The Press.
London, England, 1858-10-23 00:00:00

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1032 THE PRES S, OCTOBER 23, 1858.
--- .Tiered sitting down a matter of sheer impossibility, voices came floating richly, yet softly, ttiroub,.
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lators on the social sympathies of literature might
possibly find food for meditation. But in this
case the aristocratic sentiment is placed before us
in a far more attractive light, as the stimulus to
nobility of conduct, of action, and of thought.
The young Marquis of Campcey d'Hauterive is,
indeed, a gentleman in the highest, the purely
modern, sense ofthe word. Although nurtured in
the lap of luxury, he does not hesitate a moment,
when he finds that the estate which his father has
left him represents a negative quantity, to look
the stern realities of his position in the face and
grapple with them like a man. A proposed mar-
riage with a roturier heiress, whose millions are
to be a set-off against his title, is rejected with
disdain. This title, " which exposes him to such
" miserable projects of intrigue," he resolves to
drop, and accepts, under the simple name of M.
Maxime Odiot, an appointment as agent to a
wealthy parvenu family, who have purchased an
immense estate in Brittany. llere his high-
bred qualities, both personal, intellectual,
and moral, make a deep impression upon
the beautiful heiress of the house, and, after
the usual labyrinth of cross purposes, misappre-
hensions, and jealous interference, we leave the
affianced lovers comfortably clasped in each
other's arms—an agreeable denouement which M.
Campcey d'Hauterive picturesquely dashes off in
the final ejaculation—" Je crus que mon ame
nfechappait." With regard to merit—both read-
able and artistic—" Le Roman d'un Jeune
Homme Pauvre " may claim a high place.
There is a charm about this young marquis—
his egotism is so genial—his refinement of idea
and rectitude of conduct are so naturally mani-
fested, without display or &cave of any sort or
kind, but simply as the spontaneous suggestion
of a noble heart—that we become veritably
attached to him as we read on, and interest our-
selves in his prospects as with a valued friend.
M. Octave I'euillet is evidently one of those
kindly and genial natures which derive positive
enjoyment from the delineation of amiability, and
the contemplation of the happiness he creates.
He dwells with manifest gusto on all that is
lovable—on beauty, courage, generosity, truth.
Hence his characters have warmth, and therefore
life and nature about them. Even where the
artistic relief of more prominent figures requires
some disagreeable or ludicrous subordinates by
way of foil, he plays the satirist and the caricaturist
with a good-humoured indulgence which carries
throughout the whole perspective of his picture,
with true artistic skill, that warm sunny atmo-
sphere which forms one of its greatest charms.
We have not left ourselves space for quota-
tions. But if we have said enough to induce the
reader to go for these to the hook itself, we feel
perfectly satisfied that he will close it with an
exalted and grateful sense of our critical acumen.
and of the justice of our strictures on the Index
F,xpurgatorius of the British Islands.

Quicksands. A Tale. By Anna Lisle. London :

Groombridge.
WHEN Miss Lisle's former work, " Self and Self-
Sacrifice," appeared, it received much praise in
our columns, and the authoress, in her present
story, more than sustains the reputation made by
her tbrmer writings. She has considerable
qualifications for a narrator of interesting tales,
and her conceptions of female character are
simple and natural. Her mind has mucb sweet-
ness of sentiment and geniality of tone, and she
has a quick eye for perceiving those effects in
actual life which a literary artist can turn to
good account in a description.
" Quicksands" opens by introducing us to a
certain Ilelen Grey, a mere child at the time,
and endowed with many good qualities, but with
an abundant share of human weakness. The
manner in which we first become acquainted with
Helen Grey is an ingenious device on the
part of the authoress, whose story thus opens :
" Now, Betay-Jane, go and mind the shop, while I and
Matilda-Anne cook the (Winer. Matilda-Anne, you peel
these potatoes ;—l'll help yon in a minute, when I've made
the beds and swept the floor.':

that rendered sitting down a matter of sheer impossibility,
took her stand against the window•seat, which was
supposed to be the shop counter.
" What have we got for dinner, mother ?" asked
Matihla•Anne, in an exceedingly faint treble, with a strong
nasal intonation.

" Roast leg of mutton, and baked potat3es, and jam
bolster," WAS the response.
" Shop, mother!" squeaked Matilda• Anne, from the
windows seat.

