The Press.
London, England, 1854-12-09 00:00:00

THE PRESS.

other in their faculties of observation, and in
unconsciously gathering materials for their
future use at a very early age. Exactly as the
portraits in the " Blind Fiddler " fixed them-
selves in Wilkie's mind long before he thought
of turning them to any account, did these
sketches of Irish character fasten themselves
on Mrs. Hall's imagination in her early days
when the originals were constantly before her.
She relates :

I have said the characters and sketches in this volume
are more decidedly taken from " the life " than any that
followed; as I became more skilled in " authorcraft," I
learned how I could better employ my materials, and com-
bine, as well at copy, grafting invention upon facts, and
facts upon invention ; but the characters here are all por-
traits, copied with fidelity and earnestness of purpose.

She proceeds to notice in few words the real
persons from whom her sketches are drawn.
" Master Ben," the Cullinstown schoolmaster,
who taught her arithmetic; John Williams,
the " Bannow postman ; " " Father Mike," the
Roman Catholic priest of the parish, as Roman
Catholics were before the bigotry of that most
noxious institution Maynooth had vulgarised
them in soul and mind ; with " Peggy the
Fisher," the " Bannow Boatman," and many
others, were the beings with whose lineaments
and characters she was most familiar in her
youth ; and, to speak candidly, it is this copy-
ing, as she terms it, from " the life" which will
preserve this book long after her best speci-
mens of " authorcraft " are forgotten.
We notice this preface for another reason.
Mrs. Hall has been in Ireland lately and
visited the scenes where her early years were
passed. No one is entitled to speak with
more authority on the changes which have
taken place in the locality which she knew so
well, and this is what she says :

Miles, and miles, and miles we passed in 18-52 without
meeting one human being ! Miles— up hills, down
dales, over those bounding leaping rivers—and no creature
to greet us with " God save you, and send you a good
journey ;" or, " God be praised for a fine day ;" or, " Take
it easy up the hill—may-be the lady would like an air of the
fire within there, and the mealy potatoes are just on the
boil."
No smoke from the cottiers' evening fires curling up the
mountains, or climbing like incense up the blue vault of
heaven, until it mingled with the atmosphere. If the
deserted cottages had been fairly levelled, and the plough
passed over their graves, it would have been paradise in
comparison to the bleared and burnt effect of the shattered
and roofless walls. More than once I saw the living
skeleton of a poor cat, clinging with the instinct of its race
to the abandoned dwelling, and staring, unconscious of
danger, and incapable of flight, at the carriage as it passed.
I dare say, nay, I am sure, the people are better away—
better in another land than in the one where those they
loved starved and died; but of all the wants the heart aches
for is the want of forms and voices where they once were
seen and heard.
Yes ! it is better for the landlords to have those people
away, and better for the people to be away from the land-
lords. And in fifty years, or less, those who have moved off
in that mighty exodus will have sunk into foreign graves,
and their children have become units in the mass of a
young and vigorous population—spreading their thousands
and tens of thousands over the unmeasured breadths, and
lengths, and depths of the new world!
Were 1 now to kneel upon my grandmother's square
grey tomb in 13annow Church, when the moon was rising,
the tide flowing gently in, the Hook light flinging its arrows
of warning and guidance over the billows, I could easily,
in that lonely place, fancy myself the last woman—the very
last iiving creature, where once I was surrounded by young
life !
Alas ! I could now wander from the church, through the
moor of Bannow, up the hill of Graige, past the windmill
and the forge, and where the cottages stood, and not recog-
nise a single countenance, or hear a single blessing! The
children, the few left in the land, to wait until sent for to
the new home of their fathers, would regard me as a
stranger.
There is the Bay of Graige !—there the Keroe and Saltee
Islands—there the mountain of Forth, with its angry cloud
cap—yonder I know are the houses of Grange and Kiltra,
and Barriatown ; and the old castles of Coolhull and Danes
are still smouldering away, and over the Scaur are the
Seven Castles of Clonmines—and there stretches the
borough of Ballytegue and Cullinatown, and over there—

.
" Bag and Bun,
Where Ireland was loot and won."

