The Press.
London, England, 1855-11-17 00:00:00

NEW NOVELS.

1. Simplicity and Fascination ; or, Guardians
and Wards. By Anne Beale Three Vols.
2. Cross Purposes. By Catherine Sinclair.

Three Vols.

London : Bentley.

1. Tms book may be best described as a
family novel. It relates the fortunes of a
young family who are early left orphans by the
death of both parents: their guardians are
prominent persons in the narrative ; and as
the story extends over a period of twenty
years, ample time is afforded for the growth of
character and the relation of incident.
The scene is laid in the country. The only
Inheritance of the orphans is a mortgatzed
farm in Somersetslaire ; and a very pleasing
portion of the tale consists in the persevering
efforts made by the eldest sister, Jessie, to
manage the farm and clear it from encum-
brance. The authoress is well acquainted
with rural life, and we do not know any writer
of the day who can picture nature with more
truthful simplicity. It is, however, a draw-
back to the reality of her sketches that they
wear too uniformly a smiling aspect. She
pictures only the poetic side of rural life. At
"harvest-home " there is no end of village-
revelling, and at Christmas the farmhouse
sports and feasting are in the style of Mr.
Dickens's highly-coloured descriptions. The
authoress indulges too freely in pictures of
rustle hospitality, of bounteous harvests, and
of merry-making, and overlooks the necessary
cares, crosses, and economy of rural existence.
No farmer could have thriven who lived as
" Uncle James " is described to have done :
His abode a large, rambling, farmhouse, and his style of
living was profuse to mantva6ance. Dread, and cheese, and

1101

cider, milk, cream, butter, and bacon, must have almost
learnt to walk into the mouths of the various grades of
visitors and beggars that assailed the door and uto the
huge hall-table, it was never uuapread. All his eatables
and drinkable(' were procured from his own land, and ho
never grudged them, scarcely indeed knew how much RIM
consumed in his house. All he knew was, that as soon as
one batch of bread, flue rich cheese, or gammon of bauon
was gone, there were plenty more to be had, and he never
stopped to inquire who had eaten the one or was likely to
devour the other.

This fondness for the Arcadian side of country

life is common to female writers, and is par.
ticularly observable in the works of the late
Miss Mitford. In the present work, however,
it is seldom carried so far us to appear other-
wise than pleasing. The authoress is unie
formly happy in her delineation of home
affections. Jessie is one of those simple, self-
sacrificing, 'quiet characters which aro often
met with in reality, and sometimes in the
pages of the higher order of novelists. Her
agony on discovering that her brilliant young
sister, over whose happiness she has watched
with a mother's tenderness, has supplanted her
in the heart of the man she loved, and by
whom she fondly hoped she might be loved in
return, is described with exquisite pathos.
The character of Annabella—wayward and
coquettish, but with strong feeling and high
spirit—is sustained from first to last with
great animation. Some of the happiest
passages of the book are those describing her
residence in the family of Lady Georgians
Meredith, as governess. The dispositions of
this lady and of her mother, the Dowager
Countess, with the different views they take of
the attachment of their nephew, Mr. Michel-
son, to Annabelle, show to advantage the.
authoress's talent for social portraiture.
quite a different style, and displaying con
siderable humour, is the account of the attach-
ment of " Uncle James " for " Aunt Betsy.'
He loved her when she was a handsome,
sprightly jilt; and he remains constant in his
devotion when she seems to most persons
merely a formal, vain old maid. Their
marriage at last, and the unexpectedly happy
life they lead, are as amusingly and, we think,
as truthfully drawn as any of the pleasant
adventures to be found in the tales of Crabbo.
What must strike every reader throughout
this novel is its thorough good-heartedness.
There is not a touch of snarling or satire in it.
With one or two exceptions, and they repent,
as they should do, at last, all the people are
honest, straightforward, good people—with
foibles and errors—but with warm hearts, and
free from any vice or malignancy. Hence, if
the novel wants elements of strong excitement,
it is always agreeable ; there is not a page
which offends us. The whole narrative is
tranquil engaging reading—the invention of
the authoress being quite fertile enough to
keep the reader's attention alive, and to con-
tinually heighten the interest of the story.
Though not of a nature to excite a sensation,
the novel has merit of a much higher kind
than many of those fictions which are the
wonder of a day and then forgotten. Its place
is midway between the works of Miss Austen
and Miss Bremer—not equal to the peculiar
merits of' either, but combining much of the
extreme reality and close observation of the
one, with the tenderness, pathos, and emotional
feeling of the other.
2. To the volumes before us may be conceded
the merit of containing an interesting story,
though the most. is scarcely made of the mate-
rials. A. murder, a Jesuit, a forgery—young
ladies enough to people a colouy, and a cor•
responding number of very eligible young
men ;—here we have all the ingredients which
can be desired for composing at once an ex-
citing and amusing tale. Yet, somehow or
other, the mixture lacks savour; the events
are inextricably entangled, and the denouement
commonplace. There is, however, great power
shown in the delineation of character. O'Hara,
the Irish factor, though not without defects, is,
on the whole, a striking portrait, and there is
truthfulness in the conduct and conversation of
Anne Brownlow. O'Grady we do not like—in
fact, we are getting a little tired of the cold, im-
passive countenances, snakelike eyes, and cat•
like tread, of this class of scoundrels ; and there
seems, moreover, no necessity to have made
O'Grady a Papist at all—the crimes he commits
are not peculiar W gut; comaiunioui uor

