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

THE PRESS, OCTOBER 16, 1858. manner, and break each other's hearts without the least occasion. True, they eventually kiss and make friends again, and, according to the Ovidian maxim, renew their love-passages with redoubled ardour. Indeed, we have seldom encountered heroes and heroines of such ardent temperament as those to whom we are introduced in this double-barrelled fiction. The gentlemen hug and squeeze the ladies with Cornish vigour, while the ladies rest their heads on the gentlemen's shoulders and weep on their shirt-fronts in the most pathetic manner imaginable, and seem to like it rather than not. Is it so in real life ? we are tempted to inquire. Is the carte du tendre usually surrounded with so moist an atmosphere ? Are the lakes, rivers, and oceans on its spotty surface the agglomerations of the pearly drops that steal from the eyes alike of the happy and the sorrowful ? Be this as it may, we enter our solemn protest against this superabundance of aqueous humour. It is a poetic fallacy to sup pose that tears become any one, or that they bear any resemblance to dewdrops on the petals of a rose. They are nothing in the world but acrid salt water, that gives a grimy appearance to the cheeks, while they cause the unoffending nose to wear an incarnate hue, combining the effects of the east wind with those resulting from indulgence in generous wine. For ourselves, we infinitely prefer the smile to the tear on the face of our dear, and we warn all fair candidates for our hand to eschew all lachrymose effusions an they love us. We fear, however, that some of our young lady-friends will be disappointed if they expect the man of their choice to strain them to his bosom with the emphasis of Archie GrEeme or Gordon of Duncairn, or hope to feel his suppressed sobs of ecstacy and hear his deep toned voice falter. Nor will they act wisely if they raise their glistening eyes to his as they whisper those words of hope, " Ask mamma," for perchance at that moment the wretch is playing with his moustaches and beginning to think that he has gone a little too far. As a rule, it may be said that every man when he proposes hopes to be refused, and is disappointed with his vic tory. The race has been won, but the risk is yet to come ; besides, he likes the running for its own sake, and is not altogether pleased at being debarred from entering himself for other stakes. However, such is evidently not the opinion of the authoress of " Gordon of Duncairn." In her eyes, marriage is manifestly the end of all things, and the highest reward for nice young men and ladylike girls. Accordingly, she bestows the celestial boon with ungrudging hand on the lords and ladies, the baronets and heiresses who figure in her magic lantern. Her scenes, be it observed, are all laid in fashionable life, and the society to which the reader is introduced is always highly genteel. Her characters, too, are usually very correct (with the exception of Sir James Leslie's first wife, who makes an awkward mistake), and, notwithstanding their impulsive temperaments, behave with commendable propriety. As much of the plot is unravelled in the north of Scotland, recourse is naturally had to dreams as a conve nient piece of machinery for filling up uncom fortable gaps ; and thus an insight is given into past and future events which could not otherwise have been obtained without a third volume. Though not indicative of the highest order of talent, " Gordon of Duncairn" is quite up to the average standard of ephemeral novels. The various personages, if not very distinctly drawn or possessed of much individuality, represent the style of people one ordinarily meets with in the world, while the dialogues are comprehensible and the diction ladylike without being ungram matical. 1. Next to the maternal character, the most beautiful by far is that of the maiden aunt, taking all but a mother's interest in her brother's or sister's children. In some respects it stands alone and unapproachable. What other relative is there so totally devoid of selfishness, so wrapt in the welfare of others, so sure a refuge in sorrow and sickness, or any human affliction ? That frozen surface thaws so gently beneath the mildest ray of sympathy and kindness, till the bleak and chilly aspect disappears beneath Alpine flowerets delicate of hue and graceful of form. There is something, too, inexpressibly touching in the subdued and timid demeanour that seems to hint at sonic past romance which has cast a lengthening shadow to the very sunset of life. That meek and loving heart is, after all, 1011 but a pent-up Maelstrom of human passions, idly fretting in its lowest depths beneath a serene and unrippled surface. Such, at least, was the " Maiden Aunt " whose sweet and bitter memo ries are here laid bare to the gaze of the vulgar. They contain nothing, indeed, very startling or strange, no thrilling incidents or impassioned dialogue, nothing pathetic, nothing sentimental. And yet the little unpretending tale is tender through its artless simplicity, and excites that feeling of pleasurable sadness which is the very " luxury of woe." The kindly, warmhearted old lady illustrates as it were these lines of Long fellow,-. Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays Ilia open palm Upon his harp to deaden its vibrations. It is a sad but pleasing picture drawn from the life, and real in its very . monotony and common place. How true, for instance, is the following passage, pointing out the danger of befriending " shy young gentlemen" : Amongst our visitors, there was frequently a young man, the son of an old friend of my father's, who was awkward, shy, and stupid, to an extraordinary degree ; he had been encouraged by his father to go into society, as a last hope, that being constantly with young men of his own age might improve Imn. He was the laughing. stock of the party, and was almost entirely lett to him self, until seeing how dull he was, and thinking his shy, awkward manner arose iron a painful knowledge of his own deficiencies, I took him under my protection, and did my best to amuse him. Many a time did I place my sketchbook in the greatest jeopardy of having a tall m the mud by letting him carry it, that he might have something to do witu his bands, and never complained, though he always turned the leaf of my music at thu wrong time. Imagine my surprise one day at receiving a letter from him, beginning by broadly hinting that be had long seen my affection fur himself, that he had nut originally intended marrying so young, but that he was sure he should add much to his happiness in securing a wife so devoted to him, and therefore offered his hand and heart to my keeping tor the rest of his hfe. At first I did not really believe that he had written the letter, and fancied that it might be some vulgar joke to take me in, but I soon found it was strious, and that he was coming for his answer the next morning. How bewildered he looked, poor youth, when I told him that it was quite impossible I could accept his generous offer, and I believe had a vague idea that I did not consider myself good enough, for he hastened to assure me that I was ! But I soon undeceived him, and for the future was very careful how I befriended shy young gentlemen. But why, oh Maiden Aunt, are thy sentences modelled after the manner of Titus Livius—or, as our "lively allies" delight to call him, M. Tite Live ? Two to a whole page is surely scant allowance, to say nothing of the difficulty of deciphering their precise meaning. Here are two by no means the longest or the most obscure, but which would puzzle the pale, patient shade of even Lindley Murray : We had been so long his only companions, that we both probably felt more than a usual sister's interest in his troubles; and though each, and especially Rose, felt that he ought to make greater struggles to interest himself and improve in his (to him) objectionable studies, as my tether was so anxious about it, yet no one can deny that his fate seemed a hard one, and we, his sisters, felt it was so, and pitied him extremely, sympathizing as we did in his pre • dilection for the profession of arms. We used to long for some one in whom we might con fide, and whose advice might reconcile Hugh to his lot, for we had often tried in vain, and were now continually re ceiving letters from him full of lamentations, and plans by which he hoped to induce his father to change his views, and we used to feel so guilty and miserable at being obliged to keep these letters secret, fur though my mother's affec• Lion fur all her children was undoubted and sincere, yet, from some cause or other, Rose and I k though I am sure it did not arise from want of love or respect to her) were still too much under constraint in her presence, and so unused to tell her our little griefs, to think of confiding this. The Gloaming of Life. A Memoir of James Stirling. By the Rev. Alexander Wallace. Glasgow : Scottish Temperance League. TIrE substance of this volume was published in the pages of the Commonwealth, and it is now reprinted in a cheap form. James Stirling was a Scotch shoemaker, who, at a late period of life, emancipated himself from habits of drunkenness, and became a distinguished Temperance reformer. He appears to have possessed sincerity and a more than ordinary share of talent, and that he greatly served the cause to which he devoted "the gloaming" of his life cannot be doubted. His story is, perhaps, set forth at too great length, but it possesses much interest as being descriptive of life among the lower classes of Scotland, and as exhibiting the workings of mind remarkable in its character. The most affecting incident in the book is the manner in which Stirling way trill do this kind of thing : they think it harrows up our feelings, and generally inflict on us one deathbed per volume, at least. The other ingre dient of interest in the book is a Chartist riot. Henry's second curacy is a manufacturing town, the magnate of which, Mr. Drummond, is of the stony-ledger type we know so well. lie has an invalid wife and a pretty daughter. 