The Press. — London, England, 1858-02-27 00:00:00

THE PRESS, FEERUARY 27, 1858. On the subject of the Etruscans he differs from con temporary ethnologists in regarding them as wholly distinct in origin from the other races of the Italian peninsula, and with difficulty making up his mind to admit them within the Indo-Germanic pale at all. Hi s arguments are principally based upon compare- Use philology ; and his conclusions being very limited and guarded, are entitled, we think, to be accepted with considerable respect. 2. It is rather for schoolmasters and persons con cerned in education than for newspaper reviewers to express an opinion of such works as the above. Its accuracy can only be tested by a laborious perusal, for which we have neither time nor inclination. But we may say of the plan that it seems both simple and ingenious, and calculated to compress a vast amount of facts into a narrow splice. The two volumes before us embrace the history of the middle ages. 3. This is a little work based on sound religions and political principles, out we do not quite appre ciate the plan upon which it is composed. Land marks of modern history which do not include the English civil war and revolution cannot answer their end ; while, on the other hand, we think many events are introduced which are not landmarks at all. The Warks of Charles Dickens. Library Edition. Vols. I. and 11. The Pickwick Papers. Lon don : Chapman and Hall. THE honour of "large-paper copies " is one which is generally bestowed precisely on those books which least demand it. Presentation copies of unreadable poems, magnificent issues of almost unknown classics, addresses and local histories, and all sorts of books which are produced more for show than use, receive overflowing typographical decora tion, only to be committed, after having played their brief part on the drawing-room table, to "the dust " and silence of the upper shelf." Yet surely, if any worst; not only deserve hut require the " rivulet of " type in the meadow of margin," as well as stout paper and strong binding, they are those which rank as articles of popular use and not luxurious orna ment—which are stuffed under pillows, thrust under sofa cushions, or made to fill the last interstice of a carpetbag; which—like the toe of St. Peter's statue, worn to Chinese exiguity by the lips of myriad devotees—exhibit in their soiled leaves and fretted edges the rough but affectionate usage of their enthusiastic and miscellaneous worshippers. Per. noctantur nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur. No hooks, perhaps, bear such traces of this sort of handling as the works of Mr. Dickens ; and we are therefore very glad to note their appearance in the form of the volumes before us, which, though not exactly a "large-paper copy," are beautifully and legibly printed, on good paper and in a convenient size. One peculiarity of this edition does not please us so well. Wishing, perhaps, to he judged by posterity, or the rising generation, on his own un aided merits, their author has not reproduced any of the original illustrations. The actual presence of Mr. Pickwick with his band under his coat tail, beaming on the companions of his perils; the levity of Jingle, the sleekness of Trotter, the natty acti vity of the aphoristic Sam, and the bland convexity of his cherephohous sire, no longer look out upon us with their familiar aspect. Ilsbrillent par leur absence. Re confess to regretting them exceedingly ; we think they might have been reproduced, and have hardly sufficient faith in the imagination of our descendants to believe that they can ever know the members of the Pickwick Club as we do. The literary feature of the present issue of " Pickwick " 18 an interesting preface by the author giving the real history o: its conception and produc:ion. From this we select some of the more noticeable pas sages : I was a young man of three-and-twenty when the pre sent publishers, attracted by some pieces I was at that lime writing in the Morning Chronicle newspaper (of which one series had lately been collected and published in two volumes, ill u st r at e d by my esteemed friend Mr. George Cruikshank), waited upon me to propose a some thing that should be published in shilling numbers—then only known to me, or I believe to anybody else, by a dim recollection of certain interminable novels in that form which used to be carried about the country by pedlars, and over some of which 1 remember to have shed innumerable tears before I had served my apprenticeship to Life. Vt'hen I opened my door in Furnivara-inn to the ma naging partner who represented the firm, I recognised in him the person from whose hands I had bought, two or three years previously, and whom I had never seen before or since, my first copy of the magazine in which my first effusion—dropped stealthily one evening at twilight, with fear and trembling, into a dark letter•box, in a dark office, uP a dark court in Fl ee t• s t re et—appeared in all the glory of Pr int ; on which memorable occasion—how well I re• collect it !