The Sun.
London, England, 1849-10-20 00:00:00

LITERATURE

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TALES of the PEERAGE and PEASANTRY.
By Lady Ducre.
The Stand..rd Novels lit.v.; already furnished the
reading world will' reprints of no less than one
hundred and sixet.fn of the chef dceuvres of modern
fiction. Yet, however attractive the catalogue may
have been hitherto, this new edition is hardly inferior
to any of its predecessors, while it is superior to very
many of them. Rightly does Lady nacre, in her
preface, observe, that all she writes bears the
stamp
of feminine authorship, but that characteristic is, in
her works, a most exquisite attraction. Rightly,
again, does she remind us that, "in the human heart
the same passions and the same emotions are found in
all ages," and, she might have added, in all ranks, for
in the three beautiful tales in this volume, of which it
is difficult to say which is the most beautiful, she has
portrayed to us three heroines, dissimilar and totally
unlike in position, but all three possessed of such
truly womanly characteristics, so naturally and
heartily depicted, as at once to betray her woman's
pen, and do honour to her womm's heart. The name
of the first " Winifred, Countess of Nithsdale," is
sufficient to indicate its interesting nature. The
escape of Lord Nithsdale, through the instrumen-
tality of his wife, is a matter of history. We all of us
have, ere this, admired the heroic wife, it has been
left for Lady Dacre to make us love the gentle
woman. The character of Winifred, as here
portrayed, so childlike in her simplicity
and submissiveness, so pure and passionless in
her tenderness and devotion, so scrupulously vigilant
to preserve her husband's royal honour, and yet so
exquisitely anxious to avert the terrible consequences
of that loyalty, cannot but win the admiration and
love of all who follow the narrative of her eventful
fortunes. The second tale in this collection, " The
Hampshire," is of an entirely different character, and
yet so true is it that—
" Three truths unite the children of the sod,
All love, all suffer, and all feel a God."
Here again in this narrative of humble life, we find,
under most dissimilar circumstances, a similar record
of love and sorrow, and womanly devotion. A few
words will reveal the nature of the story, but no
words can describe the natural pathos with which it
is conveyed—pathos which irresistibly draws tears
from the reader's eyes. Susan Foster, a village girl,
the daughter of poor and invalid parents, is betrothed
to a young farm labourer, George Wells ; they have
almost engaged a vacant cottage, and are about to be
asked in church, when Susan takes a cold, and not-
withstanding, or perhaps in consequence of, the doc-
toring of an old village dame, loses her eye-sight.
Had such a calamity befallen the lover, she who was
appointed a helpmeet for him would have recognised in
it only another link to the chain which bound her to
him; but the same feelings which would prompt her,to
succour him in his sorrow, prevent her from bur-
thening him with her own. Susan releases George
from his engagement ; her parents sadly admit that
she is no longer qualified to be a labourer's wife, and
her lover reluctantly acquiesces in their arguments.
For a time he continues to visit the blind girl, and
wait on her with the tenderness of a brother. The
following extract, so heart-touching because so na-
tural, will exhibit better than any comment how
much genuine pathos cows from Lady Deere's pen :
" It was rather more than two years from Alice Mow-
bray's wedding-day, when George Wells lifted the latch
of Master Foster's door, and, closing it after him, walked
into the house, seated himself on the polished wooden
chair opposite old Sarah's, and said in a hurried voice
'I am come, neighbours—l am CO3lO to tell you a piece of news which I should be loth you should hear from
anybody but myself.'
" Susan's heart died away within her—her head
drooped more than ever over her knitting; Dame Foster
took off her spectacles, and, wiping them, laid them
within the sacred book from which she had been reading
some texts to her husband and her child; old Nicholas
half turned himself upon his settle; but none spoke.
Susan felt that the silence must be distressing to George;
and exerting herself the first, she replied, If it is any
news, George, that concerns yourself, you may be sure
there are no friends who will be more rejoiced to hear of
any good likely to befal you, or more grieved to hear of
any misfortune. You have scarce any older friends
than father, and mother, and myself; so you need not
be afraid to speak.'
" Thank you, Susan, thank you; that's just like
you. I was sure you would take it so. And yet, after
all that has passed between us, I felt—l don't know
bow I felt. But it seems strange I should marry any-
body else.'

