but to bury her head on the shoulder of him who was pressing her so fondly to his heart. "Yes, my own sweet girl!" he murmured; "Nothing shall part us. See, dearest, the eye is all right again. It is in my heart that the shaft really rankles, and will till my darling Kitty pulls it out by promising to be my wife, my own darling wife. Will she?" the once bright eyes rather languid, as could not be wondered at, considering all she had gone through; then, as the day was so very fine, the sunbeams positively turning everything into gold and silver, and the birds singing as if beside themselves for joy, Kitty burst out too, into a little cheerful tune, which instantly caused the languid eyes to recover some portion of their natural brilliancy, and the rigid lines of the fair Kitty hastily raised her blushing, burning face to relax into something very like a smile. face, threw back the masses of golden curls, Then having, as it were, cast off a few more which somehow or other had got quite over her of her own dead leaves, she naturally enough face, and gazed up through her tears eagerly at began, very busily, to remove those of her the wounded eye. Yes, it was all right, and favourite plants-trimming and paring, and looked as well, and was gazing as fondly at her, watering, as seemed unto her best. Having as the other. Thank God!" she whispered, employed herself some time in this innocent and then down went her little head once more, recreation, she sat down to rest herself under because the young baronet's greedy lips sought the shade of a very fine orange tree, that stood hers again directly; so finding he was disapin a great tub. Kitty's pensiveness seemed to pointed in them he heaped his kisses on the gain ground once more; she sighed, and casting golden curls, whispering in softest tone, the her eyes, like a timid fawn, here, there, and all while he pressed her still tighter to his heart, around, to make sure that she was quite alone," But my Kitty has not said that she will be my she dived her little white hand right down into precious wife. her little white bosom, and (I am half ashamed to say) brought up that eternal little stupid note which had accompanied the fruit from Allonbyand which certainly did, if I speak the truth, though I am aware entirely against all the laws of romance, look rather the worse for wearand began to read it with all the eager curiosity, blushings, and flutterings of the heart, which had, naturally enough, attended its first perusal. Will she?" Kitty trembled all over again, and her sweet bosom throbbed against his heart in a way that I cannot describe; and there was the softest, trembling little Yes! quite like the sigh of a young rose, slipping from her tongue, the while the young saucy baronet's head was pressed (of course) quite close to hers, to catch it, when there was a sudden exclamation—a scream-a half-stifled hysterical sob-proceeding from the entrance of the conservatory. Kitty started like a shot fawn. Sir Eustace turned, and there stood Mrs. Ellerton and Clara. Clara instantly rushed away in a state that baffles all description, and with an expression of face actually fiendish. Mrs. Ellerton seemed for a moment or two riveted to the spot, with a look of intense sur prise blended with bitter disappointment and regret; her face was deadly pale: she turned also. Sir Eustace advanced instantly to her, the while Kitty sank half-fainting under the orange-tree. After having quite assured herself that not a word or meaning had escaped her in her previous perusals, she gave vent to her pent-up feelings in little gushes of broken words. Yes," sighed Kitty, softly, and raising her tear-bright eyes to heaven, "he forgives me, dear-dear fellow; he knows that I did not mean it; that I would sooner have died than hurt a hair of his young head! Oh, God grant that he may quite recover his sight, and--and quite, quite forgive me! Yes, Eustace, dear-dear Eustace-but you shall never, never see Kitty more, no never!" She sighed deeply, sunk her head on her bosom, and raising the little pink note, pressed it very Mrs. Ellerton, however, by a strong effort, tenderly to her sweet lips (I must speak the recovered herself, and motioning Sir Eustace truth), and was in the very act of restoring it coldly back with her hand, exclaimed hurriedly, again to its hiding place, when a soft voice said," Not now, Sir Eustace. I cannot attend to close behind her, in the faltering tones of fondest anything you wish to say; my eldest daughter affection, "My own, own, precious Kitty! he is taken ill. Excuse me." And she also hastened not only forgives you, but loves you- oh more away, to seek Clara's side, leaving the lovers than life, more than words can express!" together. With a wild scream, and face dyed scarlet, poor Kitty started to her feet, but only to be caught the next moment, fondly, passionately, to the bosom of Sir Eustace, who had entered so softly from behind, that Kitty had been perfectly unconscious of any intrusion. 