The Press.
London, England, 1853-11-19 00:00:00

THE PRESS.

pointed out. twenty years ago. many of the evils
to be expected from vulgarising literature. He
was, we recollect, severely censured for having
done so in the Edinburylt Review. Ou the other
hand, we remember Lord John Russell quoting
the opinion of Cobbett—that the best education
for a working man was " that which fitted him
.4 for his plaee in the world, and that teaching
" the dowies to ploughboys wasfidye." On this
question it is very possible that the evils and
time advantages of cheap literature have been
exaggenited. Mr. Warren has remarked

hope it may not be deemed preaumptuoini if one ven-
ture to express 11 fear whether the number of %raters in the
present Play may out bear Us, great a toropiniiiin to readers ;
and whinier, again, many of those writers dii not become
pinch without adequate reflection and preparati . 10
event, no incident of any kind, of the least interest or
im often's., now occurs iu any branch of literature, seietiee,
'willies, or in the ordinary course even of domestic life,
hut ten thousand pens are instantly set in motion ghoul-
taneously tier the press, whose swarthy unseen battalions
arc forthwith at work to submit these hasty lueubrations to
the public. Yet it cannot be denied that the current of our
periodical literature, r g alike through daily, weekly,
monthly, or quarterly channels, nmst appear. upon the
whole, to even a captious, if a eompetent, 'Timor, highly
creditable to an aceomplished age. I can Must colll4eleli-
tiommly express my belief, that for a long t• nu periislical
of note has been entablished in this country which has not
disclosed the desire of its eimiluctors to fit it, tor the pur.
pose of i.. iseent recreation and information, to mailers of
both sexes, and of all ages and classes. It is a tact, how-
ever, stated with concern and reluctance, that there is a
poisonous growth of libertine literature—if the last word
Is' not indeed libelled by such a liNv of it—designed for
the lowest classes of society ; supplied, moreover, to an
extent scarcely equal to the demand for it, and which
exists to an extent unfortunately little suspected. I know
not how this dreadful evil is to be encountered, except by
ralOriling every possible eneourageinent, from every
quarter, to the dissemination, in the cheapest practical
form, of wholesome and engaging literature. If poison be
cheap, let its antidote be cheaper.

The absence of original poetry of the high-
est class in this age of mental activity is one
of the most striking facts of the time. We
have heard it often accounted 14 by the ex-
treme precipitation of intellect upon the sciences,
which appears already to exceed even the in-
tensely limiteil aspirations of at 1)r. Lyon Play-
bill.. and other conjumn of this description.
Amidst the startling revelations made in the
world of matter it is asserted that the human
mind satiates its appetite for the grand and
the stupendous ; the real in the passing time
looks more strange and beautiful than the
ideal sung of by the Muse. For °uncles, we
would not affirm the truth of that position. In
Italy, France, Germany, and England, the
greatest poets and philosophers ( with some ex-
ceptions) have been contemporaries. The age
of Elizabeth had its Sluikspeare and Bacon.
At biter periods Milton was soaring in poesy,
while Newton was exploring the infinite ; Dry-
den was writing his nervous English verse,
while Locke was diving into the depths of the
understanding. So also is the age that has
passed away. Byron, Scott, and Shelley were
the contemporaries of Davy, Wollaston, and
Watt. At the beginning of the present cen-
tury, indeed, there was an extraordinary
fecundity of poetical genius, Wordsworth, Cole-
ridge, Moore, and Crabbe addressing the public,
along with the three poets previously named ;
and lately there has been a pause in the growth
of poetry, in spite of some galvanic efforts
on the part of the imitators of Shelley
and Keats. But all subjects connected
with the manifestation of genius are ex-
ceptional. The appearance of original in-
tellects cannot he predicted like thatof comets.
Who can tell but that, after this excessive blaze
of scientific luminaries that dazzle us at pre-
sent., a transient adumbration may not occur
amongst the philosophers, similar to what ap-
pears to have taken place amongst the poets ?
We wish that our space enabled us to extract
some of the graver passages in which Mr. War-
ren powerfully combats the assailant of reve-
lation. Ms remarks on prose fiction are
specially deserving of notice, coming from one
who has excelled in that department of letters.
But tOr these, and many other valuable pas-
sages. we must refer our readers to the essay
itself. Its union of reverent spirit and critical
power renders it well qualified to correct the
flippancy of careless observers and hull-seta
cated reasoners. With further revision, and
by the addition of illustrative extracts, it might
be enlarged into a valuable volume.

