woman to whom I had ever breathed words of love. | steps were taken for procuring the documents There lies my fault." "And she is dead?" faltered Julia. "She died five years ago." "She is so far from dead," interposed the stranger, "that here she is!" and, opening the library door, he gave admittance to the dark lady we have already met once before. The confusion may be conceived, not described. "Monster!" thundered Boleslav, darting towards the new-comer with uplifted hand. "Back, you ruffian, you!" cried young Carrington, seizing the count's arm, and forcing him to a safer distance from the object of his wrath. She stood still, cold and fearless, eying her husband, since so he was, with withering scorn and bitter hate. 66 Five years ago!" said she, repeating his own words; "yes, five years ago, after all my wealth had been squandered by the man who had stolen me from my parents, with promises of a love in which I was mad enough to believe, I was thrown by him into a dungeon, whence I only escaped some few weeks since, when the barbarous misrule of a few feudal chieftains was overthrown, and replaced by the lawful authority against which they had rebelled. This is your hero! this your patriot!" she continued, turning to the group of horror-struck faces round her, and, pointing with really majestic gesture to her guilty husband, "look at him now,' exclaimed she, and say whether you find any traces of a hero there!" It would be useless entering into the further details of the scene that took place. Faintings, tears, hysterics, were of course intermingled with curses, imprecations, and horrid oaths. Vows of vengeance were all that were left to the enraged count, for he had been too suddenly confronted with the truth; the living fact had risen up too palpably before him to have given him, even for an instant, the resource of denial. He stood there, an accused, convicted criminal. So much for the Patriot! "Thank God! I never let one into my house," when he heard the story, said the much-dreaded Sir William. VII. necessary to prove her statement. The lawyer to whom she had addressed herself, and who gave her his opinion and assistance in exchange for the musical instruction she agreed to give his daughter, was really in the main a good sort of man, and took a certain degree of interest in the countess' affairs. When the necessary papers were received, Mr. Singleton, accompanied by his eldest son, consented to go down with his muchinjured client to Parkfield, where we have witnessed their arrival and its result. Meanwhile, the countess herself had paid constant visits to the neighborhood of Mrs. Carrington's abode, lodging in first one village and then another, and taking every opportunity of watching the exact progress of the count's matrimonial scheme. Thus it was that she had waylaid Monsieur Donner, and that James Carrington had caught sight of her looking through the branches of an elder-tree, in order to obtain a good view of her rival, the unsuspecting Julia. The piece of music she had given to Donner was, she knew, calculated to drive the count half out of his mind, should he hear it, from the mere circumstance of its being quite impossible that any one could have procured it but through her means. It was an air composed by herself, and with which, played upon her harp, on the night she left her father's home, she had given to Boleslav the signal that all was ready for their elopement. None knew this air but her, and, during the two years when, not having yet obtained entire mastery over her fortune, it suited the count to feign some remainder of affection for his wife, he had been wont to beg of her sometimes to let him hear his favorite melody. She knew full well that the sound of this air must suggest to the count frightful reflections as to the possibility of her existence, and for that reason she had communicated it to Donner. On the other hand, the impatience of the formidable Boleslav to call Julia his lawful wife, was to be ascribed to a cause of the most simple and prosaic nature-money. He had borrowed largely and at enormous interests, and the time for the mauvais quart d'heure was rapidly approaching, when, if he could not pay with his purse, he would be forced to pay with his person. As we know, this diabolical quart d'heure came, and in a shape most horrible. What happened with the hero, his debts, and his wife, none of the Parkfield family ever cared to inquire; complete oblivion was the only thing to be desired in this most disastrous case of misdirected " hero-worship!" In proportion as her younger daughter decreased in Mrs. Carrington's esteem (for the excellent lady accused her alone of all the misfortune) so did her elder one regain some of the favor she had lost. The term, "hungry rebel,” was remembered with complacency, as having been a proof of discernment, and faute de mieux, Donner was regarded with indulgence when compared with the fearful criminality of the count. The tale was true in every detail; but how, it may be asked, did this buried wife jump up all at once to confound her felon lord? A few words will suffice to explain. When feudal castles were once more in the possession of the sovereign authority, and the victims