'The riot takes place while the house is full of nothing but women—Bertha, Constance, Annie Drununond, her mother, and Janet the servant, being its only defenders. Constance loads pistols, and makes a warlike demonstration on the balcony, which lead up to suppose she is going to shoot half a dozen operatives, but, to the reader's great disappoint ment, she breaks down egregiously, and the mob enter and gut the place. All the gentlemen of the story rush up just too late to prevent this, and Mr. Drummond is shot. As he has merely been described, has taken no part in the story, and has not joined in a single conversation, no particular interest is felt in his life and no sympathy in his death. Annie's mother worries her for some time longer and then follows him, leaving her free to marry a lover whom Constance and Bertha have licked into shape for her. henry is pre sented with a living, and the story comes to an end. Plot there is none in this book, and the want of it is not redeemed either by the vigour or piquancy of the writing. We do not use the stereotyped phrase which recommends an author to " try again," because in this case there is a fatal fluency and flippancy which is only to be cured, if at all, by very different treatment. The writer is hardly up to the rudimentary require ments of the art, or we should hardly find " shelfs" as the plural of " shelf" and " who do we dislike ?" "who do we injure ?" &c., a form of expression which occurs too frequently to be attributed to the printer. "L. 11. B." is much too fond of using French words where English ones would do just as well, and seems to imagine that the practice is expected of her. Her ideas of what is "nice" seem, on the whole, peculiar. Take the following passage, for instance, on which we appeal to the judgment of our mascu line readers : When Constance and I entered the drawing-room, we discovered Mr. Spencer standing near Constance's work table, absorbed in a poem of the Brownings, which she had been reading before luncheon. Constance's prevailing taste, reading, was discoverable even upon her work-table, some favourite book always peeping beneath the apologies of her industry. " It looks so idle," she used to say, "to be always reading. And then one looks so much more charming in a gentleman's eyes, when displaying a delicate lily-white hand dexterously plying a needle." I think sn too, fair reader, and believe a pair of ordinarily bright eyes may win the affections of any gentleman given to visions of domestic bliss, in a singlet morning's call, if she will only exert their proper influence upon him, whilst hemming a silk pocket-handkerchief. Are ladies who are always thinking of what " looks charming in a gentleman's eyes" likely to prove charming in the eyes of gentlemen ? "Fancy," says L. 11. 8., at the outset of the story, encountering the searching gaze of our modern satirist, Thackeray, in what dread array would all my " Beckvisms " rise up! for we women, however we may wish to disguise the fact, all have a few " Beckyite " tendencies ; perhaps we each individually turn over a leaf or two out of her book—not more, Mr. Satirist. —We have met with nothing in " Bertha Dailey " to warrant the slightest suspicion of intellectual relationship to Mr. Thackeray or to any of his characters. 2. If marrying and giving in marriage be, as many fair readers aver, the quintessence of a novel, then is " Gordon of Duncairn" entitled to take a high place among works of that class. No fewer than five weddings take place in the course of two volumes, and of these only one turns out badly. A sixth affair, moreover, is seen looming in the distance. It must not be su . Pposed, how ever , th at t h e course o f true l ove Is permitted to run with monotonous smoothness to the whirlpool of matrimony. Many a time and oft is its surface ruffled with squalls, and ,many a roc k and shallow impede the channel. Still it holds on bravely and stoutly, till, all ob stacles being overcome, the orange-blossoms are triumphantly won and worn, and the first joint- Stock dyspepsia achi eve d b y bi g s li ces o f indi gestible wedding-cake. But, before this come to pass and the magic ring be attained, be sure there is no lack of sobs and sighs, of tears and ejacula tions. Lovers, tender and true, continue to mis understand one another in the most provoking