The Press.
London, England, 1855-06-16 00:00:00

NEW NOVELS.

IF there be some strange fascination in the reading
of novels, there must be an equal charm in their
composition. The most distinguished literary men
of our time have all—with the exception of
Macaulay, and who knows but he may have a
romance in his drawer ?—signalised themselves in
this branch of literature. Sir Edward Lytton, Disraeli,
Dickens, Thackeray, Croly, B,ooert Bell, are names
that will occur to every one; and besides these very
many of those writers who in comparative obscurity
influence the public mind through the newspaper
press, numbering among them admirable critics and
practised logicians, have published fictions, though
without meeting with sufficient success to induce
them to persevere iu working the vein which they
must have thought they possessed. Fiction, indeed,
if the most pleasing, is, except in some lucky in-
stances, the least remunerative branch of literature,
and the writer of a novel commonly termed success-
fill must often be content with the pleasure he
d3rived from its composition for his reward.
To our list of clever novelists must now be added
the name of Shirley Brooks. Every one has, of
course, heard of Shirley Brooks. Not to know him
in the literary society of London is to argue oneself
unknown. It report is to be believed, he writes for
half, and the cleverest half, of the periodicals in
London. No kind of writing comes amiss to his pen.
He is as much at home in the Quarterly as in
Punch. So accustomed are people to associate wit
with his pen that it has been insinuated he is one of
the writers in THE PRESS; but this, of course, is a
fable, and only shows the exaggerated opinion which
people are apt to entertain of a man's capacity whose
name is up in the world. But it is certain that most
of those good things" which pass front mouth to
mouth, with the currency obtainable only by what is
genuine, are the sparkles thrown from the mind
of this most facile of writers and good tempered
of wits.
" Miss Violet and her Oflers," originally published
in Punch, first introduced Mr. Brooks to the world
as a writer of fiction. Aspen Court • is a graver
effort, and exhibits powers of a much higher order.
We suspect that the author, under that appearance
of careless gaiety which becomes him so well, has a
fund of romance, and even pathetic feeling, in his
heart, as he unquestionably, from the evidence fur-
nished by this book alone, has powers of original
thought which one would not have suspected from
the playful tone of his general contributions to the
press. There are passages in " Aspen Court" which
only a man of really large mind and powerful sym-
pathies could have written, though it is most re-
markable for its skilful sketches of society, its hits
at flying follies, as they are embodied in manners,
and especially its delineations of character.
Mr. Brooks has had ample opportunities for social
observation, and has made excellent use of them.
He possesses a keen sense of the ludicrous, great
humour, much descriptive power, and a terse, pointed
style. He avoids all grave disquisitions on morals
and metaphysics, makes but spare use of faith or
fevers in the incidents of his story, and of tears and
raptures in its management, and, in place of charac-
ters composed as models of virtue or monsters of
villany, draws such personages as are to be found
every day in the ordinary walks of London life,
though few writers have his power of amusingly de
lineating their peculiarities.

• Aspen Corr t : a Story of Our Own Time. By Shirley Brooks.
London: Bentley.

THE PRESS.

