The Press.
London, England, 1854-03-18 00:00:00

258

viscountess, and she is introduced to us, for
the excitation of our enthusiasm, at the ripe
age of—thirty-two ! The hero of the tale is a
certain Walter Malden, the ward of the vis-
countess, whom he calls his " Gardy," and
with whom he is desperately in love ! He pro-
poses for her, and she, though deeply smitten
with his attractions, declines his passionate
entreaties, and refuses him on the ground that
he is too young fur her, and she does not wish
to defraud him of the enjoyment of the spring-
time of his life ! Then they become both of
them as supremely wretched, through the
whole of the second volume, as sentimental
novel-readers could desire. Such a plot is of
course unnatural even to absurdity, yet there
is an intensity in the writing which reminds
us of the excited tone of composition in
Wilkie Collins's "Basil." We will givo our
readers some specimens of the style. The
heroine is thus depicted :

She was a little woman of just two-and-thirty; with mild
loving eyes, that sparkled and twinkled, however, very
brightly, when there was a merry thought behind them,
or when a flash of generous indignation, or of impatience at
men's absurdities, fired them; with a sweet smile thatcould
be very radiant and sunny too sometimes; and a playful
engaging manner when she was happy, that was exceedingly
delightful to those she liked ; broken, however, by occa-
sional pensive, impressed looks, like passing clouds—very,
very sad, too, now and then—telling of stuff of deeper and
of warmer nature within that small frame, than the child-
like face and simple ways would at first have led you to
give her credit for ; and telling too of a good deal of suf-
fering and trial lived through once, though now put aside,
as it were.

Of her physical exterior, at this present date, I do not
intend to say more than may be gathered from what I have
said already. But long ago, before she had known care,
when she was free and happy as the young birds carolling
outside my window there, those who knew her called her
sweetly pretty ; and said, that, if absolute beauty was not
hers, there was a heavenliness in her expression, a play of
countenance, an animation of manner, an attractive charm
about almost everything she said and did, which all hearts
acknowledged, and of which she alone remained u nconcio us.
There was so much tenderness, they said, in her smile,
so much archness in her look, and joyousness in her
laughing eyes, when she was gay ; so much intellect and
soul in her face when she was thoughtful or touched ; such
softness of voice ; such unaffected, attaching kindness and
loveability in her, altogether; that if she was not beautiful
those who liked her fancied she was—and I believe that
was pretty nearly everybody that came near her.
Mr. Dickens describes one of his female
characters as being "a gushing little thing ;"
and there is a facility of effusion about the
emotional nature of the author of "Agnes
Valmar " that may well deserve to be called
" gushing." There is something, however, of
lyrical passion in his (or her?) utterances.
Many novel-readers are taken with such
writing as that which describes Agnes when a
girl with her mother:—

Her mother she worshipped ;—and well she might ! Her
mother was one of those beings whom the very, very for-
tunate may know once in their lives, but of whom the
majority of the world have never, from their own experience,
been enabled to form a conception. Oh! that beautiful,
pure mind ; that clear, high intellect ; that angel's temper ;
that finely-attuned, feeling soul, with its delicate but deep
and acute sense of beauty ; that unselfish, steel-true,
devoted heart ;—who shall dare to say, with truth, he has
met its equal on earth ? None, I honestly think, none. It
is folly, perhaps; it may be unreason, injustice ; it will seem
so, doubtless, to others ;—but I knew her, and they did not ;
and in my sacred soul I believe there never was, or will be,
another like her. The little I have said of her does not
come near picturing her perfect character,—no, not within
a thousand miles. Evil could not approach her: wrong or
folly, and she were as incompatible as fire and water. In my
sacred soul I believe she never did a wrong thing. Her
judgment was so accurate, her mind so straight, so just,
always; her instincts were so pure, it seemed as though
she could not err ; yet her affections were warm, devoted,
engrossing—more so than those of the most wildly im-
passioned. But they wandered not abroad ; they centred
in her family and home, and there they made a heaven.
There she was adored. Her gentle presence diffused
warmth and light and comfort, wherever it came, like the
sun in May.

Then how they loved to read together ! What mines of
beauty and of feeling, and of pure and elevating thought,
were opened out to Agnes's awakening soul, as her mother's
simple, soft, expressive voice filled her ear and mind with
all that was most touching, and noblest and truest, that the
genuine poets and high intellects of the past and present
have given us to feed on. Or, when they sate near
each other in the warm summer evenings, on the
soft, sunny lawn, and listened to the rich, round
nuts of the blackbirds and thrushes singing into the
twilight ; or strolled together through the fresh fields
in spring, to scent the primrose and violet-covered banks ;
or stood side by side, in autumn, on the rocks by the wild
seashore, and watched the mnjestic, booming waves break
at their feet ; or, at intervals, travelling together farther
and wider through smiling, mellow England, or the sublimer
scenery of Wales ;—what words could paint the full, quiet