The Press.
London, England, 1858-10-16 00:00:00

NEW NOVELS.

1. Bertha Darley ; or, Life in her Husband's
Coracles. By L. IL B. London : James

Blackwood.
2. Gordon of Duncairn. Two Vols. London :
Bentley.
3. Recollections of a Maiden Aunt. London :
Saunders and Otley.
1. "WE are strange impulsive beings—creatures
" of circumstance—led by a thought, and carried
" away upon the wings of imagination, until
" common-sense is lost and left behind in the
" fascinating flight," says the first sentence of
this novel. Whether the authoress is comment-
ing on the infirmities of the human race in
general, or of lady-writers in particular, or whe-
ther the remark is merely a trap to catch unwary
critics who may be induced to say that "it pre-
" cisely foreshadows the character of the book,"
are questions of which we have not felt bound to
devote much time to the solution. We can only
say that we think it isn't true, since the succeed.
ing pages prove that it is quite possible to leave
" common-sense" behind without showing any
" imagination" and without indulging in any-
thing that deserves to be termed a " fascinating
flight."

Bertha Darley (née Stapleton) is a rather
spoilt child, and an heiress in a small way, whose
childhood has the usual incidents of quarrels
with wooden governesses and friendships with
quaint but exemplary nurses. She grows up,
and completes a childish attachment by engaging
herself to henry Darley, the son of a country
neighbour. Ile enters the Army, but, having
taken a serious turn, leaves his profession for the
Church. This step is one which in real
life is, we are told, regarded with favour by
the majority of young ladies, who find some
irresistible attraction in a black coat. Per-
haps they like having a parson of their own, all
to themselves. But L. 11. B.'s heroine cannot en-
dure the loss of the uniform, so she breaks off the
engagement. It is, however, renewed by an acci-
dental meeting at a picnic, and she resolves to be
a model clergyman's wife. Henry, who is a
paragon of perfection, becomes curate to an
Anglican divine in a manufacturing town, and
fills his previously empty church by his excellent
preaching. The rector's peculiarities give much
scope for the authoress's satiric humour, which
also overflows at the expense of nearly all the
other inhabitants of the neighbourhood. There
is a would-be fashionable lady, with a vulgar

husband ; a benevolent lord, and the usual
number of malleable poor people and intractable
tradesmen. It is scarcely necessary to say that
L. 11. B. falls into the common mistake of sup-
posing that to describe tedious or vulgar people
you have simply to write down a quantity of
tedious or vulgar nonsense, and we have, accord.
ingly, such conversations as the following (we
must premise that " Constance " is a cousin of
Mrs. Parley who has come to stay with her, and
who is intended for a perfect young lady, perhaps
a thought too fond of horseflesh, but beautiful,
graceful, and dignified, without a flaw in either
her appearance or her manners ):
Mrs. Durnford waived ceremony and met us in the
hall, expressing just sufficient admiration fur Constance's
carriage and thorough-breds to please me.
" Your driving, too, dear Miss Stapleton, is perfect, and
your graceful horsemanship is the admiration of the gentle-
men, and the envy of the ladies of D—. In fact 1 envy
you myself, and would give all I possess to manage my
fiery steed with your coolness, grace, and tae'."
" Which simply means boldness, dear Mrs. Durnford,"
replied Constance, smiling, " if you were not inclined to
flatter me. But how lovely the river looks to-day from
! I declare, Bertie, this is the most charming
spot in the neighbourhood. Ah ! that garden to the
right, with its many-coloured flowers and sloping lawn,
how it reminds me of Stapleton and my garden, which
I planned myself! What delight a garden is ! I never tire
of mine."

" I wish I could any the same," said Mrs. Durnford,
languidly ; " I tire of looking at it, and long for seven-
leagued boots to carry me far away to some more congenial
element than this place—the society is so mixed."
" Ah, yes ! so it is," said Constance, laughing quizzically;
" bright geraniums, modest roses, vulgar sweet•williams,
elegant fuschias, and gaudy tulips—but the variety is
charming after all, Mrs. Durnford."
" What. a darling quiz you are ! Oh, we shall become
capital friends, I see that; so much esprit of character
is delightful! Badinage is quite my forte, and yours too,
dear Miss Stapleton ; but how few excel iu it, or under-
stand it."

" A dangerous gift, Mrs. Durnford," I said abruptly •,
" people often like to display their wit at the expense of
others, and 1 think satirical badinage the lowest kind of
wit—next to a pun."
"And some one has said—Dr. Johnson, was it not?—
that he who could make a pun would pick a pocket; so
you and I, Mrs. Durnford, in future may consider our-
selves one remove only from the fraternity of light-
finger'. Thank you, cousin mine, for the suggestion;'
said Constance, turning to me and curtsying with mock
gravity.
"If you are really fond of flowers, Miss Stapleton,"
said Mrs. Durnford, " for their own sake, and not merely
as an adjunct to beauty in the salon, which I fancy is the
secret of most ladies' floral admiration, we will take a turn
through the gardens and greenhouses before luncheon—
they are in excellent order just now, Jones, the head-
gardener, informed me yesterday, and there are some rare
plants of which he is very proud."
" I must plend guilty to an excessive love of flowers, and
I think I may say I love them for their own sake; in fact,
I always think they look sadly out of their element in a hot
stifling ball-room, or adorning the wacassered locks of
some fair belle, drooping their pretty beads as though they
mourned their degradation and our folly. No, I love tc do
homage to their loveliness," said Constance smiling, as she
passed her arm through mine and prepared for our walk ;
" and am a veritable slave to them at Stapleton, nursing,
tending, and pruning them daily with my own fair hands,
as your elegant friend Mr. Montague, 'Judie, termed toy
doigts last evening."
Mrs. Duriiford's admiration for Constance appeared nn•
hounded ; her looks, her conversation, her manner, she
pronounced "charming," sotto voce to me ; whilst 1, being
only a curate's wife, carne in for her patronage.

Probably our readers will see but little to choose
between Constance's polish and Mrs. Durnford's
vulgarity. Do people in actual life ever say
"cousin mine," or do charming young ladies
call the fingers " doigts," or prose about floral
ethics in the above insufferable manner ? We
don't believe that even L. H. B. herself talks so
absurdly. To proceed, however, with the story.
Constance is wooed and won, after some slight
preliminary difficulties, by a clergyman if pos-
sible more perfect and bewitching than herself.
Even the adored " Henry " must yield to the
moral, physical, and intellectual glories of Mr.
Basil Spencer, who makes the manufacturing
deserts to which he is appointed curate blossom
with all those ecclesiastical flowers which are (in
novels) supposed to be the peculiar growth of
exclusively agricultural parishes. Unfortunately,
a being like Basil Spencer is much too good for
this world, and none who are acquainted with
model clergymen—we don't know any in the
flesh, but our readers may—will be surprised to
hear that he is obliged to go to Nice, and that
after a short subsequent career of intense bril-
d
liancy and usefulness, he breaks a bloodvessel an
leaves an inconsolable widow. There is not, of
course, the slightest necessity for killing him, or
even for making hint hectic; but
work novelists
out no
plot and fulfils no purpose;lady