The Press. — London, England, 1855-09-01 00:00:00

SEPT. 1, 1855. trayed by the same pen that recorded the sorrows of " Jane Eyre." We could express many errors in detail in the above picture. "That masquerade of passion" is a fatal slip in trying to intensify a description, and " the " glimmering apprehension" at once recalls the admired passage in CollyCibber on Betterton : " Pity it is that the charms of acting cannot, " like those of painting or poetry, be their own " record; that the animated graces of the " player can live no longer than the instant " breath and motion which paint them, or at " best can but faintly glimmer through the " memory of a few surviving spectators r Thus we see that the Shepherd, like all other characters, has his weak points, and that under a cloud of Scotticisms, mingled with vehement English, he can occasionally show the contor tions of false vigour. But his Gaelic pathos is pure and genuine, and our Laureate might get some hints on the art of composing with manly pathos. There is nothing puling or sickly in the following description of the sad work done by au accomplished hypocrite:— Shepherd: Then to see him sittin a the time beside the verra bonniest bit lassie in a' the pairty ! lean in his great, broad, yellow, sweaty cheeks, within an inch of her inno cent carnations ! Sweet simple girl—she thinks him the holiest o' men, and is blind and deaf to his brutalities. 0 save the lintwhite frae the houlat's nest ! But the puir bonny boardin-school lassie has Biller—a hantle 0' siller— thousands o' poun's, aiblins five or sax—and in twit-three years ye see her welkin by her lane, wi' a girlish face, but white and sorrowful, leadin a todilliu bairn in her hand, and anither visible aneath her breast, nae husband near her, to gie her his arm in that condition—nae decent servant lass to help her wi' the wean—but quite her lane, no very weel dressed, and careless, careless, speaking to mane she meets, and saunterin wi' a sair heart down the unfre quented lanes, and awa into a field to sit down on the ditch-side weepin, while her wee boy is chasing the butter flies among the flowers. The manner in which sense and reflection are mingled with the poetical passages is peculiar to the "Noctes." But on a severe criticism we discern some of the want of due dramatic shadings and individual sustainment of cha racter. Occasionally Tickler is just as poetic and picturesque as the Shepherd. Thus Tickler describes the Falls of the Clyde in a way that tantalises us with the idea of a cool, fresh atmosphere : North : The Fall of Foyers is terrible—a deep abyss savage root-work, hideous groans, ghost-like vapours, and a rumble as if from eternity. Tickler : The Falls of the Clyde are majestic. Over Corra Linn the river rolls exultingly ; and, recovering itself from that headlong plunge, after some troubled struggles among the shattered cliffs, away it floats in stately pomp, dallying with the noble banks, and subsiding into a deep bright foaming current. Then what woods and groves crowning the noble rocks ! How cheerful laughs the cottage pea. tered by the spray ! and how vivid the verdure on each ivied ruin 1 The cooing of the cushats is a solemn accom paniment to the cataract, and aloft in heaven the choughs reply to that voice of the Forest. Dash that passage with a few Scotticisms, and you have the Shepherd. But these and similar errors are the faults of affluence of mind. In the same passage, after North declares that nature is all in all, and art stark nought, Tickler rejoins : Tickler : Yet softly. Who planted those trees by that river side ?—Art. Who pruned them p —Art. Who gave room to their giant arms to span that roaring chasm ? Art. Who reared yon edifice on the cliff?—Art. Who flung that stately arch from rock to rock, under which the martins twitter over the unfeared cataract ?—Art Who darkened that long line of precipice with dreadful or glo rious associations?—Art, polity, law, war, outrage, and history, writing her hieroglyphics with fire on the scarred visage of those natural battlements. Is that a hermit's cell? Art scooped it out of the living stone. is that an oratory ? Art smoothed the floor for the knee of the peni tent. Are the bones of the holy slumbering in that ce metery? Art changed the hollow rock into a tomb, and when the dead saint was laid into the sepulchre, Art joined its music with the torrent's roar, and the mingled anthem rose to the stars which Art had numbered and sprinkled into stations met the firmament of Heaven. What then would Bowles be at, and why more last words to Roscoe? Who made his ink, his pens, and his paper?— Art. Who published his books?—Art. Who criticised them ?—Art. Who would fain have damned them ?—The Art of the Edinburgh Review. And who has been their salvation?