The Press. — London, England, 1854-03-18 00:00:00

258 viscountess, and she is introduced to us, for the excitation of our enthusiasm, at the ripe age of—thirty-two ! The hero of the tale is a certain Walter Malden, the ward of the vis countess, whom he calls his " Gardy," and with whom he is desperately in love ! He pro poses for her, and she, though deeply smitten with his attractions, declines his passionate entreaties, and refuses him on the ground that he is too young fur her, and she does not wish to defraud him of the enjoyment of the spring time of his life ! Then they become both of them as supremely wretched, through the whole of the second volume, as sentimental novel-readers could desire. Such a plot is of course unnatural even to absurdity, yet there is an intensity in the writing which reminds us of the excited tone of composition in Wilkie Collins's "Basil." We will givo our readers some specimens of the style. The heroine is thus depicted : She was a little woman of just two-and-thirty; with mild loving eyes, that sparkled and twinkled, however, very brightly, when there was a merry thought behind them, or when a flash of generous indignation, or of impatience at men's absurdities, fired them; with a sweet smile thatcould be very radiant and sunny too sometimes; and a playful engaging manner when she was happy, that was exceedingly delightful to those she liked ; broken, however, by occa sional pensive, impressed looks, like passing clouds—very, very sad, too, now and then—telling of stuff of deeper and of warmer nature within that small frame, than the child like face and simple ways would at first have led you to give her credit for ; and telling too of a good deal of suf fering and trial lived through once, though now put aside, as it were. Of her physical exterior, at this present date, I do not intend to say more than may be gathered from what I have said already. But long ago, before she had known care, when she was free and happy as the young birds carolling outside my window there, those who knew her called her sweetly pretty ; and said, that, if absolute beauty was not hers, there was a heavenliness in her expression, a play of countenance, an animation of manner, an attractive charm about almost everything she said and did, which all hearts acknowledged, and of which she alone remained u nconcio us. There was so much tenderness, they said, in her smile, so much archness in her look, and joyousness in her laughing eyes, when she was gay ; so much intellect and soul in her face when she was thoughtful or touched ; such softness of voice ; such unaffected, attaching kindness and loveability in her, altogether; that if she was not beautiful those who liked her fancied she was—and I believe that was pretty nearly everybody that came near her. Mr. Dickens describes one of his female characters as being "a gushing little thing ;" and there is a facility of effusion about the emotional nature of the author of "Agnes Valmar " that may well deserve to be called " gushing." There is something, however, of lyrical passion in his (or her?) utterances. Many novel-readers are taken with such writing as that which describes Agnes when a girl with her mother:— Her mother she worshipped ;—and well she might ! Her mother was one of those beings whom the very, very for tunate may know once in their lives, but of whom the majority of the world have never, from their own experience, been enabled to form a conception. Oh! that beautiful, pure mind ; that clear, high intellect ; that angel's temper ; that finely-attuned, feeling soul, with its delicate but deep and acute sense of beauty ; that unselfish, steel-true, devoted heart ;—who shall dare to say, with truth, he has met its equal on earth ? None, I honestly think, none. It is folly, perhaps; it may be unreason, injustice ; it will seem so, doubtless, to others ;—but I knew her, and they did not ; and in my sacred soul I believe there never was, or will be, another like her. The little I have said of her does not come near picturing her perfect character,—no, not within a thousand miles. Evil could not approach her: wrong or folly, and she were as incompatible as fire and water. In my sacred soul I believe she never did a wrong thing. Her judgment was so accurate, her mind so straight, so just, always; her instincts were so pure, it seemed as though she could not err ; yet her affections were warm, devoted, engrossing—more so than those of the most wildly im passioned. But they wandered not abroad ; they centred in her family and home, and there they made a heaven. There she was adored. Her gentle presence diffused warmth and light and comfort, wherever it came, like the sun in May. Then how they loved to read together ! What mines of beauty and of feeling, and of pure and elevating thought, were opened out to Agnes's awakening soul, as her mother's simple, soft, expressive voice filled her ear and mind with all that was most touching, and noblest and truest, that the genuine poets and high intellects of the past and present have given us to feed on. Or, when they sate near each other in the warm summer evenings, on the soft, sunny lawn, and listened to the