'Mother, where am I?" Oh the joy of that voice; it was his own accent, though weak and trembling. She gave him some nourishment, and with a few loving words he fell asleep again. The danger was passed -her son was spared. Catherine continued in her office of nurse, for he was very much reduced, and required constant care, and though all excitement was strictly forbidden, and he was scarcely allowed to speak, it seemed to do him good to watch her as she moved lightly about the room. One afternoon, when he had recovered a little strength, he was sitting propped up by pillows. The window was open, and the fresh spring air was blowing in, while the warm sunshine illumined the room. Catherine was arranging a bouquet of flowers which she had just brought in, when Victor called her to him, and said, "Catherine, 1 fear this sick room is but a dull place for you. I shall tell my mother to invite M. Lubin to spend the evening here to cheer you." "Do not be cruel, Victor; M. Lubin is nothing to me. Did he save my life?" "And the fact of my having had that great happiness is to weigh down the scale even against M. Lubin and all his advantages." 'Certainly, if the scale had not been weighed down long before by something else." "And what was that something else?" cried he, drawing her towards him, "what wonderful thing could out-balance M. Lubin,-his fashion, bis fortume, his jewelry-the carriage he would provide you, the rich dresses you would be enabled to buy -what was it ?" "Sir, we had talk.”—Dr. Johnson. TANGLED "Better be an outlaw than not free."-Jean Paul, the Only One. TALK. "The honourablest part of talk is to give the occasion; and then to moderate again, and pass to somewhat else."—Lord Bacon. MRS. GASKELL'S LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. It is possible that some of the readers of these gossipping papers may remember one in July, 1855, about " Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell," in which the present writer-then a scribbler of a few months' standing-summarised, in a discursive, but neither careless nor aimless way, portions of his information and speculations about the three sisters. It is due to such readers, who may not have an opportunity of seeing Mrs. Gaskell's volumes, and it is due to the writer's own feelings -keenly interested as they are in all that relates to Charlotte Brontë-to correct a mis-statement in that sketch, of which he cannot now remember the source, further than that it was something he saw in a provincial newspaper. Mr. Brontë did not, as then stated, marry his wife against the wishes of her friends-there was no opposition. Neither was he living at Penzance; the young lady, however, was of Cornish parentage. In other respects, the paper conveyed, as far as the writer has now the means of checking it, no erronous impressions. There was, however, one small criticism, which Mrs. Gaskell's volumes clear up. After the quotation of a verse of Currer Bell's to illustrate an occasional want of literary congruity in her poetry, came two of Ellis Bell's, to illustrate a similar want in her's : "It would not do; the pillow glowed, And give them leave to roam. It throws an interesting light upon the unconsciousness with which this quaint passage evidently slipped from Emily's pen, to learn, as now, that her love for "dumb animals" amounted to a positive "passion," so strong a passion, that one who knew her could say, "She never loved human creature, only dumb things"-an exaggeration, of course, for Emily was a woman of mighty affections, notwithstanding that fierce reticence of hers, which whenever we think of it, reminds us of Lord "It were hard for him | my head being too bad to allow of my reading it Bacon's essay beginning, I must beg leave to have my gossip out, con- I "Jane Eyre," then, was the very first modern novel I ever read. If it had not been for its celcbrity, which made its name almost a household word, possibly I should never have read it. Some time elapsed before I read another work of fiction, -a year or more: when, being again ill, I read Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter." It was years before I could so far get clear of the shadow of strict early habits as to look upon novel-reading in any other light than as an indulgence for sick and incapable moments. If "Jane Eyre" had been a feeble, foolish, or mischievous tale, the probabilities are that I never should have got clear of that shadow. In truth, my obligations to the book, direct and indirect, are great. Certainly, it never crossed my mind, when I made its acquaintance, that it would be ever mine to write a word about its author. I may be allowed to add that, notwithstanding my feeling that Mr. Rochester's expressions were occasionally broader than necessary, it never for a moment crossed my mind that "Jane