—The Art of Blackwood'e Magazine. The last sentence is a capital stroke, and is highly characteristic of the " rattling " way in which the " Noctes " mingled the serious and the droll. Scattered through the convivial colloquies are a variety of dicta on the contemporary reputations of the time, delivered in a tone between jest and earnest. Vast pretensions are humorously assailed in a coarse style of THE PRESS. banter. It is impossible not to laugh at the figure Doctor Parr makes:— North : As an original thinker, I own he was Nemo— nobody ; but as a scholar — Tickler: Hum—hummior—hummissimus,—he was a mere Parolles in a Pedagogue's wig. His preface to Bel lendenus, as all the world knows, was never looked into but for its oddities ; first, that it talked about Fox, and Burke, and Lord North, in Latin—when others talked of them in English ; secondly, that this Latin, as he called it, was a monster of deformity, being in fact a cento wade up from every Roman on God's earth, beginning with Fabius Pictor, and the " Stennis Ennii," down to the " rank Africanisms" (to use. Milton's phrase) of Arnobius. An English history could not be more extravagant, composed out of the hoary archaisms of Robert of Gloucester, com pounded with the " three-piled" Giblxinisins of Sharon Turner. "He had been at a great feast of languages, and had stolen the scraps." North : I cannot help admiring his Spital sermon, as— Tickler: Beyond all cot:opens= the must empty bald dertlash that ever attempted to soar without gas into the ethereal regions. North: His dissertation on the word Sublime at the end of l)ugald Stewart's Philosophical Essays? Tickler: Ay, a sublime treatise on Mud, with sonic su perior remarks on the preposition SUB. The whole amount front a world of pother, parade, and pseudo-learning, is, that Sublime means, not that which is under the mud, but that which is above it. Not the least interesting part of these most interesting papers are the comic and senti mental songs ; but we must reserve our remarks upon them until another occasion. In the meantime we will recommend this volume as containing plenty of "light summer reading," elevated with much originality of thought and intensity of true poetical passion. The Newcomes. Edited by Arthur Pendennis, F.sq. London : Bradbury and Evans. WELL, the " Newcomes " are finished : their author is going to the United States. Each month will cease to be marked by one of those slim yellow numbers which have, for the last two years, set all England and America laughing and crying and guessing what was to follow. And how does this book rank with the author's former novels? We will suggest no invidious comparison with other writers; but how does Mr. Thackeray stand with regard to himself? Is his work equal to " Vanity Fair "? Is it better than "Pendennis "? If Becky Sharp's adventures make " Vanity Fair " a more piquant novel than " Pendennis, the knowledge of life and character in the latter novel was even more apparent than in the former tale. Then, too, the satire had become more mellow and kindly, and tasted on the lips like generous Bordeaux softened and ripened by a year or two's added age. And now in the " Neweomes " we have a more artis tic work than either of those which we have mentioned " Vanity Fair" may still rank first if we consider the sustained interest of the main story ; Arthur Pendennis may be a more highly .finished portrait, drawn with subtler masterstrokes, than the likeness of Clive Newcome, though the latter is a good picture, a la Vandyck, of a fine gentleman. Never before, however, has Mr. Thackeruy shown such skill in depicting character. He is not satisfied with describing his per sonages in a few epigrammatic sentences, or in bringing them on the scene merely to exhibit a few strongly-marked peculiarities. His kindly people arc not always giving alms ; his illtempered people are not perpetually scolding. He shows their dark side or their bright side uppermost, according to circum stance, and exactly as living people show their good or their evil qualities. Hence the real flesh-and-blood vitality of his creations, whom we feel to be very men and very women. Not only his subordinate characters, but his heroes and heroines, have their weaknesses ; and nearly every one of his villains (we must except Barnes Newcomel has a redeeming point. Is it not so in life? Are gocd women never jealous or intolerant? Are honest fellows always unselfish? And do not swindlers sometimes nurse a sick friend or give half a crown to a hungry beggar? A coward and a slanderer may be a tender father, and an envious man may have won woman's love. If these be unpleasing truths, let us not deny them, but hear them humbly, and cure them if we have the skill Let us not call that man a cynic who seeing spots in ate sup polOts 411 0 110 opt to us; for usither he slow to discover diamonds in a dunghill and to extol the beauty of those begrimed jewels. Let us be content with photographs. If we have a cast in the eye, let us not abuse Mr. Beard for making us squint. Don't let us keep all our humility fur Sundays and fast days. We are weak and erring and