher and higher nee the Sum, prouder and prouder it laughed at the tusir solitary l'hiwerat the roadside. 11 any busy merchants enwe this way (bey wen• talking Imully and Ichemently, Lot 1 1 1 4 4 011 e Of I L , ui teak any notice of the Setlitary Flower, or remarki.il its perfume. The camel, the horse. the mule passed the spot, lent not one of them did so mach as bend down the head tie it. " Ws, if it had been a thistle I should have cairn sa id the Camel ; " but so, it is not worth the trouble of stoop ing tiown to it " "'Thanks to !leaven that Tam a flower." said the,motlest perrinneviver: " often already the nitivzsin has bleu call ing the hour from the pihrtret, lint on the sky there is written : ' No flower is bitsatting ill vain; Shady the Evening rose from the va ll e y s . saw th e h um ing eyes of Afternmat scorching the gr.niud, and drove it away from the land, chasing it lieond the sunintits of the mountains, and beyond the blue sea, then shook its own locks till the bright ilewdnila fell from them. And now, placing itsilf before its own f 'us easel. Eve •q, the great painter, began to paint the sky a ith rosy red and wild. with light green, violet. and purple. To the Flower it said, looking down front its work : SATURDAY : "Well, Blue•eye, are you awake still? Now I paint the sky much more beautiful still for your sake. Look here.' Hut because he did it so surpassingly lovely, the Snu grew red witu inner, and went down. Evening laughed at it, till, dying of the excitement, it sank into the arms of Night. The Flower beheld it all, continued blooming and spreading its pert e, smiling into the face of Night. The mild lip of the Night kissed the flower grate• fully, and said: " What have you been doing here at the roadside the whole of the day, my solitary Flower ?" Itha. ' g and spreading any perfume." " And what are you waiting for here in the hour of night ?" " For the end of my bloom and my perfume." Night now opened its wide mantle, and pressed the Flower to the heart. Under this wide mantle the Flower• now saw sparkling star by star. who are those?" it asked the Night; it had lived but a single day, and (lid not know the sues. Those a•e the dowers of the sky, that open when the flowers of eartl► close." _ _ _ thightly shone the flowers of heaven, silvery blue, like the te*r of night in the eye of the solitary Flower. And the Stars above said,— " There is a Star fallen upon the earth; see how it sparkles far below on the yellow road." " Come," said the Night to the Flower ; " the end of your bloom and your perfume is come. Here below your eye closes—there, above, it opens again. The hour of morn r ing will find you faded here below, but every night wakes your eye with a kiss there above. of solitary, forloin Hewers heaven makes its stars ; of their lost bloom and perfume heaven weaves their rays." The Flower smiled once more, and said,— . _ " 1 knew it. On the sky there is written—' No flower is blooming in vain.' " 'Then it bent its little head, and died; but in the same moment a new star flashed from the dark•blue sky. Night has said it— _ _ "As often as a flower of earth closes, a flower of heaven opens." History of the Christian Church. By James Craigic Robertson, M.A. I,ondon Murray. No work is so much required by the reading and thinking British public as a good history of the Church. In our English literature we cannot point to any classical performance worthy of that sacred theme. Translations from the German satisfied our fathers; and the children of those who referred to Mosheim arc only too contented in relying upon Neale. der. Neither Milner nor ?Ullman are writers whose performances could supply the want of a great work, broad in its philosophy, and solid in its learning ; reviewing the progress of Christianity, and written with that close reference to fact and absence of rhetorical colour demanded in any contribution of ge nuine English literature. We do not require a merely scholastic dissertation, with exegeti cal merits, but without any literary execution ; nor a brilliant discourse in three volumes, full of testhetical thinking and poetical descrip tions; nor a dry essay, with annotations brist ling with orthodox learning and heterodox inductions ; nor a coldly-metaphysic analysis of the pseudo-philosophic style in which the formulae of a barren logic are enunciated with the pedantry of a pragmatical " professor.'i What we would wish to see is such a history of the Church as might at once be recom mended to inquiring minds for the depth of its information, and be cited as a performance worthy of English literature. Various circumstances combine to make the want of a good English history of the Church deeply felt at present. First of all, the Christianity of England is in this age of more momentous importance than heretofore. The colonisation and Christianising civilisation of mankind are now the magnificent patrimony of the British power. As silent Englishmen think of Shakspeare and Milton, of Bacon and Burke, influences literature through every corner of the world, so how they read the Bible, and in what sense they accept the events of history, connected with the ditl'usion of revelation, have become of prodigious and unspeakable importance. The advance of Romanism on one side ; the stealthy progress of Neology upon the other; last, not least, the presence amongst us of an ambiguous thco logy, with more talent than truth, more literary eloquence than moral earnestness, blowing hot and cold on every disputed question, un settling much and fixing nothing, at once strongly combining in itself the opposite evils of the tardy rcactionist and the headstrong innovator—these causes, with others too nu merous to mention, make us really most anxious that some Protestant scholar of Eng-