The Press. — London, England, 1857-10-10 00:00:00

THE PRESS, OCTOBER 10,1857. " Indeed Mr. Tremaine I have, let—me—see, I think it was at a fancy ball,—in my own house— , at New York." The words were said with assumed carelessness and candour. " What, on uo other occasion ?" " On no other public occasion—why?" inquired Caroline so innocently. "Then really I think too much has been made of it. But you are said to advocate the Bloomer costume." " I have often advocated it, in words sir; but wearing i is a very different matter you know." " Very diffetent, very different indeed," said Tremain e, hastily. " I could not help advocating it; its adversaries argued so weakly against it. Shall I repeat their arguments, and my own ?" " If you please." Caroline, with the calm indifference of a judge, stated the usual argument pro and con., and did nut fail to dwell upon the trousers of East= women. Mr. Tremaine took her up. "Theta is a flaw in your reasoning I think," said he ; " those Eastern women distinguish themselves from men by a thick veil—they all wear a thick veil. It appears to me that the true argument against Bloomer has never been laid before you. It is this: in every civilised nation, the entire sexes are distinguished by some marked costume. But Bloomer proposes that one third of' the women shatild be et variance with the other two thirds." " Oh no sir, she is for dressing them all in Bloomers." "No, excuse me, how would old women and fat women look in a Bloomer? How would young matrons look. at that period when a woman is most a woman ? No, the dress for woman must clearly be some dress that becomes all women, at all times and occasions of life. There are plenty of boys of sixteen or seventeen who could be dressed as women, and eclipse all the women in a ball room ; but it would be indelicate ant unmanly. You, with your youthful symmetrical figure, could eclipse most young men in their own habiliments; but it would be indelicate and unwomanly. Forgive me, I distress you." " No sir! but you convince me; and that is new to me. I admit this argument at once ; and so I would have done six months ago ; but no one hail the intelligence to put the matter to me so," said the sly thing. - - Of the denouement, which is of a decidedly original character, we shall only say that it is the reverse in more than one respect of that described in the popular song of " Johnny Sands." The whole story, though professing to be nothing more than a jem d'esprit, is full of point and epigram, and everywhere shows that subtle knowledge of the feminine heart for which its author is remarkable. We must, -by the way, except from our praise one per verse sent nce Mr. Tremaine had not observed what we have; that snobs in fustian jackets without a singe polysyllable to their tongues find all the gold'and all the coal that is found ; and science finds the crustaceoniduncnlie. The fact, as everyone will be aware who thinks for a moment on the subject, is exactly the reverse. It is the geologist's hammer which is the true divining rod, and ignoramuses in broadcloth jackets as well as snobs in fustian (though we question whether the true snob would condescend to wear fustian) constantly dig for coal and water where a man of science would tell them in a moment that none could possibly be found ; and Sir R. Murchison pre dicted the discovery of gold in Australia, from the presence of quartz, long before the first nugget was ever heard of. " Art, a Dramatic Tale," will remind the reader of " Peg Woffington "—the " situation " indeed is so similar as to detract in some degree from the freshness of the present story. In both, the successful and fascinating actress, over whom the assaults and flatteries of practised roués pass innocuously, is herself won by the honest, vehement, delicate affec tion of a somewhat more homely admirer. Anne Oldfield, the heroine of " Art," having unintentionally inspired with a violent passion a youth who has come to London to study law, is implored by his father, who has dis covered his attachment, to disenchant him. He is accordingly admitted to his first inter view, and finds her—for she ean, of course, :et anything—a coarse, vulgar, commonplace woman, with the most grovelling notions of her art, and utterly destitute of poetical feeling. He is disenchanted ; but the remedy is worse than the disease, and he becomes so miserable at the destruction of his imaginary idol, that the lady is obliged, at his father's request, to appear in her true colours—those of a refined lady as well as of a feeling woman. All this should natu►ally end in a marriage ; unfortu nately history forbids the veracious chronicler to effect this pleasing result:— A Story ought to end wiih a marriage: ought it nit? Well, this one does not, because there are reasons that compel the author to tell the truth. The poet did not niarry the actress and het tragedies amt comedies. dots not always