1102

there any reason why he should not have been
a Puritan, an Atheist, or a plain Church of
England man just as well. This is a decided
error as a matter of art, and helps to give an
air of unreality to the whole. But then, again,
the scene on the scaffold is an admirable piece
of painting, and unfortunately but too true. The
impersonation by Theresa of Daniel Brow n-
low s niece is the best incident in the book,
and the situation is, as far as we can remember,
quite original. The following speech of the
silly parvenu, Anne Brownlow, is a capital spe-
cimen of the particular weakness aimed at :

" I like to be one of the fast young lathes—in short, the
very essence of fastness ; and, at the same time to be, as
it must be confessed I am, a favorite with everybody,"
said Anna ; who habitually boasted of the most ordinary
attentions from her acquaintances, actually proud of those
common civilities that it would have been rudeness in any
one to omit. " When I called yesterday on dear Kitty
Neville (I mean, you know, Lady Katherine), she was
so civil ! The moment I entered she rose, and held out
her hand, saying, ' How do you do?' Her groom of the
chambers, who is always so attentive to me, placed my chair ;
and Charlie (meaning Lord Charles Neville !) nodded to
me in a most agreeable way from the writing-table ; but
we are so intimate, he did not think it necessary to rise,
or even to say a word; and that dear old dot, the Dowager
Duchess—' Mammy,' as we call her—just hurried, in her
good-humored, unceremonious way out of the room, as I
entered, saying,' Excuse me for one moment.' She did
not return, dear old soul; so Kate had to follow, and left
me sitting alone there, in the most quite-at-home state
imaginable. Some people think Kitty Neville excessively
haughty and disagreeable, but, as far as I see, she is not—
at least not to me ! When I entered yesterday, she was in
the act of saying, 'Not at home! ' but the instant I ap-
peared, she added, in her languid, odd way,' Well! as you
have got in, I suppose you must stay!' That was so like
Kate Neville, droll, whimsical creature as she is! Full of
dry humour—though very dry indeed, sometimes—rather
brusque, occasionally, no doubt ; but I do not mind that.
For instance, after she left, school, I inquired if we were
still to call her, as in former days, Kitty ?' and she
answered, with such an air as might have intimidated any
one who knew her less than 1 do, ' Call me what you
please, Miss Brownlow.' Many people would have buten
that as a rebuff, but I merely laughed at her droll, whimsi-
cal ways ; and Kitty ' she shall remain to the end of the
chapter !"
On the whole, we must pronounce " Cross
Purposes " to be a very unequal performance.
The authoress seems to have exhausted her
strength on one or two characters aud one or
two scenes, and her novel, like a modern
tragedy, completely breaks down in the
second-rate parts. It is far too much
crowded with walking gentlemen: Lord Brent-
ford and Captain Clifford are just as much
alike as if they had been turned out by
machinery. We may add that had the story
commenced at the end of the first volume the
other two would have been far more readable,
and all the back history could have been in-
troduced, if necessary, in a few pages of
episode. Still, the stirring events and strong
passions described throughout will render the
book more or less of a favorite with all that
class of readers who love the old-fashioned
style of romance, relish their murders, and
hate the Pope.

Memoir of W. H. Bartlett. By William Beattie, M.D.
Published by Subscription.
_.