of arbitrary private power were set free, the wife of the hero Boleslavsky found her way into the upper air, and was released from the dungeon, where, for five years, the count had thought proper to have her shut up, giving forth to the world the report of her death. The countess' first thought, upon recovering her liberty, was to rejoin her faithless husband, and this, it may Julia was, of course, seized by severe illness, be supposed, out of hate, not love. She easily dis- and many people were uncharitable enough to covered his place of refuge; and about three weeks believe that what she regretted most was the right before the commencement of our story, she arrived that had been so suddenly denied her, of wiping in London, where the news of the amiable Bole- her eyes on a coroneted pocket-handkerchief. slav's projected marriage was one of the first an- soon as her health would admit of her being nouncements that awaited her. To prevent this removed, the disappointed mamma and her "dear union was of course her instant desire; but she girls" set off for the continent, that universal had no proofs of her being herself his lawful wife. panacea for damaged hearts or damaged pockets. Time would be required; but, after consulting a Donner was half admitted by the unfortunate Mrs. man of law, to whom she had applied, immediate | Carrington to be the future spouse of the obstinate As Adelaide, qui n'en démordait pas, and he was to join the party at Ems, with the first breath of spring. To Ems, accordingly they went, and from Ems they all migrated together to BadenBaden. performance amply merited every eulogium that was poured out upon him at its conclusion. The marchesa, this time attired in the deepest sable hue, and her head wrapped round with a veil of black lace, sat nonchalamment ensconced in a capacious arm-chair, and seemed to pay attention to no one. Suddenly "Cara mia," said the Princess Maltzikoff addressing Madame de Malatesta across the room, "did you ever hear anything half so beautiful?" "Oh! yes-often!" was the reply given in a drawling tone. "Did you ever hear him before?" asked the princess. "He is a very old friend of mine," added Madame de Malatesta. 66 "Oh! ma chère," interrupted the marchesa, fixing upon the artist a look peculiarly her own, but scarcely bending her head into a bow, " I dare say, Monsieur Donner has forgotten me—it is so long since we met !" Baden delighted both Adelaide and the sentimental Julia, and, indeed, the latter, forgetful of her " disappointment," consented to dance, and went so far as to accord waltz after waltz to half the hereditary princes of Germany. Donner, too, was mightily fêté, and it caused no small satisfaction to Miss Carrington to witness the way in which more than one crowned head even had paid its tribute of admiration to the young and really talented artist. But Mrs. Carrington's tribulations were not at an end. She had, as we know, conceived a dreadful jealousy of the Marchesa de Malatesta on account Why, Monsieur Donner," cried the princess, of one daughter's adorateur, and now she was turning to the artist, who was standing near talkmade to remember that Boleslav was not the onlying to some ladies, " you never told ine that you person likely to be connected with her who had knew owned the power of the marchesa's charms; but that Donner had been one of her most famous victims, for, as luck would have it, hardly had the fated family been fixed in their very handsome and comfortable lodgings in Baden than Mrs. Carrington was greeted with the news of the marchesa's arrival. She was too pleasantly installée, and had too loudly given out her delight at everything around her to admit of her making her escape, and therefore she was reduced to the necessity of meeting the marchesa, though she was determined nothing should induce her here to invite her inside her doors; and so the season wore on till the last days of September. Now in Baden-Baden, you might have fancied yourself in London, or Paris, and one evening at a party at the Princess Maltzikoff s there were assembled a vast number of our old acquaintance. Amongst others there sits Lady Mannering, and see, the gentleman who takes his seat beside her is once more Count Henry O'Connor. (Count Henry's father was an officer in the Austrian service, and made a count by the Emperor Francis.) "Enchanté, milady," exclaimed the count, taking his seat one may imagine oneself in the height of the season, as your newspapers call it, and I can fancy that those windows open upon Hyde Park." "Grand merci, count-I am very glad they do not. I infinitely prefer the view of the See-lage to anything between Apsley House and Cumberland Gate; but I will tell you where one may fancy oneself again without any effort of imagination; and that is at the famous concert that ridiculous old Carrington woman gave to make Donner play against Blitz. All the dramatis persone are here; there are the Carrington people, and the marchesa, and old Katzenhaupt, and Donner, and, in short, every one except Blitz." 66 Pray, is it true," asked the count," that the eldest Miss Carrington is going to marry that pianoforte player?" 