"' I gave you back your word, George, and this is
what I have long expected; and long tried to make up
my mind to,' she added, with some effort. 'I could not
expect you to go on always.tending upon a poor blind girl
like me. 'Tis better, much better, than getting any
ways unsteady. God knows I have not a word to say
against your marrying Jane Dixon.'
" Thank you, Susan, thank you,' he repeated; ' I
feel easier now I Susan, this has been a great trouble
to me; for I could not bear deceiving you like, and yet
I did not know how to tell you, there was any courting
going on between me and Jane.'
" You know, George, I gave you back your word
from the first:
" Yes, yes, so you did; but for a long time I did
not believe I should ever think of any girl but you : but
I do not know how it is, a man wants a home—does he
not, Master Foster?—and he wants a wife to see to him.
And then, Jane Dixon, she's a tight lass; and Hon% know
how it was, I never came home from work without meet-
ing her going of any errand somewhere; and then she
is a bustling girl, and one who will keep things nice and
tidy in a poor man's house.'
" Her mother was a thrifty, bustling body, and I
hope she will make you a good wife, George,' said Dame
Foster, in a tone which she meant should ba very kind;
but her thoughts were so much occupied with Susan,
that she had no feeling to spare for any one else.
"' I wish you happiness, George, said Nicholas; you
have behaved very well by my poor girl; and, if it had
not been for her afla ction, you would have married her,
and made her a good husband, I warrant. It is the will
01 God it should all be as it is.'

" ' Thank you kindly, Master Foster.'
" Meanwhile Susan had been feeling upon the little
shelf on the wall close to where she sat, for a small
book, which at length she found. • George,' she said,
have a book here which I ought to give you back. 'Tis
those Watt's Hymns which you gave to me a few day s
before Miss Alice's wedding;' she could not repress a
sigh. If you remember, you wrote both our Christian
names upon it—and then said you would add the sur-
name when cue name would do for both. I don't think
it is right I should keep that book, and you the husband
of another; and yet I could never find it in my heart to
destroy it. Besides, I can't read all the beautiful hymns
that are in it; but you c in, and sometimes it may do
you good perhaps to read them.'
" George indeed remembered giving Susan the little
book: he had that day obtained the promise of Master
htualtord's hause, and he bad that day gained her con-
sent to their being speedily tidied in church. They had
then written their names in the manner described by
Susan, and had talked over their future prospects, with
the assurance of soon being indissolubly united.
" As George took the book from Susan's hands, he
felt theta tremble. He was scarcely more composed
himself. The appearance of the little volume, the sight
of the writing, annihilated for a moment the intervening
two years; and he saw Susan as she then stood beside
him, radiant with health, joy, and tenderness.
" Jane Dixon would not have been pleased had she
know with what pain he received this present, with what
regret he looked back upon the image thus conjured up
to his mind. The tears were in his eyes as he hold it.
' If it is not right for you to keep the book, Susan, I do
not think it is right I should; for I am sure I shall never
look upon it without wishing, without remember-
ing Oh! Susan, how happy we were when I gave
you that book ;' his voice broke, and he passed the
back of his hands several times over his eyes.
" Strong emotion in a stout and sturdy peasant, whose
feelings we are sure are thorougly genuine, and in which
we are satisfied there is no touch of sickly, morbid, son •
'Ability, is always an affecting subject of contemplation. It
was almost too much for old Sarah, who now wept like
a child; while Susan experienced among the poignant
regrets which overpowered her, a mixture of satisfac-
tion to find she was so tenderly recollected. ' I did not
think you would have minded it, George ; but if it
makes you think too much of bygone days, why, per-
haps, 'twill be best you should give the book to mother
to keep. I would not wish you to think any more
about me now; it would be no ways right.' But it was
a comfort to Susan, though she was not aware of it,
that she had to tell him not to think about her."
In order not to damp the curiosity of our readers
let us add that this quotation is not taken from the
conclusion of the tale. " Blanche," the last is by no
means the least interesting of- the three stories
relating to the Peerage and the Peasantry.
It is of a character very dissimilar to
either of its predecessors. Lady Blanche, the
elegant and romantic, yet withal warm-hearted
daughter of a not wealthy earl, has given her heart
to Captain de Molton, the almost penniless son of a
Lord Cumberworth. The commencement of the tale
is the ordinary history of lovers hopes and difficulties
and parental opposition. Finally, the self-willed
zianche has her own way, and becomes, as she glories
in calling herself, " a poor man's wife." Her hus-
band, wiser in the ways of the world, trembles with
apprehension as he listens to the protestations of his
delicate bride, that wealth is odious in her eyes and
poverty charming. De Molton's fears are gradually
realised. Reality is found by poor Blanche to be very
different from romance. Her little difficulties and
dilemmas, by no means little to her, are detailed with
all Lady Dacre's wonted skill and discrimina-
tion. This story is well worth those fine ladies who, disdainin perusal by
the house-
wifely examples of their grandmothers, conde-
scend to no work but fancy work, and consider otium
and dignitas to be synonimous. Poor Blanche,
anxious to exhibit her industry, attempts to make her
I'4V-clothes. " I shall show you what a good poor
ma't's wife I am," she exclaims to her husband, and
t.She took out of her ivory work box a small cap of
dimensions, which she was beginning to em-
roider of the most intricate pattern." her great ex-
"tions after this fashion only enable her to complete
a Cap and the body of a dress, and the wardrobe is
tarnished by other means. Let us mention another
...(4 Poor Blanche's difficulties, and then we will corn-
'Mil her to the attention of our fair readers, who