66 Oh, heaven!" she exclaimed, trembling like an aspen leaf, and half fainting from the intensity and suddenness of her emotion. "Release me, Sir Eustace, pray." And she struggled, but in vain; and then, to escape from the warm, passionate kisses which he showered on lips, eyes, and burning cheeks, she had no choice But enough; so it was. And I must leave it to the imagination of my reader to paint, or rather conjure up the various feelings of the various hearts. The intense disappointment, rage, jealousy, envy, hatred, and malice, that made a perfect hell of the proud Clara's, it is impossible to display. Her mother's feelings were little less excited; and following the im pulse of the moment they would have visited on the fair enslaver of the coveted baronet most crushingly their wrath. But Kitty felt that might was on her side, that she was engaged heart and soul to him, was beloved most fondly by him; that love gave her strength: so that, to their great surprise, she met their bitter and unjust reproaches with a spirit that almost electrified them; and although Clara vowed that nothing should ever induce her to forgive the hateful sister who had by the most consummate treachery and cunning marred her prospects of future happiness, yet Mrs. Ellerton drew in her horns and became dumb, by no means thinking it convenient or wise to be on bad terms with Lady Allonby," that was to be. But, although such were the feelings displayed by the amiable relatives of Kitty, it would be almost impossible, on the other hand, to describe those of unmitigated joy which pervaded the hearts of young and old through the parish and surrounding neighbourhood. The domestics at Rosemead, too, were wild with joy. Mabel did nothing but laugh and cry for one whole day, declaring that she had always said that "her darling Miss Kitty was born to be a barrow-knight's lady." And then the wedding-day came, and as happy and merry a one it turned out as ever the sun shone on. Nothing could induce-neither Kitty's earnest entreaties, nor Mrs. Ellerton's maternal commands-the resentful Clara to be present on the joyful occasion; the very idea made her quite wild; consequently she went off on a visit to an aunt who resided in London, and severe illness was pleaded as an excuse for her non-presence at the ceremony. But the guests, nearly one and all, seemed to consider her absence as rather a desirable event, which they took small pains to conceal; and this, together with the warm heartfelt congratulations and fond wishes for her happiness, that poured upon Kitty, united with the unbounded admiration, love, and esteem that was evinced to her by great and small, opened Mrs. Ellerton's maternal eyes to the painful fact that her elder daughter, although the darling of her own heart, was as much disliked by the neighbourhood as her younger, and hitherto neglected child, was loved and admired; and she did not make the discovery in vain, but most decidedly discovered talents, and sundry noble characteristics, together with extraordinary beauty and witchery of manners in the young "Lady Allonby, which she had entirely overlooked in-Kitty Ellerton. The prevailing mirth and good will, indeed, became so contagious that even she herself, the disappointed mother, became infected, and gracious to an extent that made people wonder and admire. The happiness of the guests was unbounded; and Kitty-oh! how more than beautiful Kitty looked! and as saucy too she was as could be. But no one evinced more intense delight than honest Neptune, on this blissful occasion. He seemed perfectly to understand what it was all about, and his wild gambols, barks, and mad freaks were not small; indeed, so wildly did his spirits mount that he rushed into the stable and bit pony's nose, who was very peacefully eating his corn; and then catching poor Ebony up, who was taking things very quietly, though very happy in her own way, he, despite threats and whistles, rushed with her to the pond and dropped her in, plunged in after her with intense anxiety and excitement, lugged her out, and away again like mad to some other piece of fun. And they were happy, more than happyblessed in every sense of the word, the handsome young baronet and his saucy but darling little Kitty. They seemed to have been made for each other, to render each other, and indeed all around them, happy. Hand in hand they went in all good, benevolent, and noble deeds; were perfectly idolized by the poor; while the rich regarded the young, happy couple with an admiration and affection, blended with the most sincere respect. As for the proud Clara, shortly after her sister's