66 "Oh! don't ask me," replied Lady Mannering, with an air of disgust; we are all mad, and these foreigners have beau jeu in laughing at us as they do -I had a letter from my sister Emma this morning, and only think of the news she gives me! Ellisholme has actually married Zéphirine the opera-dancer!" "And you are surprised?" inquired her neighbor, "vous êtes lien bonne-but hush! there is Donner at the piano." The musician sat down, and certainly by his Wilhelm turned pale, then red, and could barely stammer out an intelligible reply. She was lovelier, but more strange, than ever. When the party was over, and the guests were departing, the marchesa came up to Donner, and with a grace nothing could withstand— "Monsieur Donner," said she, "I have to-morrow evening a few friends; will you do me the favor to join them? I shall be truly happy to receive you, chez moi." The next day, 25th of September, was fixed for the departure of the Carringtons from BadenBaden. They were to start at midnight to join at Leopoldshafen the boat that passed at daybreak down the Rhine. Donner promised to be at their door at twelve o'clock, or, if not, to rejoin them at dawn on board the steamer. The night was lovely, the moon threw her soft silver mantle tenderly over every object, and the dew hung its pearls upon every leaf, and every flower. There was no wind, save just enough to waft fragrant exhalations of the fair earth through every opened casement; and the only sound was that of the eve-jar's solitary note in the dark fir woods on the brow of the hill. The marchesa's guests were not numerous, but they were chosen, and rarely had Donner enjoyed a triumph so perfectly gratifying to his vanity as that which awaited him on this night. One by one the guests dropped off, and Wilhelm took up his hat, and made his bow, for he saw he had outstayed every one, and was alone with the mistress of the house. The marchesa was seated at a window that opened into a terrace filled with flowers. "Are you so hurried," said she, "that you cannot play something for me only? Something that may recall my far distant Italy." Wilhelm was again at the piano-and from his fingers fell the first notes of the one eternal melody. "Oh! the days of his early youth! are they come again? Is this an illusion?" How each tone seems a voice of the very inmost heart! With what melancholy and passionate tenderness each note is fraught! This time the marchesa seems fascinated, for she rises, and, coming forward, leans upon the pianoforte, her head resting upon her clasped hands. united in this world. For the funeral plume-leaves NOTHING strikes the new comer more forcibly than the sudden and unforeseen transition from day to night in Sierra Leone. The charming twilight of Europe is a mental enjoyment unknown to the inhabitants of those tropic shores. That intellectual portion of time, that hour of poetry and thought, that short but precious interval most sacred to, and valued by, minds and hearts which are not altogether dependent upon tangible and visible objects for subjects to administer to their respective wants, is a deficiency which must be felt by every one who is not insensible to the cravings of an immortal nature. Light after light might be seen sud- From this paddock you pass through a little gate denly issuing from some hut or house over the into the garden, which is partly enclosed by the town which lay before us. Every now and then old wall and mounds, on which formerly some canthe splashing sound of an oar from some fishing non were mounted. There are two fine trees in it, canoe entering the little creek close by, or making which afford an agreeable shade, and a flourishing for the more public place of landing, would break vine once grew there, which produced abundance the quiet of the hour. Voices sometimes would of very tolerable grapes, but has been lately cut come forth from the opposite shore, a sling's cast down. English vegetables, as well as those indigefrom us; and suddenly the boatman's well-known nous to the country, are reared with a little trouble, and not unmusical nor spiritless song would start and succeed pretty well. I have seen as fine cabus from our meditations in which we might have bages and carrots in the commissariat's garden as fallen for a few moments. Smoking is a practice in England, making allowance for the climate. in Sierra Leone which every one, without excep- Turnips also, and English herbs, lettuce, cucumtion, may indulge in. And the greater part of the bers, and celery, I have produced in my own garcommunity fail not in taking advantage of a cus- den. Some English flowers thrive, particularly tom thus so liberally tolerated. For very few in- the geranium; but the roses soon degenerate. The dulgences receive universal and blameless sanction dahlias do better. Many of the native flowers are in Free-town. When, however, cigars of a good exquisitely beautiful, and the fragrance of some of quality can be procured, and they are used in mod- the shrubs is too powerful for enjoyment. The eration, I have heard most persons say they are a four o'clock flower, which only blossoms in the wholesome preventive to the effects of the malaria. morning and evening, and resembles our Marvel of My little friend appeared to relish mouthing