The Press. — London, England, 1857-02-21 00:00:00

r-- 184 eraturt. 1. rIU3 Days of My Life. An Autobiography. By the Author of " Mrs. Margaret Maitland." Three Vols. London : Hurst and Blackett. 2. Lucy Aylmer. By the Author of "The Curate of Overton." Three Vols. Lon don : Bentley. THE instances aro not few in which the nages of fiction have soothed the painful hours and enlivened the declining years of the most eminent men of their time. One striking example has recently come to our knowledge. A peer of Parliament, eminently distinguished by legal depth and subtlety, by extraordinary critical acuteness and refined taste, and now in his eighty-fifth year, took up the novel of " Wildflower," noticed in our columns some weeks since. Fascinated by the singular opening, he read on, and, we believe, did not rest till he had finished the story. His excla mation then was, that ho had rarely read a novel which had more agreeably engaged his mind. The anecdote is worth preserving, if only a s a rebuke to those unimaginative persons who fancy that only trifling minds can take pleasure in fiction. It is often the highest minds which feel most need of relaxation. " Cito rumpes arcum, semper si tensum habueris." \Vithout detracting from the merit of " Wildflower," we must assign a much higher rank to the new novel of "The Days of My Life." Happily the gifted authoress is quite young. Her great talent has only just begun to blossom, but she exhibits in a marked manner the first requisites of an eminent novelist—fertile invention, picturesque power, poetic feeling, and considerable constructive skill. We are struck, too, with the breadth of her manner. The conception of this story is both large and simple, and it has the merit of perfect originality. The design is to relate the story of a life, by describing certain days of it which were dis tinguished by the occurrence of important events. The reader will at once see that to work out this design effectively required great artistic skill, as the " days " in the narrative bear some resemblance to the scenes in a drama. As they are marked with a white or black stone, they influence the future life of the Hester South:...ote who relates her story. The sentiment, or key-note, of the book is not unlike that which is to be found in Mrs. Browning's " Aurora Leigh." But the story, 'while not less essentially poetical, is far more pleasing and probable. The first day shows the heroine treading with a firm step one of the bare flats of her native county, Cambridgeshire. She is the only child of the lord of the manor, an heiress, full of perfect health and girlish courage. We quote the opening passage, as showing to advantage the authoress's powers of de scription : I was going home from the village, and it was an autumn evening, just after sunset, when every crop was cut and housed in our level country, and when the fields of stubble and browned grass bad nothing on them except here and there a tree. They say our bare flats in Cambridgeshire are neither picturesque nor beautiful. I cannot say for that; but I know no landscape has ever caught my eye like the long line of wiry sunburnt grass, and the great wide arch above with all its shades of beautiful colour. There were no hedgerows to skirt the path on which I was, and I saw nothing between me and the sky, save a soli- tary figure stalking along the highway, and in the other direction the clump of trees which surrounded Cottiswoode ; the sky, in the west, was still full of the colours of the sunset, and from the horizon it ruse upward in a multi- tude of tints awl shades, the orange and red melting into a rosy flush, which contrasted far a while, and then fell into the sweet, calm, peaceful tone of the full blue. In the time of the year, and the look of the night, there was alike that indescribable composure and satisfaction which are in the sunny evenings after harvest. The work was done, the day was fading, everything was going home ; the rooks sailed over the sky, and the labourer trudged across the moor. Labour was over and provision made, and the evening and the night, peace and refreshment, and rest were coming for every man. Ido not suppose I noticed this at the time, but I have the strongest impres sion of it all in my remembrance now 1 was going home—when there suddenly appeared two figures before me, advancing in my way. I say two figures, because in our country everything stands out so clear upon the great universal background of sky, and I could not so truly say it was man and boy, as two dark outlines—clearly marked and separated from the low broad level of the THE PRESS. country and the arch of heaven—which now approached upon me. I cannot help an unconscious estimate of cha. racter from the tracks of gesture and carnage, which perhaps could not have been so visible anywhere else as here, upon this fiat unbroken road. One of these figures was a stooping and pliant one, with a sort of sinuous twisting motion, noiseless and sidelong, as if his habit was to twist and glide through ways too