The Press.
London, England, 1854-07-15 00:00:00

164

In these outpourings of his grief to his friend.
He was unlucky in his wooing, and he writes

on one occasion :
lam dead to all but the agony of what I have lost. She
was my life—it is gone from me, and lam grown spectral.
If it is a place I know, it reminds me of her—of the way in
which my fond heart brooded over her. If it is a strange
place, it is desolate, hateful, barren of all interest—for
nothing touches me but what has a reference to her. There
is only she in the world—" the false, the fair, the inexpres-
sive she." If the clock strikes, the sound jars me, for a
million of hours will never bring peace to my breast The
light startles me, the darkness terrifies me—l seem falling
into a pit, without a hand to help me. She came (I knew
sot how) and sat by my side, and was folded in my arms, a
vision of love and joy—as if she had dropped from the
heavens, to bless me by some special dispensation of a
• favouring Providence—to make me amends for all. And
now. without any fault of mine hut too much love, she has
vanished from me, and lam left to wither. My heart is
torn out of me, and every feeling for which! wished to live,
It is like a dream, an enchantment—it torments me, and
ma', es me mad. I lie down with it—l rise up with it—and
I see no chance of repose. I grasp at a shadow—l try to
undo the past, or to make that mockery real—and weep
with rage and pity over my own weakness and misery. *
I had hopes, I had prospects to come—the flattering of
something like fame—a pleasure in writing—health even
would have come back to me with her smile. She has
blighted all—turned all to poison and drivelling tears. Yet
the barbed arrow is in my heart—l can neither endure it
aor draw it out, for with it flows my life's blood. I had
dwelt too long upon truth to trust myself with the im•
mortal thoughts of love. That might have
been mine —and now never can : these are the two sole propo-
sitions that for ever stare me in the face, and look ghastly
in at my poor brain. lam in some sense proud that I can
feel this dreadful passion. It makes me a kind of peer in
the kingdom of love. But I could have wished it had been
for an object that, at least, could have understood its value
and pitied its excess. • • • The gates of Paradise were
once open to me, and I blushed to enter but with the
golden keys of love ! I would die—but her lover—my love
of her—ought not to die. When lam dead, who will love
her as I have done? If she should be in misfortune, who
will comfort her? When she is old, who will look in her
face and bless her ? • • • Oh, answer me, to save me
if possible for her and from myself !
Much original matter of this kind imparts
interest and a certain degree of value to the
book, though mixed up with trifling details
and worthless criticism. Mr. Patmore is
sadly deficient in judgment. In excuse of
Count d'Orsay he relates that
in England no married man in high life is thought the
worse off, or treated the worse, even by the female Mends
of hie wife, for being suspected of having a mistress or two,
and that every unmarried man in high life is compelled to
keep a mistress whether he likes it or not, unless he would
put his character in jeopardy.
His acquaintance with high life is not so
intimate as to qualify him to pronounce a
positive judgment on this or any other point
relating to it.

The Flitch of Bacon ; or, the Custom of Duumow.
A Tale of English Home. By William
Harrison Ainsworth. London • Routledge
and Co.
Tax title of this story awakens expectations
which the narrative fulfils in an excellent
spirit. It is, as it professes to be, a story of
English life, illustrating one of those tradi-
tions which touch the heart of our old man-
ners, and which, long after the usages have
passed away. linger pleasantly in the memory
of the people. Two capital pictures are brought
out with truthful effect in the course of the tale
—the interior of the ancient inn of Dunmow,
and the household of a genuine foxhunter of
the last century. These are not merely
lively bits of description, but essential
elements in the progress of the actin.
The characters are carefully individualised,
and are placed in circumstances that ex-
hibit the modes of rural life in England
at a time when lumbering waggons did
duty for railroads, and lords of manors might
hunt the whole country wide without being
compelled to breathe their horses while a
train swept by. We pass under the sign of
the Flitch into the hostelry of that name, and
find ourselves in the presence of a company
that express in their costume, conversation,
and specialities, the ooleur locale of the period.
We go up to the Squire's house, and from the
kennel to the drawing-room we are introduced
to a state of society of which few traces now
remain, except in the pages of Addison and
Fielding. The establishment of Mark Monk-
bury, Esq., of Monkbury place, commonly
known as the " Squire " in that part of the
country, is the most successful piece of painting
in the book. The " Squire" is a jovial foxhunter,