the Peru, is very pretty, and at night, as you walk by tobacco amazingly, and he looked all happiness them, you may observe a large moth busily employed during the time he was dispensing about him the in extracting from the petals its sweet food. This Indian aroma. The most thoughtful philosopher insect is remarkable for its long proboscis, which could not have surpassed his imperturbable gravity, measures at least an inch; and which it curls up which would only relax into a smile when he re in a very neat manner. It is also otherwise very minded you that your glass was empty. This once curiously marked, and makes a loud, buzzing noise, replenished, the cigar would, as it were, instinc- which may be heard at several yards' distance. tively return to its natural position; and thus, with Whilst occupied in noticing these little insects one a little agreeable conversation, the exchange of evening, and listening to the curious noise which mutual sympathies, which were alike directed they made, my attention was directed to something homewards, or dwelt upon our positions in life, which passed with a swift and zig-zag motion similar in many respects as residents of so undesir- through the air, and which I supposed at first sight able a place as Sierra Leone, hour after hour would to be a large bat. But, on watching its return, it steal too quickly away, that otherwise had proved proved to be a bird about the size, I should guess, dull and unprofitable. Sometimes we would stroll of a large swallow. It had two extremely long about the paddock or garden, and listen to the dove and single feathers protruding from the tail, very or wood-pigeon, or grumble at the croakings of the large at the extremities, and widening to a breadth "Rana palustres," which not the utmost stretch of some inches. These, in its rapid and irregular of fancy can allow is a pleasant noise. Then there flight, had the appearance of two other birds folis in the first enclosure just mentioned, a tall cocoa-lowing as if in pursuit of it—for the length of these nut tree, which marks a spot of mournful interest, feathers, from their fineness, was scarcely percepin ruminating on which we would think more sor-tible. I have heard it called by some the boatrowfully of kindred ties never perhaps to be re-swain bird, from the above circuinstance. From the Athenæum. JANE EYRE, WUTHER- AND ING HEIGHTS," FEMALE genius and female authorship may be said to present some peculiarities of aspect and circumstance in England, which we find associated with them in no other country. Among the most daring and original manifestations of inventions by Englishwomen-some of the most daring and original have owed their parentage, not to defying Britomarts at war with society, who choose to make their literature match with their lives-not to brilliant women figuring in the world, in whom every gift and faculty has been enriched, and whetted sharp, and encouraged into creative utterance, by perpetual communication with the most distinguished men of the time-but to writers living retired lives in retired places, stimulated to activity by no outward influence, driven to confession by no history that demands apologetic parable or subtle plea. This, as a characteristic of English female genius, we have long noticed; but it has rarely been more simply, more strangely illustrated than in the volume before us. The lifting of that veil which for a while concealed the authorship of “Jane Eyre" and its sister novels, excites in us no surprise. It seemed evident from the first prose pages bearing the signatures of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, that these were Rosalinds—or a Rosalind-in masquerade ;some doubt as to the plurality of persons being engendered by a certain uniformity of local color and resemblance in choice of subject, which might have arisen either from identity, or from joint peculiarities of situation and of circumstance. It seemned no less evident that the writer described from personal experience the wild and rugged scenery of the northern parts of this kingdom; and no assertion or disproval, no hypothesis or rumor, which obtained circulation after the success of " Jane Eyre," could shake convictions that had been gathered out of the books themselves. In similar cases, guessers are too apt to raise plausible arguments on some point of detail-forgetting that this may have been thrown in ex proposito to mislead the bystander; and hence the most ingenious discoverers become so pertinaciously deluded as to lose eye and ear for those less obvious indications of general tone of style, color of incident, and form of fable, on which more phlegmatic persons base measurement and comparison. Whatever of truth there may or may not be generally in the above remarks certain it is that in the novels now in question instinct or divination directed us aright. In the prefaces and notices before us, we find that the Bells were three sisters, two of whom are no longer amongst the living. The survivor describes their home as a village parsonage, amongst the hills bordering Yorkshire and Lancashire. The scenery of these hills is not grand-it is not romantic; it is scarcely striking. Long low moors, dark with