" Coming!" shouted the proprietress of the establish-
ment. " Now Betsy-Jane, you just-"

One would anticipate from this opening a tale
of common life, in which we were to be invited to
take interest in the happiness and woes of very
plain folk. But it seems that Helen Grey was
only talking to her dolls, and amusing herself
with imaginary conversations between her little
puppets. The mother of Helen Grey by no
means relished the style of conversation drama-
tised by her lively daughter, and she interposed
with true maternal dignity :

But the colloquy was destined to go no further; for it
was unpleasantly ctt short by a third person.
" Helen!" interrupted Mrs. Grey, in an awful voice,
" Helen !--where have you learnt to talk in this shocking
manner?"

Helen was too much astonished to reply; she could only
stare in silence at her mother.

voices came floating
ery richl
air, making her feel happyt softly, through the quiet
"Is that a nightingale, I wonder ? if John were
here, to tell me ! Oh, if John were here "
She had not thought of him while gazing around on her
oplencliil room. That was all Art, and had no affinity with
him :—this was Nature.

" How pleasant it would be, to walk with him in those
delicious paths, and to sit down with him beside the stream
and have long talks ! " She sighed. " But I can take his
letters there to read ;—that will be next iyst to himself."
She left the window, and. perceiving another door at the
other end of the room, opened it.
" Pear me! how beautiful! This must he the drawing.
room."

Mrs. Grey continued in the same dread voice. " Do you
not know that it is very naughty, and vulgar, and dis-
gracefill—yes, disgraceful "—and she paused, to give due
effect to her last word—" to talk in that strange way?"
" But I always talk like that to my dolls ! I'm pre-
tending to be a woman keeping a shop; and Betsy-Jane
and Matilda-Anne are my two little girls, and
" There, do not tell me anything more about it !—it
positively makes me shudder, to hear you!"
" Is it so very naughty, mamma ? "
" Of course it is !—very naughty! and if I hear any more
of it, I shall be seriously displeased, and shall—whip you 1"
The offender did not, however, feel much intimidated by
this threat; for she knew that her mother would as soon
think of undertaking an excursion to the moon, as of
bestowing corporeal punishment en her.
" But, mamma, must I never keep shop again, with
Betsy-Jane and Matilda-Anne?"
" Of course not !—and you must never again call your
dolls by those vulgar names ! Why not call them Julia
and Amelia ?—far prettier names, I am sure.—And why
not play at some other game ?—there are so many pretty
games for a little girl to play at with her dolls ! For
instance, you could pretend to he a duchess, and you could
take Lady Julia and Lady Amelia to a ball—or to Court.
Would not that be far more amusing? "

Here we have the impulsive and open character
of Helen Grey shadowed out at the very com-
mencement, and made to contrast with the
ambitious nature of the mother. Years went by,
and Helen Grey grew up in grace, and was un-
doubtedly a most charming and attractive girl,
though too subject, like other fair daughters of
Eve, to impressions of sentiment. She was apt to
conceive friendships and aversions with too much
facility; when she was only six years old she
could not abide a certain Miss Thomson because
her clothes were finer and more expensive than
those Miss Helen had herself. In short, Helen
Grey was rather wilful and wayward, but she
had such liveliness and so many attractive points
that she was, beyond doubt, a delightful girl,
and it was not at all surprising that a certain Mr.
Howard, one of their neighbours, should have
been smitten with her beauty. She liked him
equally well, and, though she was very young,
it was arranged that young Howard should be
received as a regularly accepted lover.
There came, however, into their neighbour-
hood the great Mrs. Huntingdon, of Staniswood,
who patronized the Greys, and invited them to
pass a few days at Staniswood. The Greys were
only genteel people of the middle class in life,
and they were often straitened as to their family
expenses. Staniswood was a grand place, with
splendidly furnished rooms, and Helen Grey's
sense of dazzlement is thus described :

Just then, Mrs. lluntingdon entered the bedroom, and
not finding Helen there, sought her in the inner room.
"What a beautiful drawing-room! " repeated Helen.
" Drawing-room?—von little goose !—this is your awn
sitting-room, or sanctum, or whvitever you like to call it.
Whenever you want to ha alone—not to be bored by penile
—you can take refuge here."
Helen was too much astonished for speech.