miserable, we are selfish and conceited, but not altogether bad or dishonest. We still love one or two perhaps even better than ourselves ; neither are we entirely unbeluved• If this be true, Mr. Thackeray writes true books. If it be false, and if we are all quite good or thoroughly wicked, he knows nothing about us, he writes silly stories, and the sooner he throws awa) his pen the Letter. To enter on a résumé of his present work would require far more space than we can afford. We will not attempt it. We will not even allude to the chief characters the luxurious incumbent of Lady \Vhittlesea's chapel; the jovial Fred Bayham (we all know who he is) ; the charming old dragon, Lady Kew; the silly Rosa ; the genial 4.ng10 French man ; the noble old Colonel (the finest gentle man in print) ; Clive himself, or the puzzling Ethel ; Barnes Newcome ; Miss Honeyman (who comes out so disareeably true to nature at the end) ;or the hate ful old campaigner (that model of a conscientious mother-in-law). Wo will merely give a few brief extracts, and we have done. Dr. Johnson asks, " If Pope is not a poet, " where is poetry to be found?" In a similar spin; we venture to inquire, if these passages are not full of the kindliest and truest pathos, where shall we look for tenderness ? We dwell on this characteristic of Mr. Thackeruy because we have seen it written and heard it said that that writer is as cynical as he is clever, that he speaks sneeringly of human nature, that his judgments are harsh and stern, and his sympathies small. if cynicism prompt such writing as this, blessed be the memory of Antisthenes MADAME DE ILORAC'S LETTER - . Rue St. Dominique St. Long separated from the , my youth, I carried from her , her always a lively gratitude. in a position very different from I have been the mother o 1 has recovered a portion of tion tore from us; and F mate sovereign, received accompanied his august preceded his Majesty, more panions. Believing farther dazzled, perhaps, by the restored order, submitted M. de Florae, in the Ant queror of Mai engo and Austerlitz, his Imperial Court. This - • infidelity, has subsequentl: His sufferings during the his adhesion to him who is now an old man. He was Moscow, as one of the chstni drawn from the world he gil —to his family—to Heaven. I have not forgotten a time before those days, when, according to promises given by my father, I became the wife of M. de Florae. Sometimes I have heard of your career. One of my parents, M. de F., who took service in the English India, has entertained me of you; he informed me how yet a young man you won laurels at Argom and Ilhartpour ; how you escaped to death at Laswari. 1 have followed them, sir, on the map. I have taken part in your victories and your glory. Ab ! I am not so cold, but my heart has trembled for your dangers—not so aged, but I remember the young man who learned from the pupil 1 Frederic the first rudiments of war. Your great he }tt, your love of truth, your courage were your own. None to teach you those qualities, of which a good God had en• dowed you. My good father is dead since many year*. He, too, was permitted to see France before to die. I have read in the English journals not only that you are married, but that you have a son. Permit me to send to your wife, to your child, these accompanying tokens of an old friendship. I have seen that Mistress Newcome was widow, and am not sorry of it. My friend, I bope there was not that difference of age between your wife and you that I have known in other unions. I pray the good God to bless yours. I hold you always in my memory. As I write the past comes back to me. I see a noble young man who has a soft voice and brown eyes. I see the Threes, and the smiling plains of Blackheath. I listen and pray at my chamber-door as my father talks to you in our little cabinet of studies. I look from my window, and see yon depart. My sons are men : one follows the profession of arms, one has embraced the ecclesiastical state ; my daughter is herself a mother. I remember this was your birthday; I have made myself a little fete in celebrating it, after how many years of absence, of silence ! Comm mg FLoasc. (Me 1.. dts VIOL) LETTER TO COLONEL NEWCONE. St. Germain, Paris, Nov. 15, 1820. he country which was the home of her tender recollections, and bear ude. The Heaven has placed me ut from that in which I knew you. of many children. My husband of the property which the Itevo lu- France, in returning to its legiti- I once more the nobility which house into exile. We, however, ore happy than many of our com- rther resistance to be useless; brilliancy of that genius which K 1 Europe, and governed France; it days, was reconciled to the con- iusterlitz, and held a position in a submission, at first attributed to tly been pardoned to my husband. ie Hundred Days made to pardon ho was Emperor. My husband was of the disastrous campaign of hamberlains of Napoleon. With- gives his time to his feeble health