heath, shut in little valleys, where a stream waters, here and there, a fringe of stunted copse. Mills and scattered cottages chase romance from these valleys; it is only higher up, deep in amongst the ridges of the moors, that imagination can find rest for the sole of her foot; and even if she finds it there, she must be a solitude-loving raven-no gentle dove. If she demand beauty to inspire her, she must bring it inborn; these moors are too stern to yield any product so delicate. The eye of the gazer must itself brim with a "purple light," intense enough to perpetuate the brief flower-flush of August on the heather, or the rare sunset-smile of June; out of his heart must well the freshness that in later spring and early summer brightens the bracken, nurtures the moss and cherishes the starry flowers that spangle for a few weeks the pastures of the moorsheep. Unless that light and freshness are innate and self-sustained, the drear prospect of a Yorkshire moor will be found as barren of poetic as of agricultural interest; where the love of wild nature is strong, the locality will perhaps be clung to with the more passionate constancy, because from the hill-lover's self comes half its charm. Thus much of the scene;-now as to the story of the authorship of these singular books. About five years ago, my two sisters and myself, after a somewhat prolonged period of separation, found ourselves reunited and at home. Resident in a remote district, where education had made little progress, and where, consequently, there was no inducement to seek social intercourse beyond our own domes tic circle, we were wholly dependent on ourselves and each other, on books and study, for the enjoyments and occupations of life. One day, in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of verse in my sister Emily's handwriting. Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse; I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me-a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women gencrally write. ** Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own compositions, intimating that since Emily's had given me pleasure, I might like to look at hers. I could but be a partial judge, yet I thought that these verses too had a sweet sincere pathos of their own. We had very early cherished the dream of one day becoming authors. This dream, never relinquished even when distance divided and absorbing tasks occupied us, now suddenly acquired strength and consistency; it took the character of a resolve. We agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if possible, get them printed. Averse to personal publicity, we veiled our own names under those of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, mode of writing and thinking was not what is called because without at that time suspecting that our "feminine"-we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice; we had noticed how critics sometimes use for their chastisement the weapon of personality, and for their reward, a flattery, which is not true praise. The bringing out of our little book was hard work. * * Ill-success failed to crush us; the mere effort to succeed had given a wonderful zest to existence; it must be pursued. We each set to work on a prose tale; Ellis Bell produced "Wuthering Heights," Acton Bell "Agnes Grey," and Currer Bell also wrote a narrative in one volume. These MSS. were perseveringly obtruded upon by various publishers for the space of a year and a half; usually, their fate was an ignominious and abrupt dismissal. At last "Wuthering Heights" and Agnes Grey" were accepted on terms somewhat impoverishing to the two authors. 66 The MS. of a one-volume tale by Currer Bell had been thought by Messrs. Smith & Elder so full of promise, that its writer was asked for a longer story in a more salable form. I was then just completing "Jane Eyre," at which I had been working while the one-volume tale was plodding its weary round in London; in three weeks I sent it off; friendly and skilful hands took it in. This was in the commencement of September, 1847; it came out before the close of October following, while "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey," my sister's works, which had already been in the press for months, still lingered under a different management. They appeared at last. Critics failed to do them justice. The narrative may be best concluded in the writer's own words. Neither Ellis nor Acton allowed herself for one moment to sink under want of encouragement; energy nerved the one, and endurance upheld the other. They were both prepared to try again; I would fain think that hope and the sense of power were yet strong within them. But a great change approached; affliction came in that shape which to anticipate is dread; to look back on, grief. In the very heat and burden of the day, the laborers failed over their work. My sister Emily first declined. The details of her illness are deep-branded in my memory, but to dwell on them, either in thought or narrative, is not in my power. Never in all her life had she lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not linger now. She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us. Yet, while