Obrazy na stronie
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of the truth seems to have entered the husband's mind. He retired; and Mingrat sent away the maid, who did not sleep in the house, and then commenced the labours of that most awful night.

Not far from the church was an ascent, on the summit of which rose a wall of huge strangely formed rock; at the foot of this cliff flowed the river Isère. Mingrat's object appears to have been to convey the body of his victim thither, and throw it into the stream. With this view, he bound it hand and foot with cords, and let it down from the window; then he extinguished the light, and, descending himself by the stairs, he lifted it, and partly by carrying, and partly by dragging, he succeeded in conveying it to the top of the hill; but here he found a difficulty he had not reckoned on; great as was his strength, he could not raise the body over the rock.

This was an alarming discovery, for the night was short where there was so much to be done. It then occurred to him, that if he could separate the limbs from the trunk, he might more easily dispose of it; and he attempted this by means of his pocket-knife, but all were inadequate.

And now imagine his situation! Let us picture to ourselves the murderer as he stood on that lonely hill, scantily sprinkled with thorn-bushes and withered hazel-trees; battered by the storm, for the rain fell and the wind raged furiously on that awful night: before him, the steep ascent that he could not surmount; beside him, the body that he could not get rid of! Conceive his horror, his anguish, his despair! How little do we think, when each night we lay our heads calmly on our pillows, of the scenes that at that moment may be acting in different parts of the world! For myself, I could not, on hearing this fearful story, help endeavouring to recall the fearful drama; bringing back to my memory that May of 1822; contrasting situations-my peaceful chamber, my calm sleep, and my cheerful waking. I felt ready to fall upon my knees, and bless God that I had been exempted from such trials. Indeed, it is the melting of the heart that this tale produced on myself that has induced me to relate it; for such contemplations are very wholesome. Trembling whilst we rejoice, we learn the inestimable value of innocence; and whilst humbly thankful for the past, we prepare to encounter the future, at once softened and strengthened, encouraged and reproved.

But to return to that lonely hill and the conflict there. What was to be done? He must either carry the body round to the river by the public path, or return home and fetch a more efficient instrument. The time that either operation would absorb was terrific to think of. At length he decided on the latter expedient, probably from the apprehension that passengers would be abroad upon the road before he could accomplish his task. So with rapid strides he made his way back to the manse, possessed himself of the kitchen hatchet, and returned to the hill. With the aid of this weapon he attained his object, and then succeeded in conveying the mangled remains to the river; leaving, as he believed, no traces of his own whereabout, or of his victim's fate, except a handkerchief she had worn about her neck. This he hung on a thorn-bush near the water, in order to encourage the idea that she had destroyed herself.

The morning now began to dawn, but his night's work was scarcely half finished. How much must be done before the maid returned! There were the murdered woman's clothes to be disposed of; his own bloodbesprinkled habiliments to be cleaned; the hatchet to be polished. It was a sore labour, for still, toil as he would, some spot, some stain remained! Her dress he burned, cutting it up into shreds, and then cutting again to make them small enough for hasty combustion; but the very ashes were treacherous, and cried aloud against him. They were so red that he was obliged to mingle sand and earth amongst them to disguise the colour.

As for the hatchet, in his anguish he rubbed it so bright that its very lustre stood out as a testimony against him. It is surely one of the providences of God that the stains of blood should be so difficult to efface!

But suddenly he pauses-his whole frame is relaxed his visage, inflamed by the torture of his mind and his vehement labours, is overspread with a ghastly pallor what is it that affrights him so? Is there a noise without, or has he discerned some human eye watching him through an unguarded chink? Why does he fling down the hatchet, and thrust his hands wildly into his pockets, and then rush frantically from the house? He has missed his pocket-knife! He must have left it behind him on the hill. Oh, the agony of that moment! Away he strides again, this time in the broad light of day-but everything must be risked to recover such a damning evidence. He reaches the summit-seeks it looks here, looks there-under every bush, in every cleft-runs hither, thither-but in vain; the knife has disappeared. He dare linger no longer he must return without it.

He reached the parsonage before the maid's arrival, and, had it not been for her fanatical faith in his holy office, his demeanour must now have betrayed him. He met her now with confusion; addressed her with fury'Where had she been? What had she seen? What did she think?' The poor girl, trembling, answered that she had seen nothing, understood nothing. She had only heard a sighing and groaning, and she fancied that her master was ill.