Eyre" could be, or could ever be, deemed a mischievous book. I am quite sure that my tastes in the direction in which the mischief of the story is (I believe) supposed by the slow-minded and weakhearted to lie, were quite exceptionably fastidious, and that they took offence at nothing it contained. Years after, I was infinitely amused at an inscrip. make one on "Recent Novels." tion in pencil, 'in a strong legal hand, which I | themselves—receiving such importance; but thought it might found in the title-page of the copy of " Shirley," which I borrowed from Mudie's ::-"Calculated to do young persons a greal deal of injury--all such (sic) persons should be transported for writing such trash." These are the terms in which I now often characterise to my friends any very powerful and truth-like work; if a book is better than usual, and I am asked my opinion of it, I say, "it is calculated to do young persons a great deal of injury-all such persons should be transported for writing such trash." There are certain moral phenomena which, live as long as one may, one can never hope altogether to "stomach;" and the existence of this class of moral censors is one of them. When "Ruth" appeared, the Leader mentioned in its Literature that a librarian had received back a copy half cut from one of his subscribers, who requested that no more books, so unfit for family reading, might be sent to him! Curious indices of popular taste are facts like these. In the correspondence of Charlotte Brontë with Mr. G. H. Lewes, published in Mrs. Gaskell's volumes, we get a very instructive passage concerning the popular love of "piled-up agony" in plot, and that sort of splashy writing which with vulgar writers goes for "power." Mr. Lewes had hinted some friendly counsels against "melodrama" in any future work. Charlotte replies : You warn me to beware of melodrama, and you exhort me to adhere to the real. When I first began to write, so impressed was I with the principles you advocate, that I determined to take Nature and Truth as my sole guides, and to follow in their very footprints; I restrained imagination, eschewed romance, repressed excitement; over bright colouring, too, I avoided, and sought to produce something which should be soft, grave, and true. My work, a tale in one volume, being completed, I offered it to a publisher. He said it was original, faithful to nature, but he did not feel warranted in accepting it; such a work would not sell. I tried six publishers in succession; they all told me it was deficient in "startling incident," and "thrilling excitement," -that it would never suit the circulating libraries, and as it was on these libraries the success of works of fiction mainly depended, they could not undertake to publish what would be overlooked there. "Jane Eyre" was rather objected to at first on the same grounds, but finally found acceptance. I mention this to you, not with a view of pleading exemption from censure, but in order to direct your attention to the root of certain literary evils. If, in your forthcoming article in Fraser, you would bestow a few words of enlightenment on the public who support the circulating libraries, you might, with your powers, do some good. This is a striking passage. I do not know what Mr. Lewes wrote in Fraser, for at that time I never saw a magazine; but I am bold to say that the labour of able and conscientious critics is slowly influencing the public mind in this very particular. They might do much more good if they were bolder. Mr. Lewes says: As things go, this concession was kindness on Mr. Parker's part. The writer of these lines has been repeatedly refused leave to review books which pleased him, even when he offered the reviews for the mere pleasure of writing them, on account of the "obscurity" of the authors. It certainly seems to me that whatever policy business exigencies may force upon second-rate newspapers and reviews, journals of the stamp of Fraser should be glad to seize opportunities of breaking in upon the vulgar routine in this matter. The more so, because the work to be done in “bestowing enlightenment upon circulating library readers" is so enormous. "Bestow enlightenment," indeed! The whole tone of feeling and thinking of the masses must be slowly modified by circumstances and influences of all sorts and sizes; their misappreciations bottom as much in what is morally as in what is intellectually bad. With tenderer hearts and keener consciences they would turn loathingly from the vacuity of the popular story books. Meanwhile, the light is breaking over the cloud-lands of inanity and melodrama; and thanks are due, first, to high class storytellers, who create the taste they are to supply; and secondly, to capable critics, who, in the exercise of the pleasantest part of a critic's dutyexposition-teach the crowd to