marriage, she wedded a very wealthy old man, who had been struck all of a heap by her beauty, and thought that she would grace the head of a splendid establishment marvellously well, and also add considerably to the comforts and happiness of his delining years: so he married her, and caught-or rather both caught a Tartar in consequence. He, poor fool, soon made the mortifying discovery that all his beautiful young wife cared about was money, money, and still money-and its adjuncts of fashion, style, and diamonds, and that he himself was considered as a mere piece of live lumber; that the proud beauty took into the bargain because she could not help it. And she, too, soon found out, to her cost, the dreadful mistake under which she had laboured, in supposing that the admiring old man could be made the silly and obedient tool of her selfish whims; and so, after a few years of cat-and-dog life, he died, leaving her, as the reward of her disinterested affection and kindness," a small annuity, to cease on her second marriage, and the bulk of his immense property to a poor relation, and so ends my tale. They who others happy make, MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. BY ROBERT HARRISON BROWNE. Fain would I give my heart some rest, Would fain its heavy beatings still, That ring out the impetuous willThe anguish of my aching breast. I lay me down to rest and sleep, Blessings to come! They are brighter and fairer Than all before wafted on life's fitful wing; Blessings to come! say, is mortal the sharer Of joys half so sweet as their presence will bring? Too oft, with a vain and a bitter delusion, Our hopes have been raised to be dashed to the earth; This time there is truth in the charming illusion- Foolish creatures we are, in our bliss to forget, The very idea wakes such rapturous glowing As surely must give with fulfilment regret. Blessings now with us! Are these the rich treasures The soul grows enwrapt in its sorrows ideal; Thus, mourning an image, we die in our grief. Blessings departed! without a returning Lost, gone, and for ever! despairing we cry; Oh, dolts that we were to be constantly spurning Those pearls from life's crown, when our brows they were nigh. When coming, they gave us a picture entrancing; When present, they brought us a woe-begone view; Yet now, in their flight, all their beauties enhancing, We see not a false tint, we grieve for the true! Away with deception and tears unavailing, Since, blessings anew should the future bestow, The same disappointment, the same sad bewailing, Would reign when they come, and burst forth when they go. Blessings, sweet blessings! what mars your perfection? What gall in our nature destroys your perfume? Alas! 'tis the weed of our worldly affection, Which rankles and clusters to bear down your bloom; Our hearts, proud and sinful-of earth always earthy, Believe ye are come but to pamper their lust, While even at best all your joys are unworthy Of spirits immortal, though chained to the dust. No base lustre wearing, let's value ye duly As mercies, kind mercies by Providence given, Not earthward to bind us, but faithfully, truly, To solace us here, on our pathway to Heaven! STANZAS TO DEATH. BY ELLEN OGIER. Come, liberator, come-unloose the chain That keeps my spirit from its heavenward flight; My soul impatient longs to reach again Its native regions of eternal light. Hasten, last earthly friend-think not I fear Thy cold embraces, or thy visage stern; Delay not, for celestial notes I hear, And seraphs whisper to my soul," Return!" I come, I come-angelic voices rise, And Heaven's wide arch-way echoes back the strain, "Welcome, thou exile, to thy native skies! Welcome, blest spirit, to thy home again!" SUMMER. (A Sonnet.) BY MRS. CHARLES ROWLAND DICKEN. The golden Summer with its roseate skies, of many THE STORY OF A FAM I L Y.* after willingly conceding the point that she represents ordinary people and things as they are, with a searching fidelity and with keenness and depth of insight into human character, which scarcely any writer of fiction has ever surpassed-after this acknowledgment, we hold ourselves free to compare her books with those of other persons, even of her own sex. S. M., then, the authoress of "The Story of a Family," though far inferior in the clearness and quickness of perception, and the logical judgment shown by Miss Austen in her artistic sketches of human character, which are fac-similes of the beings she intends to represent-though inferior, also, in one or two other important points, in wit, in satirical humour, in power of holding all the parts of her story together, and evolving the plot so that at the close of the book you recognize the meaning of the whole and the exquisite skill that mastered and controlled each separate part, and in the perfect correctness and