SATURDAY,

The Row. By the Author of " History of

a Flirt."

" ItEcou.r.er," said a veteran publisher of fic-
tion, " that novels must be written to ladies.
For one gentleman that reads a novel there
are at least four of the fair sex." Such were
amongst the hints given by one of the tnule to
a literary man looking for " practical" infer.
'nation in the art of novel-writing. The ad•
vice was curious, but possibly erroneous. We
have lately re►ul returns from the popular
literary institutions in some of our great
northern towns, and it appears that works of
fiction are the 11108 t favourite books with
genend readers. There may, however, be par.
tial truth in the statement that the fair sex
are the great consumers of novels. Though
good 114.tion is as eagerly rout by men, yet it
is certain that second-rate novels find readers
amongst women more easily than amongst
their more actively-engaged husbands mid
brothers.

" The Roses " is a novel " written to ladies,"
in which every chapter bears witness to the
feminine character of the authorship. Grace-
ful in style, and conventional in its views of
life, it has many pleasing and not many thrilling
passages. It is now many years since the
authoress came before the public ; and, reeol-
leeting the merits of her " History of a Flirt,"
we confess that we expected more from her
present venture. The very first passage raised
our expectations. " The Roses " thus be-
gins :

An admirable authoress says, " There is no disposition
of the human heart that atliirds such exquisite pleasure or
pain as that we term ' delicacy.' It is the polish of the
mind soiled by the least breath and infected by the slightest
touch."

Bow true is this, and how severe are its teachings
during the process of early life ! That powerful enthusi-
asm which leads us to hope all things, and the strong
susceptibility which induces us to fear all things, harass
and disquiet the soul, till experience has seared it to the
level of more common but far happier minds. Communi-
cat' with the world wan disperses enthusiasm, but it is
fearful sufliTing :—events crowding on—incidents multi-
plving—pain and pleasure crossing and recrossing each
other ritpidly. force the mind to stand at bay, and gaze
undismayed upon changes, which cease to alarm because
their frequency renders them familiar. Slowly and pain-
fully we discover that all is vanity and vexation of spirit :
enthusiasm sinks into simple endurance, and life becomes
a 111101/1 of facts.

Painfully true ; but our -fair moralist does not
sufficiently dwell on the theme. We admit
that when life becomes " a mass of facts" its
inspi►ation, so to speak, has passed away,
and existence has become mechanical. But
how many are there who retain .freshness of
feelings to the very last, and who never seem
wearied on their pilgrimage! Sentimentalisut
will not preserve that genial state of the soul
which is happiness of the best kind. There
must be high hopes and rational aims; but let
the authoress speak :

Now needfid it is that every female heart should be
rightly trained and fitted for its wrestling with the world's
Can's. It is in vain to breast. the storms of life, armed
only with the panoply of a delicate shrinking nature, which
is torn into shreds at the first onset. Parental rare too
often throws a veil over the pictures of gay life, lest its
dark colouring should disgust the admiring inquiring gaze
of the youthful neophyte ; and in too many cases the
concealed panorama of futurity leads to broken hopes,
broken spirits, and broken reputation. There needs a
deep, a solid, f laths' for woman's peace IK•fine they
rush into life with absurd and unfounded hopes, and be-
come wounded in useless and exhausting struggles.

With this prelude we thought that we were
going to be treated to a deeply-pathetic story,
displaying moral character triumphant over
the ills of life. " The Roses," however, must
be described as commonplace, without passion
and without originality. Its title suggests
historical recollections, but it has nothing to
do with "York" or "Lancaster." Our "roses '
arc a certain " white " and "red " one that
have grown at Clifton, near Bristol, and at the
foot of Snowdon ; and along with these is a
certain " wild rose," otherwise Betsy Davis.
Now, we dislike this nicknaming of ladies,
even in a novel. In reality, nothing can now
he more trite than to rebaptisc girls with the
appellations of "lilies,' "violets," or "roses."
We have heard it said, also, that young ladies
so christened are sure to become old maids.
which would be an excellent reason, even it
good taste were silent, against the practice
being allowed. In the days of Squire Western,
and even later, the custom was Wended, but