analyse, to know why they like a good book, and so put into their hands a touchstone which they may carry about for application in less obvious and commanding instances of merit than "Jane Eyre" and "Mary Barton." No doubt the great defect of the crowd of critics is lack of insight; but some amends would be made for this, if they would take honest pains, and not be so ready to throw aside any book that does not hit their fancy at a glance. The history of Emily Brontë's "Wuthering Heights," is to me deeply saddening. The appreciation of the world without did much to improve Charlotte Brontë; it might have done something to soften Emily. But it did not come. "Critics failed to do justice to the real but immature power displayed in Wuthering Heights,' and Emily died before Sydney Dobell came to the rescue in the Palladium'" (what was the "Palladium"? and how came it to drop ? Why do not the originators try again now?). It was not till June, 1855, that * While I write, I get a newspaper in which it is said that " Mrs. Gaskell is entitled to more than ordinary praise for the admirable manner in which she has worked up such slender materials into so interesting a biography." How flattered Mrs. Gaskell must feel on learning that she deserves "more than ordinary praise!" Especially when she learns it from a writer who calls her materials "slender," and speaks of her "working them up" into an "interesting" book! All things considered, the materials were extraordi narily full, though evidently gathered with pains; and never was a book less "worked up" than this. It is the simplest, most unadorned, most consecutive, most homely of life When "Jane Eyre" first appeared, the publishers courteously sent me a copy. The enthusiasm with which I read it, made me go down to Mr. Parker, and propose to write a review of it for Fraser's Magazine. He would not consent to an unknown novel-for the papers had not yet declared | stories, CHARLOTTE BRONTE. I read "Wuthering Heights," and I then formed the opinion which I still retain, that it displayed more dramatic power than Charlotte's novels. Charlotte had more of the analytic power which Mrs. Gaskell calls the "handmaid of genius;" but Emily, with a faculty of slower, less self-conscious, less amenable growth, held, it seems to me, a stronger pen than her sister. And, while she lived, the only recognition of anything of the kind was one discerning word in the Athenæum about her Poems! Mrs. Gaskell introduces, on page 97, of Vol. I., a poem from Charlotte's MSS., of which she says, "it must have been written before 1833, but how much earlier there are no means of determining." I cannot forbear saying that this poem falls familiarly on my own ear. Can Charlotte ever have printed it? One of Anne's poems seems to have appeared in Chambers's Journal. My impression of having seen the verses before is so strong that I shall copy them here, for the sake of the chance that any of my readers may have seen them too, and may be glad to recognise them in this connection: THE WOUNDED STAG. Of the wood's sombre heart, Last night I saw a wounded deer, Such light as pierced the crowded boughs, (Light scattered, seant, and dim,) Passed through the fern that formed his couch Pain trembled in his weary limbs, Pain filled his patient eye, Pain-crushed amid the shadowy fern, Where were his comrades? where his mate? And he, thus struck and desolate, Did he feel what a man might feel, Did pain's keen dart, and grief's sharp sting, Did longing for affection lost Barb every deadly dart? Love unrepaid, and Faith betrayed, Did these torment his heart? No! leave to man his proper doom! Before I close the gossip in which I have indulged myself about Charlotte Bronte, I propose to supplement for my readers all the reviews they may have read of Mrs. Gaskell's book—most probably all, I mean. A fac-simile page is given in Vol. I., from "The Secret," one of Charlotte's very juvenile novels, written, says Ms. Gaskell, in a hand which it is almost impossible to decipher without the aid of a magnifying glass." Well, I Jave interested myself in deciphering it, and present the result as a literary curiosity: -- THE SECRET. CHAPTER THE FIRST. 