finish of detail-though inferior in all these points, we are inclined to grant S. M. precedence in one or two essential points, and equality in some others. The thing that first strikes every discerning mind on reading "The Story of a Family," is that it is written by a well-bred English gentlewoman, whose experience has been "far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife," and in all probability These two elegant volumes contain a tale which is so much above the average merit of domestic fiction, that our office in introducing it to the readers of this periodical is a positive pleasure. Before entering upon the critical portion of our task it may, perhaps, be as well to communicate the historical information we have gathered concerning "The Story of a Family." The greater portion of these two volumes appeared in sequence, from month to month, in the pages of "Sharpe's Magazine," and was found so attractive to many readers, that when the sequence was interrupted, as it was occasionally, the editor was remonstrated with severely by some of his fair correspondents. At length, owing to the combined force little circumstances which it was not deemed necessary to impart to the readers of 'Sharpe," as in all probability they in no way concerned them, "The Story of a Family" was brought to a rather sudden pull up in the middle of the course, and the disappointment of its admirers was only mitigated by the cold comfort tendered them in the form of an "envoi," stating the possibility that the tale would be continued at some future time. It has not been continued in a serial form since; but the portion already published, together with a fitting continuation and conclusion (the untimely one in the magazine being set aside), has been republished in the form before us-a form, we beg leave to say, generally to be preferred for any work of fiction to a serial one, whether in the pages of a magazine or within the confines of its own proper, private, and peculiar cover. ten; Turn we now to the tale itself. It may be characterized briefly as a domestic romance. It is not an every-day story of an every-day family, in which the excellence lies in accurate representations of every-day life, and in seemingly unconscious and unintentional production of what everybody recognizes, in a moment, as unadorned reality. It is by no means a story of a family such as Jane Austen would have writit is the product of a very different sort of mind; and yet we are reminded of that authoress when we come to reflect on the works of S. M. Why is this? Probably quite as much on account of the very great difference as on account of the few points of similarity. We know it is the fashion to treat Miss Austen's novels as if they were exempt from the weakness and shortcomings of human works gene rally, and a great deal of falseness about them gets current in consequence. But, as we are not disposed to fall into this fashion after acknowledging Miss Austen's large share of merit “Along the cool, sequestered vale of life.” This is also the case with Miss Austen's novels. You feel at once that they must have been written by a girl well-born and well-nurtured, in a beautiful country-place, with a loving family circle about her to delight in her genius, and to foster it with love and pride. You hear that she was a beneficed clergyman's daughter, and you say to yourself, "Of course she was." Are not all the blessings of her parentage perceptible in her books? She is a lady -a cultivated woman-a woman trained from the cradle in habits of virtue and religion, who has been shielded from the touch of evil by the happy sanctities of home. All that she writes is healthy, and intolerant of sickliness-here the similarity between the two writers seems to subdivide into a difference. Miss Austen lived before the present introspective, conscious, subjective generation to which S. M. belongs. She took things as she found them, and asked not for their inner meaning. She was neither a poet nor a philosopher. S. M. is both, to the extent to which circumstances have allowed her to be so; therefore she speculates about the spiritualities of things when she should be reflecting their phenomena in her fiction as in mirror. She sends her mind wandering over the minds of her dramatis personæ in a subtle, but somewhat dreamy fashion, showing a critical "The Story of a Family," by S. M.; author of "The Maiden Aunt;" "Lays and Ballads from English History" (Hoby). have admired this furniture for its antiquity." Another long silence. I gave it up, and deter- rather more than a creative faculty. Yet she | tainly I shouldn't have supposed anybody would has created some beautiful characters, more beautiful than reality, and yet as real as the laws of fiction require-as real as Miranda or Imogen are real; and nobody