-I walked down to Westminster-hall and turned into it for half an hour, because sty eyes were so dimmed with joy and pride that they could not bear the street, and were not fit to be seen there. I told my visitor of the coincidence, which we both hailed as a good omen, and so fell to flintiness. The idea pr o p oun d e d t o me was th a t the monthly some thing should be a vehicle for certain plates to be executed by Mr. Seymour ; and there was a notion, either on the part of that admirable hutnorors artist or of my visitor ( I forget which), that a " Nimrod Club," the members of which were to go out shooting, fishing, and so forth, and getting themselves into difficulties through their want of dexterity, would be the best means of introducing these. I objected, on consideration, that, although born and partly bred in the country, I way no great sportsman, except in regard of all kinds of locomotion ; that the idea was not novel, and had been already much used ; that it would be infinitely better for the plates to arise naturally out of the text ; and that I should like to take my own way, with a freer range cf English scenes and people, and was afraid I should ultimately do so in any case, whatever course I might prescrihe to myself at starting. My views being deferred to, I thought of Mr. Pickwick, and wrote the first number—from the proof-sheets of which Mr. Seymour made his drawing of the Club, and that happy portrait of its founder by which he is always recognised, and which may be said to have made him a reality. I connected Mr. Pickwick with a club becaose of the original suggestion, and I put in Mr. Winkle expressly for the use of Mr. Sey mour. We started with a number of twenty-four pages instead of thirty-two, and four illustrations in lien of a couple. Mr. Seymour's sudden and lamented death before the second number was published brought about a quick decision upon a point already in agitation ; the number became one of thirty-two pages, with two illustrations, and remained so to the end. My friends told me it was a low, cheap form of publication, by which I should ruin all my rising hopes; and how right my friends turned out to be, everybody now knows. " Boz," my signature in the Morning Chronicle, appended to the monthly cover of this book, and retained long after wards, was the nickname of a pet child, a younger brother, whom I had dubbed Moses in honour of the Vicar of Wakefield, which, being facetiously pronounced through the nose, became hoses, and being shortened, became Hoz. " Boz" was a very familiar household word to me long before I was an author, and so I came to adopt it. When we took up the volume to review it, we in tended to concern ourselves with the preface only— which resulted, of course, in a reperusal, for the hundredth time, of about half the work. The style of Mr. Dickens's early productions, though contain ing perhaps less concentrated thought and less ingenuity of metaphor than his later ones, is in finitely more smooth, flowing, and agreeable to read. They are models of concise and vigorous English, and it would be difficult to alter a word for the better. Of course there are passages of brilliant eloquence or deep pathos, in "Bleak House" for instance, which outshine anything their author previously wrote; but the virtues of simple narrative and easy diction, and the tot of getting through the " busi ness " of a story in the neatest ane most intelligible manner, are to be found, we think, In greatest perfection in the ." Pickwick Papers " and in " David Copperfield." The Thousand and On? Days; or, Arabian]Tales. London : Lay. THESE entertaining and well-selected tales, the scenes of which are laid in the East, form a most appropriate companion-volume to " The Arabian Nights." The collection of tales is derived principally " from the works of different Oriental scholars," and we are hound to say that they possess every element of authenticity and originality. Miss Pardoe, who has kindly written a preface, remarks : In one of the tales there will be at once detected a por tion of the favourite old story of Aladdin's Lamp, in the subterranean gem-garden discovered by the handsome youth; while in another mention is made of the already familiar legend of the hidden city of Ad, so popular among the ancient Arabs; but these repetitions will cease to create any surprise when it is remembered that the professional story-tellers of the East are a wandering race, who travel from city to city, exhibiting their talent during seasons of festivity, in the palaces of the wealthy and the public coffee-houses. Those admit'ed to the women's apartments are universally aged crones, whose volubility is something marvellous ; and they are always welcome guests to the indolent beauties, who listen to them for hours together without a symptom of weariness, as they pour forth their narratives in a monotonous voice strangely displeasing to European ears. The men, while reciting their tales, indulge in violent gesticulations and contortions of the body, which appear to produce west delight in their audience. Since they generally travel two or three in company, and, save in rare cases of improvi sation, their stock of narrative is common to all, it is their ambition so individually to embellish, heighten, and am plify their subject-matter, as to outshine their competitors ; and it is consequently to this cause that the numerous variations of the same tale which have reached Europe must be attributed. The volume, published at a price which brings it within the reach of all, is worthy a place in every home library. It reflects credit upon the abilities and research of the compiler, and is free from a single objectionable element, so common in tales of Eastern life. The Exiles of Italy. fly