205 At A DEAD silence had reigned in the Home Office of Verdopolis for three hours on the morning of a fine summer's day, interrupted only by such sounds as the scraping of a penknife, the dropping of a ruler, or an occcasional cough, or, whispered now and then, some brief mandate, uttered by the noble first secretary, in his commanding tones. length, that sublime personage, after completing some score or so of despatches, addressing a small, slightly-built young gentleman who occupied the chief position among the clerks, said, "Mr. Rylmer, will you be good enough to tell me what o'clock it is ?" "Certainly, my lord," was the prompt reply, as, springing from his seat, the ready underling, instead of consulting his watch like other people, hastened to the window to mark the sun's situation. Having made his observations, he answered, "Tis twelve precisely, my lord." "Very well," said the Marquis, you may all give up then; and see that all your desks are locked, and that not a scrap of paper is left to litter the office. Mr. Rylmer, I shall expect you to take care that my directions are fulfilled." So saying, he assumed his hat and gloves, and, with a stately tread, was approaching the vestibule, when a slight bustle and whispering among the clerks arrested his steps. "What is the matter ?" asked he turning round, "I hope those are not sounds of contention I hear." No," said a broad, carrotty-locked young man, of pugnacious aspect-" but-but-your lordship has forgotten that -that-" "That what ?" asked the Marquis, rather impatiently. Oh, merely that this afternoon is a halfholiday,-and-and-" "I understand," replied his superior, smiling; you need not task your modesty with further explanation, Flannagan; I suppose the truth is you want your usual largess-I am obliged to you for reminding me -will that do ?" he continued, as opening his pocket-book, he took out a twenty pound bank bill, and laid it on the nearest desk. "My lord, you are too generous," Flannagan (word illegible) but the Chief Secretary laughingly laid his gloved hand on his lip, and with a condescending nod to the other clerks, sprang down the steps of the portico, and strode hastily away, in order to escape the noisy expressions of gratitude which now hailed his liberality. opposite side of the long and wide street to that on which the splendid Home Office stands rises the no less splendid Colonial Office, and just as Arthur Marquis of Douro* left the former structure, Edward Stanley Sydney departed from the latter. They met in the centre of the street. Well, Ned," said my brother, as they shook hands--" how are you to-day? I should think this bright sun and sky ought to enliven you, if anything can." Why my dear Douro," replied Mr. Sydney, with a faint smile, "such lovely and genial weather may, and I have no doubt does, elevate the spirits of the free and healthy; but for me, whose mind and body are a continual prey to all the heaviest cares of public and private life, it signifies little whether sun cheer or rain damp the atmosphere." "Fudge!" replied Arthur, his fea tures at the same time assuming that disagreeable expression which my landlord denominates by the term "scorney,' 66 On the 'Now, don't begin to bore me, Ned, with trash of that description. I'm tired of it, quite. Pray, have you recollected that this is a half-holiday in all departments of the Treasury ?" "Yes, and the circumstance has cost me some money these silly old customs ought to be abolished in my opinion; they are ruinous." "Why, what have you given the poor fellows ?" "Two sovereigus." An emphatic "formed Arthur's reply to this communication. They had now entered Hotel-street, and were proceeding in silence pastthe line of magnificent shops which it contains, when the sound of wheels was heard behind them, and a smooth-rolling chariot dashed up and stopped just where they stood. One of the window-glasses now fell; a white hand was put out, and beckoned them to draw near, while a silvery voice "hem Wellington is Charlotte's piece de resistance in all her juvenile stories she utterly uses him up. not need. said "Mr. Sydney! Marquis of Douro! come hither a mo- for wanting the earrings," these are quite different" ment." Both the gentlemen obeyed the summons-Arthur-precisely a lady's reason for buying what she does with alacrity, and Sydney with reluctance. "What are your commands, fair lady ?" said the former, bowing respectfully to the inmates of the carriage, who were Lady Julia Sydney, and Lady Maria Sneaky. "Our commands are principally for your companion, my lord, not for you," replied the daughter of Alexander the First. "Now, Mr. Sydney," she continued, smiling on the Senator, "you must promise not to be disobedient." "Let me know first what I am re quired to perform," was the cautious answer, accompanied by a fearful glance at the shops around. "Nothing of much consequence, Edward," said his wife, "but I hope you'll not refuse to oblige me this once, love; I only want a few guineas to enable me to make out the price of a pair of earrings I have just seen in Mr. Lapis's shop." "Not a bit of it," answered he, "and not a farthing will I give you; it is scarce three weeks since you received your quarter's allowance, and if that is done (gone?) already, you may suffer for it." With this decisive reply, he instinctively thrust his hand into his breeches pockets and marched off with a hurried step. "Stingy little monkey!" exclaimed Lady Julia, sinking back on the