but those who talk nonsense without knowing it, contend that they are real in the sense that Bailie Nicol Jarvie and Jane Austen's Elizabeth Bennett are real. S. M.'s characters are for the most part life-like; but it is not the common every-day life that they are like they conform to the harmonies of a higher sort of life in which the true artist loves to work. This as regards the conception and working out of her chief characters; they are ideal and beautiful. She would never have made a heroine out of Elizabeth Bennett: her ten-tainly shaped like an elm, but she could never see dency is towards the poetic in most things; yet occasionally we come across such accurate pieces of common life as the following, which Miss Austen herself might have written the truthfulness and the latent humour are in her style. A haughty, fashionable young beauty is sent to rusticate with some old aunt's : : There was no improvement when the sisters came in. They were hard-featured, angular women, with harsh, dull voices, and manners that were stiff, and scarcely polished enough to be called formal. They never spoke except in case of absolute necessity, and then said as little as they could. As for small talk, only a frantic person could have thought of such a thing in their presence. Occasionally each contradicted the other, and sometimes both at once briefly contradicted Mr. Barron, and these were the liveliest moments of the day. They never argued they could not have said consecutive words enough for an argument; they might rather be said to deal in fragmentary and detached cavils. When we came into the drawing-room after dinner, they both sat down bolt upright upon the sofa, and steadily stared at me. I found I could not bear it, and many and furious were the efforts which I made at conversation. Whatever I said Miss Barron doubted, and Miss Eliza Barron immediately differed from her sister, and did not agree with me. One speci Miss Eliza (resolutely). "I counted them." I. "What a venerable-looking old house this is! I quite admire it. I do love everything that is oldfashioned and quaint. These couches, now, and those tall, narrow mirrors are quite pleasant to my eyes! only one fancies every one ought to wear hoops and powder here." Miss Barron. "The house may look venerable, but it is'nt a hundred years old; and we furnished the drawing-room last summer.' an elm." Miss Barron remarked that the aspen was cer that the elm had the smallest resemblance to an aspen. Miss Eliza said that was particularly strange. She would not have been surprised if her sister had not seen the likeness in the aspen; but the elm was really so extraordinarily like, that she could not understand how any one could fail to per ceive it. Here the conversation dropped, and scarcely anything more was said till we exchanged our frigid "good nights," and departed to rest. I believe these were both very good women: they were strongly attached to each other, and intended to be very kind to me. They were charitable to the poor, and regular in the performance of their religious duties. They would have nursed each other in illness with devotion, though assuredly not with tenderness; and I do believe that, if either had died, the survivor would have found it possible to look graver, and say less than before. But to live with them--I would rather live with three students of the French horn and a singing master! This same haughty beauty Madeline is not only a finely conceived, but a vigorously executed character-a character far too ideal for the pen of Miss Austen-too ideal and too passionate. Perhaps our authoress is herself scarcely aware that, as a creation, Madeline is worth much more than Ida. The latter is charming, and very lovely; but there is no shadow in the picture: she is like an angel or a fairy, or a young saint by Raphael. She is removed away from your sympathies, because of her superhuman perfections. No so with Madeline: she has been sinned against and sinning: she has been tried, and found wanting: she knows sorrow, and the meaning of the words temptation, despair, strug gle, and remorse, and that as noble and radi lineation of Madeline's character, and the story It is the decally virtuous minds know it. thoress has an intuition, if not an experience of of her early life, which show us that the au some things Miss Austen seems not to knowthings indicated in the old harpers' lay in Wil helm Meister "Wer nie sein brod mit thräuen ass," &c. The following combines the natural Austen-like ease of describing ordinary incidents, with the deeper significance of a writer who is apt to look much below the surface in the merest trifles: My dear," says Miss Barron to me, in her most acid and ferocious tone, "there is Mr. Tyrrell Miss Eliza. "Last spring, Priscilla. Yes, cer- coming up the sweep." |