Nevertheless, she could not close her eyes to what she saw; why was the kitchen hearth heaped with ashes? There must surely have been a large fire since she had last been there! She swept them aside, and there appeared a half-burned wreath of flowers; in the back yard, upon some straw, she perceived blood spots, and picked up a withered leaf of hazel; there were no hazeltrees there, and the leaf was stained, and there was something adhering to it that made her own blood freeze. She found a bit of the minister's cloak, too, and that was stained. What should she do? What ought she to do? When she saw him she durst not open her lips to speak, and was about to retreat, when he sternly bade her go up stairs. This harshness rendered her desperate, and folding her hands, as in earnest prayer, she besought him to 'let her go away, for she could bear it no longer.'

What a thunder-clap to Mingrat! The request told all. He was betrayed; his fatal secret, his life, his honour, were in the power of this girl. Shaking like a leaf, the girl stood before him; whilst he, barring her way to the door, and holding her arm with a grasp of iron, his eyes fixed on the earth, deliberated what was to be done. Suddenly a resource presents itself. He is acquainted with her simplicity and scrupulous conscience, and hope awakes once more. Still grasping her arm, he dragged her to the church— it was yet early morning, and no one was there to witness the scene-flung her on the steps of the altar, and gave her the choice at once to die or there swear to observe an inviolable secrecy on the events of that night. She consented to take the oath, and he held the crucifix upon her lips whilst she pronounced it.

In the meanwhile, the disappearance of the beautiful Marie Charnelot was beginning to excite general attention, and her husband naturally became extremely uneasy. Her having been seen to enter the village of St Quentin, conjoined to her avowed intention of going to confession, inevitably connected Antoine Mingrat with the mystery; but the people of the neighbourhood were extremely pious; however unlovable a being their pastor was, he was a holy one in their eyes.

It happened that very early on that morning, a gentleman, named Michon, had occasion to visit a part of his property which was situated at a little distance from the village. His way lay across the hill, and, although the

day was but dawning, it was light enough for him to perceive that the ground was stained with newly shed blood. He stopped; some animal might have fallen a prey to the eagles! But no; here were traces of human intervention. Near at hand lay a bloody cord; further, stuck in the earth, a pocket-knife with a black handle bearing the same fatal marks. He picked it up; but, overcome with horror, flung it from him into a bush, and hastily left the place. Presently, however, recollecting how important this instrument would be to the conviction of the assassin, whoever he might be, he returned, and buried it in the earth. Thus, when Mingrat went back to seek it, it was no longer to be found.

It was an hour or more after this, though still early morning, that a butcher and his son, on their way to St Quentin, had occasion to pass under the cliff. See there, father,' said the boy, with some alarm, 'what is that man doing upon the hill?' The butcher looked, and with surprise perceived it was Antoine Mingrat the priest. His gestures, too, amazed them, for themselves unseen, they saw him distinctly; his eye wandered in all directions-he ran hastily from place to place now stooped staring into a bush-then, upon his knees, seemed to be peering into the earth-then stood erect and glared wildly about him-and at length, with a frantic gesture of despair, fled down the hill.

The excitement of the public. continued to increase. By this time Marie's handkerchief being found upon the thorn-bush, and blood stains traced as far as the river, a warm discussion arose as to whether she had drowned herself, after unsuccessfully attempting some other mode of death, or whether she had fallen by the hand of another. Mingrat, who for appearance' sake had been obliged to accompany some of her friends to the scene of the murder, and was the unwilling auditor | of the dispute, evinced the most violent anguish; wringing his hands, and convulsively casting up his eyes to heaven. In spite of their superstitious reverence for the Church, they began to suspect him; and now Michon came forward with the knife, and placed it in the hands of the magistrate. Charnelot declared it had not belonged to his wife. Was it the priest's? Still fettered by their veneration, they durst not ask him the question; so, under pretence of an ordinary visit, the adjunct or substitute called on him, and adroitly led the conversation to the subject which then formed the theme of inquiry. Mingrat as adroitly changed it; the adjunct brought it back again to Marie; Mingrat said he was suffering extremely from the state of his blood, which was much disordered; and, indeed, at the moment he spoke, his visitor describes his face to have been almost black; gradually, the adjunct spoke of the knife-he wondered that Marie should have had recourse

to such a weapon; Mingrat, sitting with his eyes fixed upon the table before him, requested the loan of a certain work on geometry which the adjunct possessed; the latter promised it and took his leave, confirmed in his suspicions. He knew that the priest had a copy of

the book in his own library.

fatal rumour.