And yet they are but names and memories to me now—the
old people are all gone—new priests, new ministers, new
people
I look into the valley, where my own home stood so
firmly against hurricane and tempest. The wood has mar-
vellously increased. I can remember when much of it was
planted. Well do I know where the hospitable home was
seated—the long, awkward chimneys—the old gable, with its
warning bell, the multitude of long narrow w►ndows, the
high-backed roof, the in-and-out quaint little courts, the
myrtle hedges, the old-fashioned " flower-knot," the temple
and shell-house, and, more than all, my darling cottage—all
levelled with the earth—all a legend, a tradition—misty as
a dream ! And, but for one—my good and gentle mother
—upon whose patient head the snows of eighty winters
have fallen, but not pressed—l might think all Bannow a

SATURDAY,

mere dream ! all a mere dream—but for this dear and
sweet reality beside me: still beside me, God be thanked,
though five and twenty years have passed since, as an
author, I first put " pen to paper 1"

This exquisitely pathetic passage is more
touching in its reality than the imaginary
desertion of
Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain.
Ireland is unquestionably undergoing a great
change. Within a very few years we have
witnessed the progress of "agitation," distress
famine, pestilence, emigration. Now there is
quiet. May we dare to hope that prosperity
will complete the cycle?
This book has the plates by Maclise of
former editions, with many pretty woodcuts,
and is published at an extremely moderate
price.

The House of Raby ; or, Our Lady of Darkness.
London: Chapman and Hall.
IT is difficult to give an adequate notion of
this strange romance, which includes the his-
tory of a family for three generations. At the
opening of the story—though not of the book,
for the narrative commences at a date long
subsequent to the real beginning of the tale—
mention is made of Marie Antoinette, then in
her prime of beauty and sovereignty, and from
that period we follow the fortunes of the
house of Baby down to this year of grace,
1854, just catching glimpses as we proceed,
to mark the lapse of time, of the French Revo-
lution and its consequent wars, of the manu•
facturing discontent which ensued on the
peace, of the Reform excitement, and, lastly,
of the happy era of social improvement, with
national school, church • accommodation, and
model-cottages' fervour. The action and in-
cidents of this long narrative are so disjointed
that, though there is a thread of connection in
it, it can scarcely be called a story. We hardly
know whether to sympathise most with the
personages at the close or with those at
the beginning of the book, with the grand-
children or the grandparents. The whole
work has a phantasmagoria) character, real
things being represented in such strange
combination and distorted shape as to appear
unreal.
Tho castle of the Rabys, the ancestral
abode of the family, is a connecting link in
the narrative. It is a magnificent and solemn
residence, and a wealthy domain is attached
to it. The noble family seems at first sight
endowed with the choicest gifts of fortune,
with splendid position, great talent and
endowments, and rare personal beauty. But a
dark shadow moves through the castle-halls,
and casts a sentiment of melancholy on the
beautiful portraits of its gallery—a taint of
insanity runs through the blood. Yet this
shadow is accompanied by a beam of light.
As insanity breaks out in the two most con-
spicuous members of the house, devoted
affection on the part of a neighbouring, but
much humbler, family is developed with it.
This affection is so ardent and so elevated
that it esteems no sacrifice too great that it
may fulfil the humble duties of watchfulness
and. care. Two Rabys in hereditary succes-
sion are nursed by two Margarets of the
family of Hastings—a beautiful young girl
in each case, freely casting away all common
hopes of life, that she may live near the form,
and watch the eccentricities, of the afflicted
being she loves. The narrative is unnatural ;
but, apart from this objection, the repetition of
substantially the same story, though no doubt
designed, and not to be ascribed to poverty of
invention, has an unpleasing effect.
The second Margaret Hastings appears to
be the favourite of the author, but the
character of the first Margaret is more
vigorously conceived. The Earl of Carle-
ton is her brother's best friend. Mr,
Hastings has the rectory of Carleton, and at
his house the young peer is a frequent resi-
dent. He loves Margaret, and makes her an
offer of his hand ; but the taint of insanity has
been manifested in the family, and, acting on
the counsel of her friends, and supported by
high principle, she declines the offer, none
suspecting that, under her calm exterior, she
nourishes an ardent and ineradicable passion
for her amiable and gifted, but unfortunate,
suitor. Thenceforth their ways of life are