carriage seat, while the bright flush of anger and disappointment crimsoned her fair cheek, this is the way he always treats me; but I'll make him suffer for it." "Do not discompose yourself so much, my dear," said her companion-" my purse is at your service, if you will accept it." "I am sensible of your goodness, Maria, but, of course I shall not take advantage of it. No, no; I can do without the earings-it is only a fancy; though to be sure I would rather have them." My pretty cousin," observed the Marquis, who till now had remained a quiet though much amused spectator of the whole scene, "you are certainly one of the most extravagant young ladies I know. Why what on earth can you possibly want with these trinkets? to my knowledge, you have had at least a dozen different sets of ear-ornaments." That is true, but then these are quite of another kind, and so pretty and unique that I could not help whishing (sic) for them.” Well, since your heart is so much set upon the trinkets, I will see whether my purse can compass their price, if you will allow me to accompany you to Mr. Lapis's." "O thank you. Arthur! you are very kind," said Lady Julia, and both the adies quickly made room for him as he sprang in and seated himself between them. "I think," said Maria Sneaky who had a touch of the romp about her, "I think when I marry I'll have just such a husband as yon my Lord Marquis, one who won't deny me a pretty toy when I desire to possess it." "Will you p" said Arthur, "I really think the Turks are more sensible people than ourselves." In a few minutes they reached the jeweller's shop, Mr. Lapis received them with an obeseqiaous (sic) bow and proceeded to display his glittering stores. The pendants which had so fascinated Lady Julia were in the form of two brilliant humming birds whose jewelled plumage equalled if not surpassed the bright hues of nature. Whilst she was completing her purchase a customer of a different calibre entered; this was a tall woman, attired in a rather faded silk dress, a large black bonnet, and a double veil of black lace, which, as she lifted it on entering the shop, discovered a countenance which apparently had witnessed the vicissitudes of between thirty and forty summers. This is certainly very curious writing, and truly feminine, not only in the lack of punctuation (which I have supplied in copying), but in the tone and treatment; eg., in the contempt for stinginess, and in the reason put into Julia's mouth Bnt I think, after a quiet smile at this wonderful child's conception of the Treasury Office, secretary, and clerks, and the manner of "the quality," we may recognise something of Currer Bell in this page. The opening-"A dead silence had reigned, &c."-is very like her trick of opening a story or a poem; the epithets, though commonplace, are not sprinkled in anyhow, but set in their place; and last, not least, there is the rough strength of language, which some readers of "Jane Eyre" and its successors find unpleasing. Sidney is "a stingy little monkey," and Flannagan is "carrotty-locked," and the Marquis of Douro is unconventionally frank in his jocosity about a Turkish institution. There is, surely, an extreme interest in these efforts of a secluded girl to realise for herself the outer world. Afterwards, we learn how she longed to travel, to see that wide, wide, and wonderful world, to multiply her experiences of life. It is almost always so Ein wandernd Leben but partly weak health, and partly duty, narrowed the round in which Charlotte Broute lived, and what she gave us she had to "make out," as her schoolfellows said, from what lay within that round. How much she gave us, another generation will better measure. But a quick eye may frequently find traces of her influence upon the literature of the day. If "Ruth" and "Jane Eyre" had not both been written, we should have had a great poem from Mrs. Browning, but "Aurora Leigh" would not have been what it is. I have not yet done with the author of "Jane Eyre." Meanwhile, Mrs. Gaskell's memoirs of her friend suggest two serious warnings. 1st. Let novel-readers see the risks they run in encouraging Eyre;" how many good books may they yet miss melodrama and splash; they nearly missed "Jane by forcing publishers to measure MSS. by a false standard? 2ndly. Let wrong-deers see the risks they run! There are two pilloried in Mrs. Gaskell's volumes, over and above those who, already exposed in "Jane Eyre," are now exposed afresha very bad woman and a selfish and negligent publisher. Everybody knows who the publisher is; the woman cannot long hide her shame. One word more :-the book, on the whole, shows literature and literary men and women in pleasing lights, and one trembles for its consequences, (in the shape of packets of MS.) to such generous publishers as Messrs. Smith, Elder, and Co. |