end in marriage, even behind the scenes it contains a single new story from the pen of Mr. Reade—the fact being that it is made up of three tales, two of which, " Art" and " Clouds and Sunshine," have already appeared in Bentley's Miscellany. This little trick of trade (like the reissue of Mrs. Mackenzie's " The Mission, the Camp, and the Zemma," under the taking title of "Deihi, the City of the Great Mogul," published by Routledge) is hardly worthy either of the author who lately hurried his publisher into Chan cery for a supposed infraction of copy right, or of the publisher who places on his titlepage the proud motto, " Malo mori quam fixdari." The remaining story, "The Bloomer," we conjecture to be new, distinguished as it is by that absence of commas which Mr. Reade seems to have assumed as his literary device, while the other two are punctuated in the ordinary, and we venture to think prefer able, manner. But the author of " It is Never too Late to Mend" is always welcome, in whatever guise he may appear, and neither of the three tales before us is unworthy of his reputation. In " The Bloomer," Miss Courtenay, a young American heiress, with a house at Now York and an estate in England, engaged to the son of an old Devonshire neighbour, adopts the obnoxious costume and quarrels with her lover in consequence of it, who does not see the force of tha reasons which have made her a convert. After his departure, she determines to visit her property in the old country—(be cause her lover has returned?—of course not) —and is brought back to conventional prin ciples of attire by the following dialogue, the argument of which is rather more forcible than those commonly urged : - Thus spoke the Yankee girl. The English girl coloured up, but she did not answer bAck—excent by turning brim. ming eyes and a look of gentle reproach on her. On this, partly because she was unhappy, partly because this mild look pricked her great though wayward heart, the Yankee girl began to cry bitterly. On this the English girl flung her arms round the Yankee girl's neck, and cried with her. " Dearest, he loves you still." " Still ! he never loved me Harriet. Oh no—he never loved me—oh, oh !" " You forget ; I have been home. I have seen him. He is pale—he is sad." "That is a c—c—comfort. I wish he was at d—d-- death's door." " He is far more unhappy than you are." "lam so glad—l don't believe it." " You may believe it—l have seen it." At this moment a servant was seen approaching ; he came up, touched his hat to Caroline with a world of obsequiousness and informed her, the parson had called to see her and was in the drawing•room. " The Parson ?" " The Reverend Mr. Tremaine, Miss." "A great friend of our family," explained Harriet. " Ah, tell me all about him as we go along." Mr. Tremaiue : Will she receive me in a Bloomer? H trriet : I don't know—l hope not. She was decent a minute ago. Tremaine : Perhaps she has gone to put one on. Harriet gave a start, and had a misgiving,Caroline being a devil, " Heaven forbid !" she cried. '• I will go and see." The next minute a young lady of singular beauty and grace glided into the room. She was dressed richly but very plainly. Mr. Tremaine looked at her with surprise. Are you Miss Courtenay ?" She smiled sweetly and told him she was Miss Courtenay. She added that Mr. Tre• maine was no stranger to her; she had often heard of him an 1 his virtues in happier days. After that she thanked him for being the first to welcome her home. " We shall all feel flattered at vonr calling it home Miss Courtenay ; we must try and keep you here after that." In about ten minutes the intelligent young beauty had not only dissolved Mr. Treinaine's prejudices against her, but had substituted a strong prejudice in her favour. " This quiet ladylike, dignified, gentle, amiable, heautiftri, young woman, a tom-hoy ?" said he to himself. "I don't believe it—it surpasses belief—it is false !" There was a pause. " Miss Courtenay," began the old gentleman, " your late father, during the short time he was among us. gained the respect of the whole county. I cannot help thinking you will be his successor in our esteem as well as in Courtenay Court. Miss Courtenay bowed with quiet dignity. " The worst of it is we are an old fashioned people here in Devonshire. We are strait laced—aliern—in short— shall I be presuming too far on our short acquaintanze if (pray give me credit for friendly motives) I ask permis sion to put yon a question. But no, when I look at yon— it is impossible." " What is impossible, sir?" " That you can ever have " and the old gentleman flashed a bit; " bv.the•by they say von can swim Miss Courtenay." " A little, not worth boasting 0 . ," replied Caroline, modestly. " I think I could make shift to swim across this roam ; if the sea was in it." " Oh no farther than that? well there is not much harm n that. B lit they do say you have done us the honour, ihem--to