physically she perished, mentally she grew stronger than we had yet known her. Day by day, when I saw with what a front she met suffering, I looked on her with an anguish of wonder and love. I have seen nothing like it; but, indeed, I have never seen her parallel in anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood alone. The awful point was, that, while full of ruth for others, on herself she had no pity; the spirit was inexorable to the flesh; from the trembling hand, the unnerved limbs, the faded eyes, the same service was exacted as they had rendered in health. To stand by and witness this, and not dare to remonstrate, was a pain no words can render. Two cruel months of hope and fear passed painfully by, and the day came at last when the terrors and pains of death were to be undergone by this treasure, which had grown dearer and dearer to our hearts as it wasted before our eyes. Towards the decline of that day, we had nothing of Emily but her mortal remains as consumption left them. She died December 19, 1848. We thought this enough; but we were utterly and presumptuously wrong. She was not buried ere Anne fell ill. She had not been committed to the grave a fortnight before we received distinct intimation that it was necessary to prepare our minds to see the younger sister go after the elder. Accordingly, she followed in the same path with slower step, and with a patience that equalled the other's fortitude. I have said that she was re ligious, and it was by leaning on those Christian doctrines in which she firmly believed that she found support through her most painful journey. I witnessed their efficacy in her latest hour and greatest trial, and must bear testimony to the calm triumph with which they brought her through. She died May 28, 1849. What more shall I say about them? I cannot and need not say much more. In externals, they were two unobtrusive women; a perfectly secluded life gave them retiring manners and habits. Though the above particulars be little more than the filling up of an outline already clearly traced and constantly present whenever those characteristic tales recurred to us-by those who have held other ideas with regard to the authorship of " Jane Eyre" they will be found at once curious and interesting from the plain and earnest sincerity of the writer. She subsequently enters on an analysis and discussion of " Wuthering Heights" as a work of art;—in the closing paragraph of her preface to that novel, insinuating an argument, if not a defence, the urgency of which is not sufficiently admitted by the bulk of the world of readers. Speaking of the fiend-like hero of her sister's work, she says: Whether it is right or advisable to create beings like Heathcliff, I do not know. I scarcely think it is. But this I know; the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always mastersomething that at times strangely wills and works for itself. He may lay down rules and devise principles, and to rules and principles it will perhaps for years lie in subjection; and then, haply without any warning of revolt, there comes a time when it will no longer consent "to harrow the valleys, or be bound with a band in the furrow"-when it" laughs at the multitude of the city, and regards not the crying of the driver"-when, refusing absolutely to make ropes out of sea-sand any longer, it sets to work on statuehewing, and you have a Pluto or a Jove, a Tisiphone or a Psyche, a Mermaid or a Madonna, as fate or inspiration direct. Be the work grim or glorious, dread or divine, you have little choice left but quiesshare in it has been to work passively under dictates cent adoption. As for you the nominal artist-your you neither delivered nor could question-that would not be uttered at your prayer, nor suppressed nor changed at your caprice. It might have been added, that to those whose experience of men and manners is neither extensive nor various, the construction of a self-consistent monster is easier than the delineation of an imperfect or inconsistent reality-with all its fallingsand its interrupted dreams. But we must refrain short, its fitful aspirations, its mixed enterprises, from further speculation and illustration; enough having been given to justify our characterizing this volume, with its preface, as a more than usually interesting contribution to the history of female authorship in England. From the Morning Chronicle. MUSIC ON THE WAVES.* THIS elegant volume is an example of a happy idea successfully wrought out. The music is made by a company of emigrants on board the good ship Venture, which is ploughing the moonlit waves of the Indian Ocean. The scene and the group are well sketched for us by Mrs. Norton, who enters into the spirit and poetry of nautical life with the enthusiasm of a true "child of the islands." The first song is volunteered by a daughter of that order of the Anglican priesthood which is proverbially remarkable for small salaries and large families: A curate's daughter-whose kind sire Her father taught the word of God; No murmur for a lot not given- The fear of God, but not of man, Her inward pious thoughts declare, * *Music on the Waves. Words and Music by the Hon' Mrs. Norton. Folio. London: Chappell. |