narrow to admit the passage of a man; the other form was that of a boy, a slight figure, which, to my perfect health and girlish courage, looked timid and hesitating ; the brightness of the sky behind cast the faces of the strangers into shadow, but my eye was caught by the unfamiliar outlines; they were strangers, that was sure. - - - - The reader will notice how exquisitely this picture is sketched and coloured. It intro duces us to important matters. The boy is her cousin, Edgar Southcote, whose existence was previously unknown. He is the son of au elder brother of Hester's father. He is brought to claim his inheritance. His title is clear, and Hester and her father retire to live on a small independence in the town of Cambridge. But on the first day that Hester had met her cousin, a kind feeling had grown up between them. The boy entreats her to remain with her father. He wants " pity, compassion, and love." She replies bitterly in a phrase that was often on her father's lips, "Pity is a cheat !" and so they part. Hester's father is a reserved man. His hopes of domestic happiness wero blasted early in life. We have not space to describe his story. It is enough to say that he believed his wife had married him from pity, and that he thought he had only her compassion when he had her tenderest love. This belief saddens his life ; it makes him a melancholy, disappointed man, and hence his frequent exclamation, " Pity is a cheat !" The senti went is thus sown and nourished in Hester's breast. Some years pass away. The highspirited girl becomes a graceful woman. At Cambridge she accidentally meets a student, Mr. Edgar; they are mutually attracted, and some beauti- ful passages describe their betrothal. She is a proud and happy bride, as she steps with him into the carriage which is to convey her to his home in Cambridgeshire. On their jour ney she is troubled to observe his dejection. What can be the matter with him? The cause conies on like lightning, which, opening the black cloud, scathes the gazer seeking to penetrate its gloom : And so we drove on ; the gliding silent motion of the carriage seemed very subdued and gentle after the rush of the railway—on through dark, silent, hedgeless roads, over the wide level country, which stretched around us one vast dull plain under the shadow of the night. It was my own country I saw—and I put out my hand from the carriage window to feel the fresh wind, which came over miles and miles of these broad fiats, unbroken by any obstacle. Not a hedgerow, scarcely a tree, and neither passenger upon the way nor human habitation, was to be seen in the darkness—nothing but the dark soil, the wide, wide indescribable distance, the fresh breeze and the dim sky. The very road we were on was a level straightforward line, which seemed to have no turnings, but to go blindly forward, uninterrupted, as if it went to the end of the world. All the charm which I used to feel in my native lccality returned upon me; space, and breadth, and free dom almost infinite, was in this land which people called monotonous and dreary. My spirit rose, my heart beat high. I felt my breast expand to the fresh wind—but when I turned to Harry—Harry seemed quite unmoved by it Lhe was still buried in his own dark thoughts. The carriage was a private one, luxuriously fitted up, and I thought the servants recognised him as servants recognise their master ; but I had never been told that he was rich enough for this, and it joined with the greater mystery to puzzle me. When I looked out again, I began to think the way quite familiar to my eyes: that was not unlikely, being in Cambridgeshire—but now it grew strangely familiar, even in the darkness. Could the house Harry had taken be near Cottiswoode 9 —my heart beat still louder at the thought. I scarcely knew whether it pleased or vexed me; yet I thought I should have plea sure in showing Edgar Southcote how independent of jealousy or any mean feeling Harry's wife could be. looked out eagerly, recognising now a tree and now • cottage—we were surely near the hamlet. Harry, too, stirred in his corner; I thought he watched me, but I was full of old thoughts, and did not speak to him. Yea! there were the old elm trees—the old avenue. Then I drew back in my seat with tears in my eyes ; eager as I was, I could not look out, when we were passing so near my own old home. The shadows of great trees were over us; but I had leaned back in my corner, and did not cote them. Yes! I remembered that the public road crossed the very end of that stately grand old avenue—how slowly we were passing it ! how long the over-arching branches shadowed the carriage 1 and the air grew closer, as if something in terrupted it, very near. I did not look up, a strange fascination overpowered me—a moment more, and the carriage wheeled round into an open space and stopped. Almost bane they drew up, Harry leaped from my side. SATURDAY,. Then he came round, threw the door open, held out his arms to me to lift me out—how his arms trembled !—how hot his breath came upon my cheek !