The Sun.
London, England, 1859-03-31 00:00:00

LITERATU.RB.

Life's Foreshadowings.
_A Novel. 3 vols. Hurst

and Blackett.

This is a superior style of novel, and indeed it
is more the chronicle of an extraordinary career
than what is ordinary called a fiction. The cha-
racter of Christie Roach is most ably delineated,
and cannot fail to impress the mind of the reader.
In many respects the story of his life is a painful
one, but there can be no doubt that the manner in
which it is described to us is a masterly one, and
that the strong passions of his nature, and the
high aspirations of his intellect are traced with a
pathos, and power that arrest and enchain the
attention. The first part of the narrative relates
to the childhood and youth of Christie, which were
passed in Ireland. He afterwards went to France,
where the most important years of his life were
spent. His existence was a very unhappy one ;he
was disappointed in his love, and denied in his am-
bition, while, to crown all these sorrows, an un-
lucky accident he met with in early life, in some
measure, and at certain times, affected his brain,
not sufficiently to attract notice in an ordinary
man, but enough to draw the gaze of the ignorant
vulgar, and the sneer of the conceited learned ones
of the world on this man who was gifted with ex-
traordinary powers. The one object of his life was
astronomy, the celestial globe had been the idol of
of his childhood, and future years only increased his
zeal and deepened his devotion for that glorious
science. At last it seemed that he was fated to
achieve distinction, for he thought he had dis-
coved a planet; before, however, he could make
clear his ideas, or prove his prophecy, his old enemy
attacked him, and in one short night of agony helost
•those ideas en the subject of science, which he had
been treasuring up through long years, and whose
possession he considered the priceless storehouse of
his wealth. During the lapse that succeeded to
his labours, another more fortunate professor an-
nounced, as his discovery, the planet Christie had
foretold to be there, but had been fated not to
prove. After the first bitter moment of disappoint-
ment, lie roused himself to consider his secret
triumph, if not his public success. He recovered
the powers of thought and memory he had been so
suddenly deprived of, and, at last, after his weary
toil and hopeless suffering, some prospects of his
eventually succeeding dawned -upon him. The fol-
lowing description of his visit to the Observatory
after his happy recovery is forcibly written

" He is about to see his dream fulfilled—his chimera has
proved to be a reality—the stranger which had visited him
in sleep, which had haunted his thoughts and troubled his
rest, was about to beam• upon him. Once he had seen it
before, and mapped it, all unconscious of the bright fame
almost within his hand. Then, indeed, had Fortune swept
by him, touching him with her garment hand.
Many a fine conception, many a germ of discovery,
have visited men of retirement and thought. Leisurely
have they dallied with it, and ruminated upon it—procras-
tinating its embodiment from day to day—forgetful of the
thousand restless brains toiling hourly on their very track
—of the thousand sleepless eyes which scrutinise, from
sunrise to sunset, every inch in the demesnes of Science
and Literature for something new. So, in perilous con-
fidence, they muse on their secret, and wait— till, some
morning, the column of a newspaper, or a goodly foolscap
volume, introduces them to their cherished bantling as an-
other man's child. Sorrow is unavailing then; they chose
to wait, but the world could not. If Watt had not invented
the steam-chamber, then had Stephenson or Roberts in-
vented it instead.

" The second-hand of the chronometer clicked the time
with a sharp clear throb—the dome' moved softly round,
and he looked through the telescope.
" A lonely orb was in the centre of its field. His mind
mounted towards it—he gazed on it with pondering awe.
Grand beyond human thought in mass and distance—the
Earth's huge brothgr—thirty hundred million miles away
—rushing on—on—in dim cold sunshine ! Earth's dynas-
ties passing into forgotten archives—her granite crust wear-
ing and renewing before this silent orb has wound one god-
like year !

" Ile gazed till sight grew giddy—drank his fill of gran-
deur. He was alone with his planet—every sound was
hushed save his slow long breathings, and the spectral
click-click of the dead-beat escapement, ever telling the
eternal times of the stars.

He left the Observatory at dawn. Envy had no room
in his breast, as he went out into the ways of men, after
this solemn star-vigil."