rich, round nuts of the blackbirds and thrushes singing into the twilight ; or strolled together through the fresh fields in spring, to scent the primrose and violet-covered banks ; or stood side by side, in autumn, on the rocks by the wild seashore, and watched the mnjestic, booming waves break at their feet ; or, at intervals, travelling together farther and wider through smiling, mellow England, or the sublimer scenery of Wales ;—what words could paint the full, quiet THE PRESS. happiness that filled Agues's simple heart? tier dear mother felt and enjoyed every beauty so keenly—to feel and enjoy them with her, to see the look of inspired admi• ration and ecstasy in her mild, holy eyes, and listen to her speaking, so softly, so beautifully—it was heaven to Agnes —perfect heaven. As the writer grows older this propensity to the rapturous will gradually diminish, and the pen that has written so enthusiastically about " Agnes Valmar " may be taught, perhaps, to describe reality more closely. Vivid, but in cohereut,—inartistic, yet spontaneous in its intensity,—its present performance can only be praised for the promise which it gives of future efforts. " Walter Hurst" is a painful tale of the miseries of human life. It is the history of a character traced from boyhood to mature age, and its incidents are of the harrowing kind. Its want of sunlight to relieve its sombre sha dows makes the work very gloomy in the perusal; and, in composing its dark pages, the author seems to have forgotten that, as in other descriptions of art, fiction must please, else it will not he successful. " Walter Hurst," besides, has the great fault of being composed with a reference, conscious or unconscious, to two distinguished works of fiction. Every chapter suggests that the writer was most ambitious of imitating the opposite merits of " Oliver Twist" and " Ten Thousand a Year." But Mr. Dickens gave us abundant comicality to relieve the painful details about his parish boy, and the vivid style of Mr. Warren triumphantly sus tained a painful plot. In this work we have too much of imitation. Mr. Warren told us about Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, and in " Walter Hurst" we are introduced to Fligg, Bluster, and Sneak. Then we have " the distinguished practitioner, Mr. Fair twister;" the sheriff of the county, " Mr. High tytighty ;" "Old Sligger," " Satchum," " Mr. Clutcher," and a nomenclature indicative of the habits and characters of the dramatis per some—a practice which, as tending to dissolve the illusion, ought to be avoided by novelists. Under the name of " Mr. Hardheart " this writer (whose politics appear to be ambiguous) designates the late Sir Robert Peel ; and, though the Conservative members of Parlia ment appear not to be favourites with him, we find him writing in the following strain : They took their seats. After a few minutes Mr. Hard heart rose in his usual cold, haughty, and commanding manner, and without introduction said, that before he spoke of himself and his colleagues he wished to give the house an opportunity of reconsidering the extraordinary vote to which it had come on a former night. To do this he proposed a course which, in point of fact, though not in form, was the adoption of the measure previously rejected, adding that his further retention of office must depend upon the manner in which this proposition was re ceived. Walter listened with surprise. He deemed it impossible that any man could be found, even in the humblest walk of life, who would be willing to degrade himself to such an extent as the minister now proposed that some members of that house should do. He had voted against the measure himself, and he felt the present proposition as a sort of personal insult. But he judged of others by himself, and was about to learn a lesson of what honourable stuff British statesmen are sometimes made. The minister had hardly sat down when one of the more violent of the late speakers rose, and unblushingly told the house that he had changed his opinions, and that he should vote for the present proposition. Walter listened in an agony of surprise He could not credit his ears. He fancied there must be some delu sion in the sounds that reached him, since he could not believe it possible that any member of the house could act as this man had done. But another and another succeeded, all admitting the same change of opinion, and openly avowing their determination to support the minister. Walter's feelings became so excited that he could endure them no longer. He arose and left the house, that he might endeavour to calm himself by a few minutes' re flection in solitude. He walked into the open sir, and took his way to the banks of the Thames. It was a beau tiful starlight night. The dark waters of the river rolled swiftly along in whirling eddies, as they had rolled from the dawn of Time. He gazed into the vaulted concave of heaven, and there saw the glories of nature unchanged in their brightness. Thoughts of past ages and past events crowded on his memory, and he seemed to commune with the spirits of the departed. He then thought of the as sembly he had just left, and of the degradation of those hitherto