AN interesting little sketch of one whom we believe
to have been both an excellent artist and a most amiable
man. Mr. Bartlett is well known to the public by
his illustrations of Switzerland, Scotland, and other
regions of romantic or striking scenery ; but he is
almost equally well known to the literary world by
the productions of his pen. He was for several
years editor of Sharpe's London Magazine, and a
frequent contributor to its pages. Mr. Bartlett was
always in delicate health, and his death was
accelerated by the exposures and hardships which he
endured in the pursuit of his profession. Dr.
Beattie's little work is, we understand, a labour of
love, undertaken in behalf of the lamented artist's
family, and we most sincerely wish it all the success
which it deserves :
He has left it in writing that, during a period of twenty
years—down to the hour of his death—the fruit of his in.
tessant labour was barely sufficient to maintain his wife
and children in credit and respectability ; and that, with
all his earnest endeavours to accomplish so desirable an
end, he could never secure any permanent share or copy-
right in the numerous works by which his name has been
rendered so popular at home and abroad. In the eminent
position to which he raised himself, as an artist and
author, he was never cheered with anything beyond the
•ague hope of independence. But in his works he has left
the public a noble monument of his genius; and to his
family he has bequeathed the still more precious inheri.•
tance of a spotless reputation.
We need only add that the memoir is very prettily
executed, and well calculated to give satisfaction to
the numerous body of subscribers.

THE PRESS.

The Lahees of Lynwood. By the Author of "The
Heir of Redolyffe." London: J. W. Parker and
Son.

IF this be a story intended for children, as the preface
to some extent implies, it is at all events one with
which children of a later growth may well be de-
lighted. Eustace, afterwards Sir Eustiice Lynwood,
accompanies his brother Sir Reginald to the French
wars of Edward 111., and, on the death of the latter
in the Spanish expdition of the Black Prince, he
takes command of his kinsman's troop, known as
" The Lances of Lynwood." He is knighted for his
valiant conduct in the same action in which Sir Regi-
nald is slain, who in his dying moments constitutes
him guardian of his young son, Arthur, then at home
with his mother, Lady Eleanor, in the old family
castle in Somersetshire. It is this guardianship
which leads him into hostilities with a powerful
neighbour, one Falk de Clarenham, who has an old
feudal claim on the manor of Lynwood. It would
occupy too much space to tell the long and crooked
course by which the baron sought to ruin Eustace;
but he is finally detected in a scheme for betraying
him to the French, and with him a castle belonging
to King Edward in Aquitaine, of which the young
knight had been appointed governor. The plot is
discovered through the stupidity of Leonard Ashton,
another Somersetshire youth, of a dull and envious
disposition, who had accompanied Eustace to the
wars and grown spiteful at his good fortune. Here
is a description of a knight's degradation :
Clarenham was then compelled to dismount from his
horse, and to place first one foot and then the other upon
the block, where a broad red-faced cook, raising his cleaver,
cut off the golden spurs. Sir John Chandos, as constable
of Aquitaine, then came forward, and, taking the shield
from the arm of Clarenham, gave it, reversed, into the
hands of one of the heralds, who carried it away. The belt,
another token of knighthood, was next unbuckled, and
Chandos, taking the sword, broke it in three pieces across
his knee, saying, " Lie there, dishonoured steel!" and
throwing it down by the spurs. Lastly, the helmet, with
the baronial bare across the visor, was removed, and thrown
to the ground, leaving visible the dark countenance, where
the paleness of shame and the flush of rage alternated.
And now away with the traitor, away with the recreant
knight ; out upon him !" cried in a loud voice Sir John
Chanties, while the shout was taken up by a deafening mille
titude of voices, in the midst of which the degraded knight
and landless baron made his way to the gate, and, as he
passed out, a redoubled storm of shouts and yells arose
from without.

The unhappy Fulk was moving onwards, almost as in a
dream, without aim or object other than to seek a refuge
from the thousand eyes that marked his disgrace, and the
tongues that upbraided him with it; but, in leaving the
court, he entered upon a scene where danger as well as
disgrace was to be apprehended. The rabble of the town,
ever pleased at the fall of one whose station was higher
than their own, mindful of unpaid debts and harsh and
scornful demeanour, and, as natives, rejoiced at the miss
fortune of a foreigner, all joined in one cry of " Away with
the recreant Englishman—down with him—down with
him!" Every hand was armed with a stone, and brief
would have been Fulk's space for repentance had not the
cry in its savage tones struck upon the ear of Eustace as he
stood in the lists, receiving the congratulations of Sir
John Chandos and of other knights, who, with changed de.
meanour, came to greet the favored hero.

We can safely recommend " The Lances of Lyn-
wood" as an admirable little book to place in the
hands of our younger readers. It inculcates all the
knightly virtues, and will do its part in dispelling
some of that gross ignorance of the nature of chi-
valry which is, we regret to say, so rife amongst us.