The domestic passages of this work also claim
attention from the vigorous style in which they
are related to us. There are many of the charac-
ters that of themselves attract attention, such as
Mr. Henderson, his daughter Jay, and Annie
Brandon. Pierce Henderson is a most disagree-
able man, devoid of any kind sympathy or generous
feeling. The manner in which he conducted
himself towards his father, at the opening
of the story, fully reveals the class to
which he belonged. It seems almost im-
probable that so gentle a maiden as Annie
Brandon should have been so attached to him;
but then he had always appeared before her under
such favourable auspices, and she was not possessed
of any great ability in discerning character or
fathoming motives. It was on this gracious and
lovely maiden that Christie had set his affections,
and, as we have seen, he was destined to disap-
pointment. Jay, the young. and high-spirited
daughter of Mr. Henderson, is of a very different
disposition. She was early neglected and spoiled,
but there was something innately great and good
in her mind and heart that nothing could finally
quench or effectually extinguish. Her straight-
forward actions and conduct are a relief to the
cunning and crooked dealings of her father, and
the absurd sentimentalities of 'her governess, Miss
Putney—a lady every way unfitted for the dis-
charge of her duties. When she was removed to
a convent in France to finish her education,
she improved rapidly under the guidance
of better teachers, and the influence of su-
perior minds. She had been interested in
the fate of Christie Roach, since he had saved
her from a cruel death when she was a child; and
her eager inquiring mind early discerned the high
intelligence that distinguished him, and set him
apart from the men around him. When in Paris,
years afterwards, she heard of him as prosecuting
his great researches amid the heavenly host, she
gladly availed herself of the opportunity of seeing
him. Depressed by anxiety, her presence seemed
to throw some faint light on his path ; but Christie
was ever honourable, and he withdrew from her
society, lest she should mistake her own feelings
before having seen the world. Years afterwards,
when he had struggled not in vain, and in some
faint shadowy form realised the ambitious aspirings
of his dreamy youth, he returned to visit his native
country, and stood again in the green fields where he
had played in childhood. He stood there "victorious
in the weary battle of life," not thinking but that
by this time the fair girl, whose first object had
been himself, had found other more congenial sym-
pathies. Jay was not of this changeable cyst,
however, she had watched with pride the proud
position he had won for himself in Paris, as Presi-
dent of the Institute, and she [hailed his return.
Even the worldly-wise father could find no reason
to adduce, against the union, and they returned to
France. There is much that is painful in this
work, but there will appear to the reflective reader
much that is superior in its construction, and
original in its conception. It has for its chief
object the working out of no common idea, and this
has been executed in no ordinary manner. This
work will most probably attract attention and
admiration, and there seems no reason •to doubt that
the sorrows of a gifted mind should meet with
sympathy, and the record of the failure of a glorious
ambition be thought more of than the mention of
many meaner successes.

The Duchess of Orleans. A Memoir. Translated
from the French by Mrs. Austin Jepp, Bur-
lington Arcade.
_ _ _ _

A memoir of this lamented Princess has recently
been published in French by one who was for
years her intimate friend and companion. Mrs.
Austin, who was also honoured with her friend-
ship, has translated this interesting volume into
English, and has added her testimony to the
virtues of its subject. The character of the Duchess
of Orleans commanded respect even from those
whom political circumstances rendered tlie oppo-
nents of her family, and her misfortunes awakened
a feeling of sympathy in the hearts of those
who were personally unknown to her. The
young Princess and future Queen, throw-
ing herself with all the ardour of her
nature into the interests of her adopted country,
ending her days an exile from that country, with
all prospect of restoration torn from her—the at-
tached wife suddenly deprived of her husband in
the full vigour of his age, and in all the promise of
his popularity—the devoted mother seeing the sons
she was bringing up for a throne cast aimless on
the world—all these accumulated trials, besides the
many lost friends she was called on to deplore, were
the fate of the high-souled, tender Helen of Orleans.
But in all her trials she seems to have comported
herself with a happy mixture of fortitude and re-
signation that won the admiration of all about her.
Both the writer and the translator of the memoir
appear to have been actuated by a loving enthu-
siasm and sincere admiration, and such testimony
from those who knew her well is not to be lightly
estimated. The events of her life, including the
mournful catastrophe that deprived her of her
husband, are told with simplicity and feeling. The
author and translator naturally share the political
sentiments of their heroine, but it is in her cha-
racter as a woman, in her earnest and cheerful
endeavour to fulfil the duties that devolved on her
in the midst of her trials, that she claims the highest
regard. The work will doubtless obtain an
extended circulation, and will assuredly awaken in
the minds of all its readers an increased admiration
for tihat noble and suffering Princess, on whom
fortune seemed to accumulate trials, but who

preserved a constant faith and loving heart through
all her vicissitudes.

The Chinese Empire. By M. Hue. New edition
Longman.

