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

THE PRESS, OCTOBER 16, 1858.

manner, and break each other's hearts without the
least occasion. True, they eventually kiss and make
friends again, and, according to the Ovidian
maxim, renew their love-passages with redoubled
ardour. Indeed, we have seldom encountered
heroes and heroines of such ardent temperament
as those to whom we are introduced in this
double-barrelled fiction. The gentlemen hug
and squeeze the ladies with Cornish vigour, while
the ladies rest their heads on the gentlemen's
shoulders and weep on their shirt-fronts in the
most pathetic manner imaginable, and seem to
like it rather than not. Is it so in real life ? we
are tempted to inquire. Is the carte du tendre
usually surrounded with so moist an atmosphere ?
Are the lakes, rivers, and oceans on its spotty
surface the agglomerations of the pearly drops
that steal from the eyes alike of the happy and
the sorrowful ? Be this as it may, we enter our
solemn protest against this superabundance of
aqueous humour. It is a poetic fallacy to sup-
pose that tears become any one, or that they
bear any resemblance to dewdrops on the petals
of a rose. They are nothing in the world but
acrid salt water, that gives a grimy appearance
to the cheeks, while they cause the unoffending
nose to wear an incarnate hue, combining the
effects of the east wind with those resulting from
indulgence in generous wine. For ourselves, we
infinitely prefer the smile to the tear on the face
of our dear, and we warn all fair candidates for
our hand to eschew all lachrymose effusions an
they love us. We fear, however, that some of
our young lady-friends will be disappointed if
they expect the man of their choice to strain
them to his bosom with the emphasis of Archie
GrEeme or Gordon of Duncairn, or hope to feel
his suppressed sobs of ecstacy and hear his deep-
toned voice falter. Nor will they act wisely if
they raise their glistening eyes to his as they
whisper those words of hope, " Ask mamma," for
perchance at that moment the wretch is playing
with his moustaches and beginning to think that
he has gone a little too far. As a rule, it may
be said that every man when he proposes hopes
to be refused, and is disappointed with his vic-
tory. The race has been won, but the risk is
yet to come ; besides, he likes the running for
its own sake, and is not altogether pleased at being
debarred from entering himself for other stakes.
However, such is evidently not the opinion of
the authoress of " Gordon of Duncairn." In her
eyes, marriage is manifestly the end of all things,
and the highest reward for nice young men and
ladylike girls. Accordingly, she bestows the
celestial boon with ungrudging hand on the lords
and ladies, the baronets and heiresses who figure
in her magic lantern. Her scenes, be it observed,
are all laid in fashionable life, and the society to
which the reader is introduced is always highly
genteel. Her characters, too, are usually very
correct (with the exception of Sir James Leslie's
first wife, who makes an awkward mistake), and,
notwithstanding their impulsive temperaments,
behave with commendable propriety. As much
of the plot is unravelled in the north of Scotland,
recourse is naturally had to dreams as a conve-
nient piece of machinery for filling up uncom-
fortable gaps ; and thus an insight is given into
past and future events which could not otherwise
have been obtained without a third volume.
Though not indicative of the highest order of
talent, " Gordon of Duncairn" is quite up to the
average standard of ephemeral novels. The
various personages, if not very distinctly drawn
or possessed of much individuality, represent the
style of people one ordinarily meets with in the
world, while the dialogues are comprehensible
and the diction ladylike without being ungram-
matical.

1. Next to the maternal character, the most
beautiful by far is that of the maiden aunt, taking
all but a mother's interest in her brother's or
sister's children. In some respects it stands alone
and unapproachable. What other relative is
there so totally devoid of selfishness, so wrapt in
the welfare of others, so sure a refuge in sorrow
and sickness, or any human affliction ? That
frozen surface thaws so gently beneath the
mildest ray of sympathy and kindness, till the
bleak and chilly aspect disappears beneath
Alpine flowerets delicate of hue and graceful of
form. There is something, too, inexpressibly
touching in the subdued and timid demeanour
that seems to hint at sonic past romance which
has cast a lengthening shadow to the very sunset
of life. That meek and loving heart is, after all,

1011

but a pent-up Maelstrom of human passions, idly
fretting in its lowest depths beneath a serene and
unrippled surface. Such, at least, was the
" Maiden Aunt " whose sweet and bitter memo-
ries are here laid bare to the gaze of the vulgar.
They contain nothing, indeed, very startling or
strange, no thrilling incidents or impassioned
dialogue, nothing pathetic, nothing sentimental.
And yet the little unpretending tale is tender
through its artless simplicity, and excites that
feeling of pleasurable sadness which is the very
" luxury of woe." The kindly, warmhearted
old lady illustrates as it were these lines of Long-
fellow,-.

Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays Ilia open palm
Upon his harp to deaden its vibrations.

It is a sad but pleasing picture drawn from the
life, and real in its very. monotony and common-
place. How true, for instance, is the following
passage, pointing out the danger of befriending
" shy young gentlemen" :
Amongst our visitors, there was frequently a young
man, the son of an old friend of my father's, who was
awkward, shy, and stupid, to an extraordinary degree ; he
had been encouraged by his father to go into society, as
a last hope, that being constantly with young men of his
own age might improve Imn. He was the laughing.
stock of the party, and was almost entirely lett to him-
self, until seeing how dull he was, and thinking his shy,
awkward manner arose iron a painful knowledge of his
own deficiencies, I took him under my protection, and
did my best to amuse him. Many a time did I place
my sketchbook in the greatest jeopardy of having a tall
m the mud by letting him carry it, that he might have
something to do witu his bands, and never complained,
though he always turned the leaf of my music at thu
wrong time. Imagine my surprise one day at receiving
a letter from him, beginning by broadly hinting that be
had long seen my affection fur himself, that he had nut
originally intended marrying so young, but that he was
sure he should add much to his happiness in securing
a wife so devoted to him, and therefore offered his hand
and heart to my keeping tor the rest of his hfe. At first
I did not really believe that he had written the letter, and
fancied that it might be some vulgar joke to take me in,
but I soon found it was strious, and that he was coming
for his answer the next morning. How bewildered he
looked, poor youth, when I told him that it was quite
impossible I could accept his generous offer, and I believe
had a vague idea that I did not consider myself good
enough, for he hastened to assure me that I was ! But I
soon undeceived him, and for the future was very careful
how I befriended shy young gentlemen.

But why, oh Maiden Aunt, are thy sentences
modelled after the manner of Titus Livius—or,
as our "lively allies" delight to call him, M.
Tite Live ? Two to a whole page is surely scant
allowance, to say nothing of the difficulty of
deciphering their precise meaning. Here are
two by no means the longest or the most obscure,
but which would puzzle the pale, patient shade
of even Lindley Murray :

We had been so long his only companions, that we both
probably felt more than a usual sister's interest in his
troubles; and though each, and especially Rose, felt that
he ought to make greater struggles to interest himself and
improve in his (to him) objectionable studies, as my tether
was so anxious about it, yet no one can deny that his fate
seemed a hard one, and we, his sisters, felt it was so, and
pitied him extremely, sympathizing as we did in his pre •
dilection for the profession of arms.
We used to long for some one in whom we might con-
fide, and whose advice might reconcile Hugh to his lot, for
we had often tried in vain, and were now continually re-
ceiving letters from him full of lamentations, and plans by
which he hoped to induce his father to change his views,
and we used to feel so guilty and miserable at being obliged
to keep these letters secret, fur though my mother's affec•
Lion fur all her children was undoubted and sincere, yet,
from some cause or other, Rose and I k though I am sure
it did not arise from want of love or respect to her) were
still too much under constraint in her presence, and so
unused to tell her our little griefs, to think of confiding this.

The Gloaming of Life. A Memoir of James
Stirling. By the Rev. Alexander Wallace.
Glasgow : Scottish Temperance League.
TIrE substance of this volume was published in
the pages of the Commonwealth, and it is now
reprinted in a cheap form. James Stirling was
a Scotch shoemaker, who, at a late period of life,
emancipated himself from habits of drunkenness,
and became a distinguished Temperance reformer.
He appears to have possessed sincerity and a
more than ordinary share of talent, and that he
greatly served the cause to which he devoted
"the gloaming" of his life cannot be doubted.
His story is, perhaps, set forth at too great length,
but it possesses much interest as being descriptive
of life among the lower classes of Scotland, and
as exhibiting the workings of mind remarkable
in its character. The most affecting incident in
the book is the manner in which Stirling way