wear male hebiliments—is that true r 993 of - a theatre. But it led to a result, the value of which my old readers know, and my young ones will learn—it led to a very tender and life-lung friendship. Arid, oh 1 how few out of the great aggregate of love affairs lead to so high, or so good, ur ao affectionate a permanency as is a tender friendship. "Clouds and Sunshine" is certainly the best thing in this volume; indeed, we are not sure that it is not the best thing Mr. Bowie has ever written. It is an idyl of rustic life framed in the Berkshire scenery which Mr. Iteado knows so well how to describe, and concerned with the passions. projects. loves', fears, and hatreds against which the most pastoral and secluded farmhouse— Grey twil:glit potted On dewy landscapes, dewy trees, Sutler than sleep; all things in order stor'd, A. haunt of ancient peace— i3 no security whatever. The plot is so cleverly worked out, and is so full of delicate turns and ingenious surprises, that we prefer to recommend rather than analyse it: those to whom it is not already familiar will be thankful for being directed to so charming a story. Mr. Reade understands country people as well as country scenery : Here, if any reader of mine imagines that count 7 people are simple and devoid of art, for heaven's sake resign that notion, which is entirely founded on pastorals written in metropolitan garrets. Country people look simple; but that is a part of their profound art. They are the square nosed sharks of terra firma. Their craft is smooth, plausiole, and unfathomable. You don't believe me, perhaps. Well, then, my sharp cockney, go live and do business in the country, and tell me at the year's end whether you have not found humble unknown Practitioners of Humbug, Flattery, Over reaching, and Manoeuvre, to whom Thieves' Inn Louion might go to school. We hear much, from such as write with the butt•end of their grandfather's flageolet, about simple swains and downy meads ; but when you get there the natives are at least as downy as any part of the concern. All the three stories have a brilliancy and dramatic vigour about them which, with littlo alteration, would fit them for the stage, though the plot of " Clouds and Sunshine," owing to peculiar circumstances, would hardly (iu its present state) give the same complete satis faction to an audience that it does to a reader. Life of John Kitto, D.D., F.S.A. fly John D.D., LL.D. London : Hamilton, Adams, and Co. THE public has already learned much about Dr. Kitto, as Mr. Ryland's memoirs were ex tremely full. His extraordinary story is here again brought before us in this work ; and, although its details are sombre, and though there are many depressing passages in this volume, its contents are most interesting and affecting Kitto's case was one of the most remarkable ever recorded in the " curiosities of literature," and the history of his life and his pursuit of knowledge under difficulties deserves to be popularly known. What the measure of those difficulties was is seen in the accident that bcfel him On the 13th of February, 1817, the elder Kitto was en• gaged in repairing the roof of a house in Batter-street, Plymouth. His slim and ragged son was, about half past fonr in the afternoon. engaged in carrying up a load of slates, and, when in the act of stepping from the top of the ladder to the roof, he lost his footing and fell. a distance of thirtv•five feet, into the court beneath. There he lay insensible, bleeding profusely at mouth and nose. On being lifted, about five minutes after, consciousness re turned for an instant, and he could not divine why lie came there, or why so many peotle were staring at him. For more than a week he con tinned in prostrate insensibility •, for four mouths he was obliged to keep his bed, and he did not entirely recover his strength till other four months had also elapsed. But the accident had deprived him wholly of the faculty of hearing. What injury was done to the organ was never ascertained, and no possible lona of treatment could remove it. lie was subjected to every variety of surgical torment and experiment, but all in vain. The action of the auditory nerve was completely paralysed, perhaps, as has been surmised, from the entire internal apparatus being gorged with blood. The sense was not simply dulled, it was extinguished. He became deaf, not comparatively, as if he could hear only a little, and that even with extreme pain and difficulty, but absolutely, for he could not hear at ail. The base of the skull had also sustained some fracture beyond the reach of detection or reparation—a sad supplement to his constitutional headache. He thus describes the horrible sensations of utter deafness : Next in pre-eminence in the list of misfortunes, after I blindness, comes deafness. To me the whole world is dumb, since lam deaf to it. No more the music of the human voice 0141 charm. All around, below, and above