The Press.
London, England, 1857-08-22 00:00:00

THE PRESS, AUGUST 22, 1857.

moralise upon the most trivial occasions.
Owing to the first, his pages are crowded with
minor characters, who display no speciality ;
and, owing to the second, the bulk of the book
much exceeds its interest. Authors some-
times speak of the undue harshness of critics
Whether right or wrong, the former have their
revenge. The critic is compelled to read
whatever the author sets before him, and there
is seldom sufficient gold found among the
wool to repay the trouble of searching. We
always feel, therefore, that to point out to
authors, especially inexperienced ones, any
means by which their productions may be
divested of superfluous matter, is to per-
form a service no less to themselves than to
our fraternity. It is only a very great man
indeed who in 1857 can say anything new in
morals, but fresh and lively narrative and dra-
matic contrast will always please and interest ;
and we recommend the author of " Quinland,"
in his next work, to give us more description
and less philosophy, to finish off more care
fully such characters as Agincourt and Monk,
and to leave " their internal questionings" to
take care of themselves.

" Wayside Fancies " (2) is a most agreeable
and clever little volume. The prose, which is
much better than the poetry, displays touches
of real humour and bits of quaint description.
The little tale " Murder will Out," and a paper
on the owl entitled " Bubo's Wanderings," ex-
hibitj ust that mixture of kindliness and comedy
which is hereditary in the case of this au-
thoress. For a story of touching and simple
pathos we think " The Sum of Life " evinces
very high excellence; so much so, indeed,
that, although rather long, we feel quite jus-
tified in transcribing it:—
Among the many tales of real life that came before me
was the one lam about to relate. I had made a rule on
entering my curacy to call upon every one in my district ;
and among others, upon an elderly widow, living in one
half of a very small cottage, in a back street. I found her
unusually intelligent and sensible, but labouring under a
great depression of spirits. While I was talking to her I
chanced to put my hand upon an old bock lying in the
window•seat. It was an ar.cient almanac, much thought
of in its day, I dare say, but now long forgotten. But my
eye was struck with the curious appearance of the book—
for all down the margin of each page were the following
figures :-
17
23
15

There were several letters, and a word or two without
connection, but the same figures recurred again and
again ; and, iu fact, in every page of the book. The
handwriting was beautifully small and fine—the figures
especially, and I asked the old woman if the writing was
hers. She answered " No," and seeing the tears in her
eyes, I did not make any further allusion to the subject.
On slater visit, however, when she was laid up by asevere
attack of illness, and, perhaps, felt more acutely the force
of a little sympathy, she opened her mind fully to me, and
unasked told me the story of the book.
Her husband had been a carpenter, and they had but one
surviving child. a daughter, having lost two or three in
their infancy. This endeared the survivor still more to
them both ; but especially to her mother.
They had been rather above the common class of poor,
and contrived to keep several comforts around them, and
the old man was said to have saved up a considerable sum
for a poor person. They had always kept their daughter
at school, where she had, by perseverance and intelligence,
gained quite a superior education to those of her own
rank. When she was about seventeen, a young stone-
mason of the neighbourhood proposed marriage with her,
to her father. She had long known and liked him, and
had many a pleasant walk on a summer evening with
him. For a wonder she bad chosen wisely and well, for
he was as superior, and even more so, to his station, as
she was, and was as good a scholar as herself. Unfortu•
nately, however, her father, after tacitly allowing it so long,
objected on the score of money, and in spite of her
entreaties—joined with her mother's—forbid him the
house. At first she hoped to soften him by her submis-
sion, which indeed came naturally to her gentle spirit,
and her lover remained constant, their only consolation
being the frequent letters passing between them. Some of
these the poor mother still possessed, and showed them to
me ; and, notwithstanding their frequent homeliness of
expression, there was a simple pathos and resignation in
them that touched me almost to tears.

Two or three years went on, slowly and sadly—the
father continuing still obstinate in accordance with his
ragged nature, and hope fading gradually but surely
from the humble lovers. She was a gentle, affectionate
girl, and would not marry without her father's consent,
although she could not conquer the love that was twined
with her very heart-strings. At last her father, finding
that she still clung to this first and last attachment, and
that she refused two or three offers he thought more
suitable, forbid the correspondence, and desired her to
think of him no more.

This was a heavy blow to her, and for a while her health
and spirits sank under it. To muse her from this, her

(2) Wayside /antic+. By Frances heeling Brodecip. Lon-
don: Mosso.