honourable and unspotted names which he had witnessed. A spirit, as of inspiration, seemed to seize him, and, with the holy fire of a pure patriotism enkindled and burning within him, he returned to his place. The hero then makes his maiden speech in Parliament ; and if it were of the kind de scribed in the novel it would have been received with laughter. But several passages of this work indicate that the writer is not accurate in his descriptions. In recounting a SATURDAY, terrible boxing match at a public school, which ended in the death of one of the com batants, the author makes "Jones gather up " all his remaining strength, and strike Glover " a tremendous blow in the centre of the sto " mach," which is coolly narrated, without the least indication of the bystanders crying out " Foul ! " or the author suspecting it. On the whole, however, "Walter Hurst " is superior to some others of the novels contained in Messrs. Routled?e's "Seven-shilling Series of Original Fiction " (to which it belongs), though it is decidedly below "Alderman Ralph," the best of them. With all its draw - backs, we have no doubt but that it will find many readers who will peruse its varied inci dents with pleasure. Southey's Cowper's Works and Correspondence. Vol. 111. London: Bohn. WE surmise that the present will be the most popu lar edition of Cowper. Its print and paper are very good, sufficiently so to please even luxurious readers, and we do not think that there can be two opinions as to the superiority of Southey as an editor over Mr. Grimshaw. The present volume contains the poet's letters from 1783 to 1788, along with some very va luable notes from the pen of Southey, one of which, upon the forgotten author Pinkerton, is very curious and interesting. The faults of Pinkerton, especially his presumptuous dogmatism, are not sufficiently censured by the late laureate. It is still a moot question amongst those read in political literature whether Pinkerton was the real author of the cele brated edition of "Junius's Letters" in 1802, which is so much sought after. These letters of Cowper in the volume before us are not, perhaps, amongst his very best; too many of them are addressed to his male correspondents, and it was in writing to women that he especially excelled as a letter-writer. His pu• rity of mind never becomes fastidiously squeamish, his elegance of expression never degenerates into the finical or modish. His whole letters, indeed, deserve to be ranked amongst the classics of our language, and they have the rare merit of being addressed to the sympathies of all readers. Without any of the wit of Walpole, there is an old English humour in them which acquires additional contrast from the pensiveness of the writer. They have the undying charm that genius, and genius alone, can bestow ; and we rejoice to see that Mr. Bohn has given the public the best edition of the whole works of an author whose name can perish only with the extinction of his mother tongue. If Cowper never wrote aught else but the tear-wringing " Lines on the Receipt of his Mother's Picture" his name would last in lite rary annals. The Feathered Tribes of the British Islands. By Robert Mudie. London : Bohn. Tins, the fourth edition of " Mudie's British Birds,' is edited by Mr. W. C. L. Martin, who was lately one of the scientific officers of the Zoological Society of London. On first undertaking his editorial office Mr. Martin was in doubt whether it would not bo better to rearrange the whole in a systematic form scientifically correct, but he wisely rejected the idea, for in the works of authors of ordinary merit no im provement in other respects can compensate for the destruction of originality which alteration necessarily involves. Indeed there is in this work a certain inde finable charm which we so often feel but cannot describe in the writings of authors whose tastes and pursuits are pure and simple, and whose labours are undertaken in earnest. " Mudie's British Birds " consists of two handsome volumes, with numerous illustrations of superior excellence, making a judi cious addition to Mr. Bohn's Illustrated Library. Addison's Works. By Bishop Hurd. Vol. 11. London : Bohn. As a thinker we do not hold Bishop Hurd in much respect—the school to which he belonged has be come obsolete, and he never could be ranked with our " giant divines." But his scholarship was un doubted, and he had many qualities that fitted him for editorial labours, amongst which accuracy to an author's text is a chief requisite. We have here the commencement of the Spectator, continued as far as No. 135, while the first part of the volume is occupied with the articles from Addison's pen which give per manent value to the Tatter. The paper of the pre sent edition is more than usually good, and the type remarkably clear. We doubt whether the stiff and cumbrous preface of Hurd should have been pre served, unless as a foil to the grace and amenity of Addison. How obsolete some of the phraseology of the Bishop of Worcester has become may be E een in such a sentence as where he records, "The poem " upon King William's campaign, addressed to his " lordship, was received with great humanity." Hurd \.