—1 could scarcely recognise his hurried, trembling, agitated voice," Hester— welcome home ! " Home !—the great hall door stood open—the moon came out from behind a cloud to throw a momentary gleam upon the house. Home ! I thrust him away, and sprang to the ground without his aid. He stood where I had left him, drawing back, following me with his eyes, and pale as marble. I stood alone gazing up at the sculptured emblems upon the door. In a moment, in a flood of despair and bitterness, the truth rushed upon me. I had been trapped and betrayed—deceived lik a fool— and every one had known the snare but I. I saw it all at a glance—l was his wife—his wife ! and he had brought me home. Her pride supports her. She suppresses all evidence of surprise and emotion till he speaks to her : I did not take off my bonnet—l stood in the glow of the firelight, turning my face to him as he came eagerly up to me. I stopped him as he began to speak. " There is no need—no need !" said I ; " I see your mystery-- pray do not speak to me—do not drive me mad to• night." He turned away clasping his hands with a passionate exclamation—then he came back : " I deserve your reproaches. Hester, do not spare them ! but think what you said to me not half an hour ago—you are my wife." " Your wife—your wife—yes ! there is the sting," I said, with a wild outburst ; " his wife, and it is for ever !" He went away blindly from me to the other end of the room, and threw himself down in a chair. I saw his suffering, but it did not move me. I thought of nothing but my own wrong—a hard, cold, desperate indifference to every one else seemed to come upon me. I saw myself tricked, cheated, despised. Mr. Osborne, Alice, my father—strange and impossible though the conjunction was—l almost thought I saw them altogether, smiling at me. 1 could have gnashed my teeth when I thought how conscious every one else was--how miserably blind was I. I could have thrown myself on the floor and dashed my hot brow against the hearth—his hearth—his home—his household sanctuary. But I rejected and hated it—it was not mine. I cannot tell how long I stood thus, he sitting far apart from me saying nothing—it might have been hours—it might have been only moments—l cannot tell. I think it was the falling of some ashes from the fire upon the hearth which roused me; the trivial common sound brought a strange awakening to my misery. I went and rang the bell ; as I did so, he looked up at me wistfully. " It is only for some one to show me my room," I said. " May not I do that, Hester? " he asked. I think, per haps, though it is a strange, ungenerous thing to say so, that had he been less overpowered, less dejected, bad ho boldly entered upon the subject then, and compelled me to go over it, step by step, J would not have been so bitter against him ; but he was disarmed and broken down, less by my reproaches than by his own feeling of guilt. " Thank you, I shall prefer a servant," said 1, and when the woman came, I followed her upstairs. She led me to my own old room, the last room I had let when we went away from Cottiswoode. My first glance at it showed me that it was furnished with the greatest care and elegance, and the door of a little room adjoining, which had been a lumber-room in our time, was open, and from it came a glimpse of firelight; in the bedchamber, too, there was a fire, and everything in it looked so bright, so pure and cheerful, that I could not glance anywhere without an aggravation of bitterness—to place me here, was like placing a revolted and defying spirit in some peaceful bower of heaven. We do not propose to trace the story further. It is ably wrought to the end. We doubt whether the episode of the ring might not have been omitted, as it seems unsuited to the character of reality which pervades the story. Like Mrs. Browning's Aurora, Hester is deprived of her inheritance by her cousin— and, like Aurora, she refuses with haughty pride the love which she believes to proceed from pity. But Hester is snared, and there is reason for her indignation, though we be lieve most of our fair made' s will think that she carries it too far, and suffers her pride to hurry her to the verge of all but unpardonable passion. The story is most eloquently written, and is extremely attractive and skilful. It glows with the genius of romance—the romance of social circumstances and affections. We cor dially congratulate the gifted young authoress on the success she has achieved. " Lucy Aylmer " (2) is to some extent a polemical novel. Its purpose is to expose the evil tendencies of Romish predilections ; and, considering its design, it is singular that the tale should be written with so much easy grace, fine fancy, and sweet description, and should obtain such firm hold on the reader's attention. It is not, however, until the story is far advanced that the polemical purpose peeps out. The action is natural, and the cna ractcrs of the personages drawn with great distinctness. It is one merit of the book that the characters develop themselves as the