C. G. H. Edinburgh : Constable and Co. Tun is a narrative, in the form of a novel, purport. ing to describe the modem life of Italian Liberals. The narrative is compiled " partly from the best " published accounts, and partly from the oral narra- 211 " tion and private correspondence of men who bore " a prominent part in the scenes described." Tile historical incidents related embrace the Republic of 1819, the siege of Rome by the French, the disper sion of the republican army, and the capture, torture, and execution of many of its chiefs. With this his torical element that of love is skilfully introduced. The book is interesting as giving, we believe, a tolerably accurate description of the sufferings in flicted since 181 s upon patriotic Italians. The style of the writer is inflated, but here and there are some pretty descriptive bits. Here is the death of Gari baldi's wife. Garibaldi, after the capture of Rome, had fled with her into the mountains, but, hunted and tracked like wild beasts from cover to cover, the fair, fragile Anita Garibaldi sunk under the terrible anxiety and suffering of her life : "It is evening," she said; "hut I cannot gn. God has called mc, Giuseppe," she continued, in a soft low voice ; " leave me with Him ; ere morning you must be far hence over the mountains." At this moment a murmur was heard in the outer room, and Gotfredo's step hastily entering from the porch. " The Austrians are in the valley," he whispered. Anita caught the sound. " They are coming. We shall go together." She raised herself from the couch ; Garibaldi held her closer to his breast. " Fear not, my love ; we shall die together." "I am able to go with iou, dearest. Give me some water, and I shall be strong." A glass filled with water stood on the table. He held it to her lips. She drank half of it, and seemed satis fied. As he turned to replace it, he felt her head droop• on hii bosom. Startled, he bent over her. Her eyes met his with a long gaze of love, then softly closed, and the gentle spirit of Anita Garibaldi was with her God. But a little time had passed, when Rosetta opened the door. The General had laid Anita on the pillow. His cheek was ashy pale, and an unmeasured depth of anguish was in his hollow eyes. She stopped, and tears rolled down her cheeks. "Gentle Signora," she murmured softly; "Heaven rest her soul !" Garibaldi did not speak nor move. She came near him. " Generalissimo ! you must fly; the Austrians are at hand." " I care not !" he exclaimed ; " let them take me." Then, suddenly checking himself, he knelt beside the bed, and, clasping Anita passionately in his arms, he kissed her. " No ! my beloved ; I will live for our suffering country, till God calls me home to thee." He raised the glass from which she had drunk to his lips, and drained it ; then, turning to Rosetta and her mother, who stood weeping at the door—" Farewell, my friends! God will reward you ;" and clasping to his bosom the cherished form of his wife, he passed from the cottage door. A little way down the valley, the Austrian b►yonets were gleaming in the sunset. He heeded them not, as he strode up the mountain with his burden ; and when he had reached a green, lonely spot, where the dark fig-trees threw their shadows on the grass, and the girdling rocks shut out all human eyes, he stopped. Digging a grave with his sword in the velvet turf, he laid her gently there ; and covering her quiet resting-place with grass and flowers, went forth a lonely wanderer on the earth. English Hearts and English Hands. By the Author of the " Memorials of Captain Hadley Vicars.' London : Nisbet. " Tins little book," says the author of the " Memo rials of Hedley Vicar 4," " is not written for those who 4' are usually called the working classes. Its purport, as has been said, is to show men and women who " are placed by the providence of God in another " position of life, how much of high and delicate " feeling is to be found amongst that great mass of " their countrymen who eat their bread under the 0 heavier portioc of the primoNal curse. Its object, " also, is to suggest how much of that trial may be " Botaood, and of that labour lightened, by the _ _ _ . Si . _ of a kindly interest in their daily " toil and rare pleasures of a ready appreciation of " their better feelings, and of a true sympathy with " all that they know of earthly sorrow or of heavenly " hope." The main interest of the book turns upon the history of the " navvies" employed from 1853 for two winters about the grounds of the Crystal Palace, and that of those afterwards sent to construct the railroad at Balaklava. Incidents selected from the personal history of some member of the party, and agreeably related, are interspersed here and there with original letters and conversations, and tend, on the whole, to present a curious and in structive series of tales as exhibiting the influence of Christian kindness upon the rough navvy. The book is highly creditable to the amiable author, and nothing appears which could offend the suscepti bilities of the most sensitive mind. As an example of the nature of the book, we select the following account of a first visit to the navvies' hut at Becken ham in '53 : A tall, strong man, in a fustian jacket, opened the door scarcely wide enough to show his face. " Harry aint here just now." " But I suppose I shall see him if I wait, shall I not? I will walk in, if you will allow me." •.IY7'..