There was fine company, also, in this magnifi-
cent abode, and Arthur Huntingdon, the heir to
the estate, fell in love with Helen Grey. Now,
Arthur Huntingdon, in addition to being rich,
was also handsome and engaging in his address.
And yet there was a certain something about him
that would have made cautious people hesitate
about giving him their unreserved confidence.
Did Arthur Huntingdon drink ? Oh, no ! cer-
tainly not. Nobody ever saw him drinking, and
he did not smell of the bottle. Nevertheless, a
person might suspect occasionally, from that
flurried, over-excited manner, that Arthur
Huntingdon was addicted to secret intoxication.
He used sometimes get very depressed, and the
contrast between his high and low spirits was
distressing to witness. He did not drink. Well,
then, perhaps he gambled ? Nor that either.
It was a mystery that these fits of occasional ex-
citement and depression should come over him.
Although a brilliant Miss Atherton actively
angled to secure so rich a prize as Arthur Hun-
tingdon, it was fated that he should fall in love
with llelen Grey. But were not her feelings
already engaged with her first love P Helen
Grey was weak, irresolute, and greatly under
the influence of her mother. Mrs. Grey was
ambitious for her daughter's sake, and the
daughter lost her self-possession and allowed
herself to be swayed by the plausible insinua-
tions of her mother, to the effect that John
Howard did not, after all, care much for her.
During this vacillation of mind Helen wrote
strange letters to her lover and to his sister.
The agitation of her spirits, and the conscious•
ness that her feelings were not right, were re.
vealed in notes like the following :
My dear John,—llow I. wish you were here ! Sach a
splendid house—and so many servants—and such lovely
grounds ! We went down to a brook, by a delicious little
green path—he showed me the way. And he says that a
great many people are coming here, and that we shall be
very gay ; but I don't think I shall like any of them much.
Oh ! I do wish you were here !
Good bye, dear John. I have not time to write more,
bat I will send you a long letter the day after tomorrow.—
Yours affectionately, HELEN.

After a long season of struggles and doubts,
Arthur lluntingdon succeeded in marrying
Helen Grey, and the anguish caused to the
discarded lover is described in this passage :

Her room was furnished in the most luxurious style ;
and she wondered whether she should ever be able to
consider it a bedroom. Wonderfnl ottomans and conches,
richlycarved mirrors, ornaments in Sevres China, clocks,
lamps—everything to feast her eye and charm her fancy—
seemed to be congregated in that delightful room. As she
looked round, and called to mind her little humble apart-
ment at Brockley, a sensation of shame—almost of disgust
—crept over her ;—a feeling of unwillingness to return to
her homely dwelling. She approached one of the windows,
and looked out. " How exquisite ! " she thought ; for
before her was a soft, emerald lawn, sloping down
towards a row of trees, beyond which stretched, far away,
the purple hills, rising one above the other. To the right,
sue saw the openings of some wooded paths ; and she could
hear the silvery murmur of a brook, and could fancy it
rippling over stones, and moas,and mauy•coloured pebbles ;
and she pictured to herself the wild flowers that grew upon
ita banks. Mingled with the sound of the water, was the
song of birds—the blackbird, the thrush, the finch, and
many others;—the could distinguish thew all; and their

His excitement was fearful. His manner was almost
hysterical.
Oh, John ! you do not mean that! I know you better,
my dear child. If she met with any trouble, you would be
the first to pity and console her."
Now, ho threw himself upon the ground, and burst into
an agony of wild and passionate sobs. His mother knelt
beside him, for a long time, vainly trying to calm him. At
last, exhausted by the violence of the paroxysm, he grew
calmer. When he again spoke, it was almost in a whisper
—his voice was so faint and broken.
" Yes, yes—you speak truly.—l would lay down my fits
for her! I would crouch at her feet, like a dog, even
though she spurned me! See—see !—how my tears flow
for her, unworthy as she is !—Yet she is not to blame—
she has been led by others. Poor child !—poor, dear
child!"
"Nay, John—she is unworthy! She is heartless—
worldly—unprincipled! Think of her iu her true character,
and you will cease to love her !"
" Never, never'. " he passionately exclaimed. " Mother,
don't blame her—l can't bear it."
" Yon are very weak ! She is undeserving !"
" God bless her ! God bless her !" A long silence en-
sued; then he added, more gently.—
" My own dearest mother, we will talk no more oil this
subject. Let her he to on as though she were dead. I shall
in time confiner this weakness; but it will be long first.
For the feelings of years cannot be uprooted in a `fa
tly; and
my wound is so deep, that it will, I think, take yari of
quiet suffering to even soar it over. But, do not t'enr; 7
shall yet be proud of your Oen;ou
I will not sink (12wn into

Such were the commands addressed by Miss Helen
Grey—aged six—to two inanimate compounds of wax,
calico, anti bran—)'slept dolls. I.tatilda•Anne, who
luxuriated in the possession of joints, and consequently
experienced great difficulty in maintaining an erect
posture, was forthwith ensconced in an armchair, and
became absorbed in the bontemplation of some large beads,
which, for tho nonoe, did duty as potatoes ; while Betsy.
Jane, the johltless doll, Roomed :?f u rigidity of spice