The Battle-Day : and Other Poems. By Ernest
Jones, Barrister-at-Law. London : Routledge.
HAD the author of this little volume devoted to lite-
rature and poetry all those misspent hours which have
earned for him so unenviable a notoriety in politics,
we feel confident our verdict would have been a
much more favorable one. It is impossible to deny
that he possesses a considerable share of poetic fire.
His language, indeed, is often crude. but he has
given us so many vigorous and so many highly-
imaginative verses, that we are willing to attribute his
deficiencies more to the want of practice than to the
want of genius. From the circumstance of this col-
lection bearing the title of " The Battle-Day," our
readers would probably suppose that the subject of
it was the present war. Such is not the case, but it
is merely the sketch of a mysterious hero called
Lindsay, who ruins himself, and ultimately a whole
army, by a bad habit of doubting everything. This
is very far from being the best poem of the number ;
and, indeed, the hero's peculiarity almost borders on
the ludicrous, reminding us strongly of the leading
character (we forget his name) in the farce called
Founded on Fact, as recently played at the Strand
Theatre. But there are far better things in store. We
subjoin a portion of a song called " The Harper
Wind," which is in some respects perhaps the gem
of tho volume :

SATURDAY,

Vie wind's a bard—a bard so rude,
And a many-toned harp he plays.
He's the harper wild to the field and flood,
And sings them stirring lays.

He sings to the forest that slumbers in shade,
And the green boughs dance for glee,
And the dead leaves wake from their grave in the glade,
And whirl round the parent tree.

He sings to the mountain a shrill sharp tone,
And scatters its frosty snow ;
The avalanche starts from its icy throne,
And bounds to the vale below.

lie sings to the ocean a stormy song,
And wakes its waves to dance—
As it hears his voice the surf roils strong,
And the white sea-breakers glance.

He sings to the tempest that sleeps on a cloud—
And it wakes u it hears his call,
And its thunder•mirth grows deep and luta
In the light of its flashing hall.
But his song is not ever so wild and rude—
In his lay there is softer power;
His voice is dread in his stormy mood,
But 'tis sweet in his calmer hour.

Hear him sing when the eve draws nigh:
While the sun blushes deep o'er its fall,
And shadows like dreams on the pale earth lie—
There is love in his vesper-call.

Mr. Jones's political sentiments are not offensively
prominent; but his hatred of factories and manufac-
tures is very bitterly expressed. " The Corn-field
and the Factory " is an instance of this, and another
piece entiled " The Factory Town," from which we
select the following :

Hark! amid that bloodless slaughter
Comes the wailing of despair :
" Oh ! for but one drop of water !
" Oh! for but one breath of air !

" One fresh touch of dewy grasses,
"Just to cool this shrivelled hand !
"Just to catch one breeze that passes
" From some shady forest land."

Thinner wanes the rural village,
Smokier lies the fallow pla:u—
Shrinks the cornfields' pleasant tillage,
Fades the orchard's rich domain.

Take us book to lea and wild wood,
Back to nature and to Thee !
To the child restore his childhood—
To the man his dignity !

The last stanza in particular strikes us as very
felicitous To oppose to the above passages we
have no equally conspicuous defects. The bulk
of the contents of this volume does not indeed
rise much above a respectable mediocrity, but we
were willing to show of what Mr. Jones was capable
in his happiest moments, and to save him if we could
from the range of the fatal Horatian canon. We
sincerely trust he may make up his mind to exchange
polities for poetry; and we believe, if he cultivates
his taste for the latter, he will ultimately produce
something that shall go far to obliterate his present
rather dubious position in public estimation. ,

PUBLICATIONS RECEIVED.

BOOKS.

Bibliotheca Classica. George Long, M.A. Whittaker and Co.
Popular Astronomy. Francois Arago. Two Vols. Vol. I.
Longmans.
Sermons for the Times. J. W. Parker and Son.
The Story of the Campaign of Sebastopol. Lieut.-Col. E.
Bruce Hamley. Illackwoods.
Essays for the Aye. Charles F. Howard. J. K. Chapman.
The Poetical Works of Augustine Duznnne.
Parry and M`Millan, Philadelphia.
The Sea, and other Poems. Hope and Co.
My MSS.: a Tale of Olden Islington. Hope and Co.
Cambridge Essays J. W. Parker and Son.
Sir Thomas ; or, The Adventures of a Cornish Baronet. Mrs.
R. Lee. Grant and Griffiths.
Angels; or, The Pine Forest in the Alps. Geraldine E.
Jewsbury. Ditto.
The Talking Bird; or, The Little Girl who Knew what was
going to Happen Mary and Elizabeth Kirby. Ditto.
Tales of Magic and Meaning. Alfred Crowquill.. Ditto.
The Martyr Land; or, Tales of Vaudois. The Author of
" Sunlight through the M ult." Ditto.