A new edition of the Abbe Hue's valuable and
interesting work on the Celestial Empire will be
very acceptable to the reading public. It is issued
in a cheap and commodious form, and those who
wish to extend their knowledge of the manners
and customs of the Chinese, should take this oppor-
tunity of profiting by the labours of so good an
authority as the indefatigable missionary.

Mildred Norman. By a Working Man. Longman.
This interesting story is drawn from the social
depths of London life. It is said to be written by
a working man, and is evidently the production of
one who is familiar with the scenes he describes.
The characters are numerous, and the incidents
natural and life-like. The work paints in vivid
colours the condition of the labouring poor, and
especially the difficulties and temptations that op-
pose them in their endeavour to lead religious lives.
The subjects treated of are well worthy of public
attention, and we trust this volume will have the
effect of awakening an interest in the minds of the
wealthy and independent for tie trials and troubles
of their poorer neighbours.

THE SOCIETY OF BRITISH ARTISTS,
SUFFOLK-STREE7'.

On Saturday afternoon we attended the private
view, in Suffolk-street Gallery, of the collection of
paintings by British artists for the present season,
1859, being the society's thirty-seventh annual
exhibition. There are in the present collection
829 works of art, either pictorial or sculpturesque.
Towards this decoration of the five apartments 418
exhibitors have contributed. The more conspicuous
and the more familiarly known of these contri-
butors need no explanatory record in the society's
catalogue. At a glance—no matter how careless
or superficial—their merits and demerits, above
all, their distinctive mannerisms, must upon the in-
stant be reeognised. Particularly may this be
averred in regard to the majority of the twenty-
nine British artists enrolled as members of the
Suffolk-street association. There, as we loiter round
the gallery, are the unmistakable white, creaming,
splotchy sea-views of Pyne. There the gaudy,
dappled, raw mysteries of foliage and cos-
tume peculiar to Woolmer. There are the
alternating Moonrise or Sunset of Clint, or
the reedy pools, flecked with the floating leaves
of the water lily, distinguishable at once as Bod-
dington's. There are Hill's pretty peasantry—Hill,
the Watteau of British rusticity. There are the
huge Shaksperian embodiments of Hurlston.
There are Baxter and Pidding, there Sit ayer, Zeitter,
and Wainewright. Frequenters of the gallery, for
many years past, we know perfectly well -what we
have to expect upon the average before we cross the
threshold : and there, as usual, we found it on
Saturday afternoon—that pleasant annual repeti-
tion. For the most part it certainly needs variety.
Delightful though some of the pictures are to look
.at, we are pretty well tired of looking at them over
and over again. Some, it is true, have, in this
manner, coupled with their intrinsic excellence the
charm appertaining to old familiar faces. But
others—the principal features of which are far from
possessing the attributes of beauty—others, frown-
ing, or simpering at us, continually year after Tear,
from the canvass or the panel—become positively
distasteful from their monotonous reiteration.
They are ghosts that sadly want to be laid—we
are tired to death of them. We would willingly
do anything, or go any where to secure the final
scattering of them. Several times, already, we have
protested against this tedious mannerism,. rendered
more and more tedious, through the lapse of so many
years, by its " damnable iteration." Vainly, alas!
only too vainly—for no sooner has the spring begun
budding once more, than the walls of the Suffolk-
street Gallery blossom over with these same eternal
repetitions.
_ _

