The Sun.
London, England, 1861-03-15 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

My Share of the World. An Autobiography. By
Frances Browne. Hurst and Blackett, 3 vols.
This is a superior novel, and one that is sure to
interest all who like a reflective book, one that
seems to lead away from the everyday common
and beaten track, and to bring before us the hidden
motives of men's actions, and the secret spring of
their doings. There are a number of people in-
troduced to us in these pages. The story is told by
one who led a desolate life ; whose childhood
knew no mirth ; whoseyouth was beset with trials,
and whose manhood was doomed to disappointment.
At last wealth came to him; but too late; he had
seen the blossom of his hopes withered, and the
summer of his life's happiness had sunk into the
winter that is followed by no spring on earth.
There is something very touching about Lucy. We
meet her amid sunshine and flowers, in her native
element. It is sad to follow further and note the
cruel change that supervened, when she was unfor-
tunate enough to marry the cold and harsh George
Fenton. The latter is a finished sketch of man
who immersed in business cares for nothing else,
and disregards all the finer feelings of our nature,
and scorns and condemns all the high and heaven-
ward tendencies, all that would tend to undervalue
his cherished stores. Frederick Favoursham had
to face the world alone, and the account here given
of his various adventures and manifold attempts is
most entertaining. His companions are also well
worthy ofnotice ; the gay and giddy Harry and the
wild impulsive Lavance. The latter is a very ro-
mantic individual, and we cannot fail to feel an in-
terest in him, notwithstanding his reckless bear-
ing and extravagant conduct. Even in his wild
devotion to the cause of the Empire there was a
heroism that redeemed its inconsistency and shed
a halo over its danger. He said truly that there
was a deal of imagination wanted for true hero
worship. In speaking to his young friend,
Frederic, he would often disclose the
hidden and mysterious motives that ruled his
incomprehensible life, and tell of the dreams that
lit up that life with lustre and infused spirit and
splendour through the length of its dreary days.
" When the history of our party comes to be writ-
ten, he said its great strength and vitality will be
found in the fact that it had less to do with prat •
tical principles that concern men's homes and
holdings than with the high and hazy side of our
nature which we call the imaginative, the limitless
and indestructible realm of genius and of
dreamers, the sky of life in which its rainbow rise
and its lanets go down. What is it that gives
the ruins of our empire such life and force, in spite
of the last battle, the Congress of Vienna, and the
grave that lies so far amid the waves of the Atlan-
tic. There is nothing to bind us together but a
name and a memory. That party has a story
which takes hold on the memories and imagina-
tions of men, because it owes its origin to genius
and not to fortune, and sets forth the eternal title
of mind to rule and reign. So the most established
thrones are troubled with the silent dread of it as
a power that is to be. Russia has dreams of it in
her long wintry nights. It makes Austria shake
in the old shoes with which she tramples Italy."
The end of this strange man's career was very me-
lancholy, though, in the abstract, he died in a good
cause—seeking to redress the wrongs of a maiden
he had known in her bright days, and who had
been kind to him. The first sight of Lucy after
marriage was very painful for her early lover. The
clever and scheming George had failed and had to
recommence life as employed and not employer,
hence all things wore a changed and faded aspect
for Lucy. Instead of her bright early home of
Rosebank, she was dwelling in a gloomy villa;
and for her airy muslins she had a dingy
dress of Preston stuff. A sadder change was in
herself. The fountain of sight was losing life and
power, and fast hurrying down on her the
night that knows no morning." Her death was
very sad, and most painful to dwell upon ; but,
considering the circumstances of the case, much
may be found to mitigate and palliate her last
action, for she was broken-hearted, and knew and
felt that no hope was hers on this side of the
grave. It was the mental not the bodily darkness
that overwhelmed her. " Her days were threat-
ened by a calamity the most terrible in the list of
human ills ; yet this was not the overbalancing
weight; Lucy could have borne and lived through
it as well as the rest of the luckless thousands
picked out for the night duty in this inglorious
campaign of ours. It was the failure of her trust
in him who had been the chosen of her youth, the
emptiness of the treasury in which she thought so
much goods had been laid by for many years that
broke the woman's heart. How wonderfully like
my mother she looked when I saw her for the last
time. Does the soul leave its truest impress on
the countenance when parting, and thus make
manifest resemblances never seen till then ? Were
it so, or not, life has nothing like the last look of
those dead faces we are giving to the clay. Oh !