The plot of the story is the least satisfactory part
of the book. It is singular how often gifted novelists
fail in this particular. A tale may be excellent
which has no pretensions to what is called plot; but
when it is attempted we expect the invention to be
probable and consistent. Like Dickens, Shirley
Brooks disappoints us in the conclusion of his story,
and leaves an impression, as it strikes us, of incon•
gruity between the characters and actions of some of
his chief personages. "Aspen Court," a valuable
estate in Gloucestershire, has, after a severe con-
test, been legally awarded to its former occupants,
the Wilmslows, the Trevelyan family being ex-
pelled to make room for them. They enter
upon their property deeply indebted, from pre-
vious poverty, to their lawyer, who draws the
rents, and grants them an allowance. Mr. Wims-
low, whose character as a roue of the lowest class
is drawn with finished skill, makes the acquaintance
of Lord Rookbury, a keen, clever, vicious sensualist,
and borrows money of him to some extent,
Lord Rookbury hoping by these means to get hold
of Aspen Court, upon which he has long cast a
wistful eye. The hero of the story is Bernard
Carlyon, the confidential clerk of the lawyer, who
rises rapidly by good fortune and talent to a high
position. From his connection with the lawyer, Mr.
Molesworth, he is much at " Aspen Court," and
mixes with the three young ladies, whose characters
are nicely discriminated, and who play a charming
part in the story. But he has conceived a romantic
passion for Lilian Trevelyan, one of those trusting,
loving, gentle girls whom Thackeray delights to
delineate. A Jesuit priest plots and counter-
plots in every way to defeat Bernard, but tails
in the end, and at length out of spite becomes a
Mormon, and marries—one pretty girl, as far as we
are told. How it is that Bernard's suit prospers at
last, that the reprobate Wilmslow disappears, that
Lord Rookbury is disappointed of his coveted prize,
losing both his money and the estate, we must leave
the readers of the story to discover for themselves.
The incidents are not always probable, and the mys•
tery attaching to the lawyer's connection with
"Aspen Court " is never satisfactorily explained:
but these points are of the less consequence, as the
interest of the action is always well sustained, and
the variety and truth of the characters introduced
give animation to every page. The extracts we give
will speak for themselves. At the commencement of
the tale we are introduced to Wilmslow, who had
been "a little too gay," and who is dolefully reflect-
ing on his difficulties, little thinking of the lucky
revolution of her wheel which Fortune had in store
for him :

While all these things were passing through the miser•
able brain of poor Wilmslow, one of the best creatures in
the world was preparing herself expressly for him, though
she did not know it. Look at him. Look at that sallow,
forlorn•looking face, with the moustache, which he has
allowed to grow, making it still more pensive. See how
slowly and sulkily he is putting on that dressing-gown,
once gaudy, but now dingy. And now he lights a cigar,
which does not draw well, and he is going to dash it away,
as in other days, but remembers that it cost threepence,
which is money, and pricks it viciously with a Palms-
Royal shirt-pin—yes, now the smoke comes out well.
And now he takes up his poor balance of silver, and
counts out the nine and sixpence for the washerwoman,
and is in a shudder because one of the half-crowns looks
bad ; however, he will try to make the woman take it in the
dark passage, and that leaves him eight shillings, and they
look wretchedly few—but the abominable woman will not
go, that is certain, and so down he goes to pay her. There
is a visage of melancholy.
If he only knew how pretty Jane Tracy is looking, while
in the well-appointed bed-room in Mr. Molesworth's
house, then in Bedford-row (where she has been staying
on a visit to Mrs. Molesworth), she is arranging her
bright hair before the glass. What a rich brown that hair
is, and what a quantity she has, and yet how easily and
well she manages it, laying it right and left into great
shiny folds, and twisting the remainder into a mystic
corona], the secret of which is known but to herself and
those giraffe hairpins. And how fresh she looks, and
healthy, and English. Her figure is rather full, and if all
were not so beautifully rounded (especially those arms,
which you can see as Miss 'Tracy's hands are above her
head, and the loose sleeves of the morning-dress slip back )
you might almost be an ungrateful wretch, and think her
too plump. But her hands are so white and small, and
her foot—well, you cannot see that, but there stands a pair
of tiny shoes on that chair, you can see them, and judge
of what can be put into them. Jane is not called beauti-
ful, though sometimes when her face lights up with merri-
ment—it is always full of kindness—and her blue eyes
sparkle, and her laugh tinge so pleasantly—one feels a
great contempt for mere nomenclature ; and if she is not
to be called beautiful, you may keep your adjectives for
your dolls in the Annuals. And did you ever see a head
mare gracefully put on? Look, as she turns to answer
Mrs. Molesworth, who is knocking at the door, to ask her
to come down to lunch. And hear the cheerful voice that
says, " In one minute, dear."
Jane Wilmslow's voice is not so cheerful now, for I have
written of nearly twenty years ago. She is the mother of
three daughters, whose father is that sallow ex-ulcer
coming up from paying the washerwoman. If be only
knew the coup he will make in a few hours.
The character of poor Mrs. Wilmslow is affectingly

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