-Boddington and Cobbett are among the most
industrious and successful of the exhibitors this
year. Charming, charming is the colouring of No.
188, by the latter—" Children Nut Gathering"—a
delicious combination of harmonious colours, that
would yield a sense of pleasure to a taste as fas-
tidious as that of Mr. Hay, that prophet at once
and high priest among theoretical colourists. Ex-
quisite, too, in their several ways, are No. 321 (" The
Way to the Mill") and No. 458 (" The Haunt of
the Moor Hen"), both by Boddington—the former
a delightful glimpse caught at an angle through
a scanty coppice—the latter a secluded water-scene,
sedgy, cool, silent, a very paradise for contempla-
tion. Baxter's No. 158, " Little Red Riding Hood,"
is one of the sweetest pictures in the gallery. Cer-
tainly that rascal the wolf had no such bad taste
after all. Just below the lovely little gipsy—
glance at that miniature portraiture by C. Rolt,
No. 161 (" The Italian Hurdy-Gurdy Boy") you
hear the' chuckle, like the clatter of castanets,
through the drone of the unmusical abomination,
with that wheedling, irresistible " Ah, signor !"
flashed out through the pearl teeth and the diamond
eyes. Further on in the same apartment, hanging
upon the same wall, is one of the most remarkable
paintings, to our mind, in all this season's
collection. It would engrave admirably, and
we hope to see it engraved. This is No. 173,
by T. Roberts, entitled, briefly, in the catalogue,
" The Opinion of the Press." The picture is full
of genius. It is charmingly drawn, brilliantly
coloured, admirably grouped. It is replete with
contrasting humour and pathos. For the former—
look yonder, through the open door, at the retreat-
ing figure of Mr. Blank, who has just quitted the
artist's family, having left one of the public journals
containing a bitterly adverse criticism on the young
painter's last production, together with a letter
from Dash,. declining to complete the purchase !
Look at the smug, complacent, sleek, comfortable
figure of the man as he walks down the staircase,
with his back towards us—having just left in his
wake such gratuitous desolation. In the very
way in which his well-brushed hat has been
tenderly settled upon his head, and the self-satisfied
deliberation with which he has taken his well-
folded umbrella under his arm, you see the heart-
less selfishness of a creature entirely self-absorbed.
If he be married, it must certainly be to the lady
of whom Pope sang—
" To make a wash she'd hardly stew a child."

But, in all probability, the stout-shouldered old
fellow is a confirmed old bachelor. Although you
only see his back, you see quite enough of him to
recognise that here is, beyond all doubt, the very
type and model specimen of the genus stigmatised.
by Sheridan where Sir Fretful Plagiary sums up
his anguish under the roasting of Sneer, by agreeing
with Dangle in the absurdity of reading the non-
sensical criticisms in the newspapers, adding—" For,
if there is anything to one's praise it is a foolish
vanity to be gratified at it ; and if it is abuse, why
one is always sure to hear of it from one d—d
goodnatured friend or other." There he goes con-
tentedly lumbering down the staircase this d—d
goodnatured friend—provocative of an assisting
kick to help him on a little more rapidly his
descent. So much for the humorous episode of a
picture which is otherwise so exquisitely pathetic.
The handsome young painter—a Clive Newcome in
look—clutching convulsively at that agonising
newspaper as he leans on the table beside which he
is seated, his head clasped in his other hand, while
upon the young forehead there is visible a silent
agony in every nervous corrugation. Hurrying to
him is his young wife, who has just seen Mr.
Blank to the door—she is dry-eyed but going to
cry, her dear kind face losing all lines of beauty
under the distorting influence of the rising
sorrow. Ha-If-sitting, half-lying on the floor of
the artist's family room, under the shadow
of the easel—their.one child toying prettily on the
neglected palette with a brush laden with vermil-
lion. It is a charming picture that tells the whole
pathetic little story in it at a glance. Again we
hope that its merits may be popularised by the aid of
the engraver. If ugliness and the caricature of all
home tenderness in the cottage be deemed delight-
ful, then will J. Campbell's No. 309, "Labourers
at Rest," be welcome. It is preposterous. Almost
as preposterous
of
repostsehroayesttaLMa pale-faced idiot with pinkr. Halliday's No. 314, " The
La
lips and primrose hair. fearful to look upon. Hill's
te same
most graceful limning is No. 49, The Wearied
hreuPshteicr
hand, however, is here so
time that it is most dain-
tily painted, that it might hardly be disdained by
a belle of Mayfair. In regard to Hurlstone's Othello
uSnl—life, Shepherd"—the
right
ate the
and Hamlet, we would prefer remaining silent—
and not the less so in reference to another big pic-
ture by an eminent artist. Pyne's No. 167,
,‘ Genoa from the New Terrace." Saving, indeed,
in one or two of the instances above particularised,
superior merit is almost invisible in the Suffolk-
street collection for 'fifty-nine. Wherefore, as a
whole, we must pronounce it reluctantly to be un-
satisfactory.

GASTRONOMY.—It would appear from the daily
journals that we are likely, at length, to find in this over-
grown metropolis of ours a place where the science of dining
will be carried out beyond the mere object of making money
and satisfying a vulgar appetite. French cooking is, after
all, but tantalising to a Briton; yet there are attributes
connected with the cuisineof our neighbours which, in taste
and elegance, leave us far behind. To engraft these two
elements—the solid and the refined—is a task but now un-
dertaken by Mr. Holmes, once well known as an importer
of Eastern splendour in Regent-street, who has had a
license unanimously conceded to him to carry out so de-
sirable an object at the Patricianin New Coventry-street.