that we could read the resurrection in them • but
they are sealed with the everlasting secret of the
grave, and with its safety too ; theirs is a composure
not to be shaken by our storms and troubles. Time
or tears will never wither the beauty we laid in
the Derby churchyard, where Lucy sleeps with her
own people." Thus, on the eve of becoming pos-
sessed of enormous wealth, did Frederic Favour-
sham follow to the grave the early object of his
youth's love, who had been his dream since he first
entered on the life of men. It was not to be won-
dered at that from that day a shade of the dark
and silent night in which Lucy slept should ever-
more haunt his steps and darken his retrospect of
existence. It was only when remembering her
pure and pious nature, he could look beyond to the
bright morning which might see their reunion in
the spirit-land, that any hopes of happiness could be
his. The descriptions of the Dimsdales is very admi-
rably done they are of a class that is essentially of
the earth—earthy in all their doings. It is thus
'said of them, " The Dimsdales wanted for no ma-
terial of elevation, they had wealth to spend and
spare, free access to the best exhibitions and enter-
ments, a rare [collection of artistic objects, includ-
ing some fine pictures, a private library which few
noble houses could equal, new books always coming
in, not to speak of the thousand currents of intelli-
gence which meet and circulate round the newspaper
press, yet their minds never rose above the shop-
keeping level. In religion or politics, art, and
literature, whatever paid best was the best to them.
Tliey had no words, no ways, no notions of their
own, all was said chalked out and set down for
them by the world they lived in." Frederic was some
time in the uncongenial atmosphere of this house,
and he had leisure to reflect on the insufficiency of
all that the world can offer if the mind cannot
appreciate the glories of intellectual elevation or
the soul respond to the beautiful in art and nature.
Some other characters are finely sketched, Miss
Clarkson serves to illustrate a thorough woman of the
world, cold, sharp, and shrewd in all ber dealings,
and while she made a pretence of fine feeling, she
was always ready to desert her dearest friends in
the hour of peril. Some of the set or clique who
surrounded the Dimsdales are more or less enter.
taining in their brief sketches. This novel can be re-
commended to all who wish to peruse a solid work,
one that does `not at all appertain to the brilliant
but ephemeral class, that is read one hour and for-
gotten in the next, but one that dwells in the mind
and lingers in the memory. It brings before us
! men in all the varying positions of life, lingering
in poverty, rolling in wealth, immersed in
business, speculating in commerce, indulging in
day-dreams, and giving way to idleness and rest-
less habits. In the same way we meet with vari-
ous women. The gentle Lucy, whose bright
morning saw so sad a termination, the speculating
Miss Clarkson, the coarse but clever Mrs. Campbell,
the mild and goodhearted but weak and vain
Milly, the frivolous Mrs. Hartley, and the miserly
aunt Grizzle. This is more truly a page of the
world's history than many another autobiography,
as it does not confine itself to the joys and sorrows
of any particular individual, but goes on to
tell of his friends and acquaintances in their
wide-spread ramifications and innumerable connect-
ing links. This is a true epitome of life, where one
sows that another may reap, and the hopes of one
are fulfilled to the bitter misery of another. Fre.
deric Favoursham never shunned the world of his
fellow men, but mingled among those with whom
his lot was cast. Hence the record of his eventful
career cannot prove aught else but entertain-
ing, natural transcript of life in its day of
mingled light and shade where no joy is
too bright not to be overcast, and no sorrow
too great to be irremediable, if looked on with
the eye of a Christian. " My Share of the World" is
therefore replete with varied and vivacious reading,
with vigorous sketches, of life-like delineations,
eloquent passages, and interesting events. As
such, it is most probable tint it will obtain a great
success, being fat above the average merit of novels.

The Island of the Saints : a Pilgrimage through
Ireland. By Julius Rodenberg, author of "An
Autumn in Wales." Chapman and Hall.
This is a very entertaining little work, and it is
particularly interesting, inasmuch as it brings before
us the opinions of a foreigner regarding Ireland.
It is observed in the preface that " the majority of
works about the land of the saints have had the
defect of being written -by Eoglishmen ; and it is
as fair to accept their vezdiet as it would le to
judge of Italy from an Austrian point of view, "It
may not be generally knowri that the appellation
of the land, of the gaioto Iyas given to Ireland in
C9.11eVe1499 "-y establishment of Vlari4,
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