Meanwhile an aunt of Mingrat's, who had been absent on a journey, arrived at St Quentin, and learned the Alarmed, she took the opportunity of the adjunct's visit to her nephew to call on his wife, and turning the conversation on the murder, she requested to see the knife; the lady produced it. For some moments the poor woman remained motionless, staring at it with a fixed gaze of horror, then clasping her hands, she murmured, with quivering lips: That, then, is the instrument of this dreadful crime! Unable to utter another syllable, she rose and quitted

the house.

Scarcely had the adjunct reached home when Mingrat himself arrived, under the pretext of fetching the book he wanted; his real motive was supposed to be a faint hope of possessing himself of the knife. His conver

sation was confused and unconnected, whilst his eye wandered anxiously over the room. This visit produced a very unfavourable impression against him; but still, always considering his office, there was nothing that in the magistrate's opinion authorised him to lay hands on the priest. It was not till the remains of the poor victim were found in the river, by some boys who were fishing on its banks, that the higher authorities interfered, and despatched some gens d'armes to his house to keep him under surveillance.

It was on the eighth day after the death of Marie Charnelot, whilst the gens d'armes were at table, that a stranger, evidently a priest, entered the room, and placing a letter in Mingrat's hands, desired him instantly to read it, and then disappeared. The letter contained the following words: 'You are covered with infamy by the rumours which connect you with that murdered woman. If you are guilty, fly instantly!' The priest was the vicar of Toulon. Antoine Mingrat followed this advice; intentionally or otherwise, the gens d'armes allowed him to escape, and he fled across the mountains into Piedmont. The aunt also disappeared. It was with much difficulty that the poor maid was brought to confess what she knew; her vow weighed heavily upon her; and it was only under the influence of another confessor that she at length gave her evidence. The guilt of Mingrat was now established, but he was beyond the reach of the law. The bereaved husband and a brother of Marie's, went to Paris, and throwing themselves at the king's feet, demanded that the criminal should be required of the Sardinian government. But there were difficulties in the way of their satisfaction; Mingrat was, however, seized and thrown into prison at Chambery. But the family and friends still thirsted for vengeance, and the process was continued till, at length, in 1828, the assassin was formally demanded of the Piedmontese. But this requisition only resulted in his removal to the strong fortress of Fenestrelle, from whence, it is supposed, he was transferred to a penitentiary.

To this hour, the inhabitants of St Quentin and its neighbourhood look with terror on the scene of this dreadful tragedy, never passing over the hill by night, and as rarely as they can by day.

MISS PARDOE.

MISS JULIA PARDOE, born at Beverley, in Yorkshire, the daughter of a field-officer in the army, has been an extensive writer in fiction, in books of travels, and in historical memoirs. Her most successful efforts have been those devoted to Eastern manners and society. She is said to have produced of her works which attracted any attention was Traits a volume of poems at the age of thirteen. The first and Traditions of Portugal, published in 1833. Having proceeded to the East, Miss Pardoe wrote The City of the Sultan, 1836, which has been succeeded by The Romance of the Harem and The Beauties of the Bosphorus. So recently as 1857, reverting to these Eastern studies and observations, Miss Pardoe produced a pleasant collection of Oriental tales, entitled Thousand and One Days. A visit to Hungary led to The City of the Magyar, or Hungary and its Institutions, 1840, and to a novel, entitled The Hungarian Castle. Another journey called forth Recollections of the Rhone and the Chartreuse; while studies in French history suggested Louis the Fourteenth, or the Court of the Seventeenth Century, and The Life of Marie de Medicis, 1842. The novels of Miss Pardoe are numerous. Among them are Reginald Lye, Flies in Amber, The Jealous Wife, Poor Relations, and Pilgrimages in Paris-the last published in 1858, and consisting of short romantic tales which had appeared in various periodicals.

MRS MARSH-LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.

and painfully interesting picture of the society of the manufacturing capital. The heroine is the daughter of a factory operative, and the family group, with their relatives and friends, is drawn with a distinctness and force that leave no doubt of its truth. The authoress says she had often thought how deep might be the romance in the lives of some of those who elbowed her daily in the

streets of Manchester.

a greater A little manifestation of

The domestic novels of these ladies have been received with great favour. They are earnest, impassioned, and eloquent expositions of English life and feeling-those of Lady Fullerton, perhaps, too uniformly sad and gloomy. Mrs Marsh is, next to Mrs Gore, the most voluminous of our ladynovelists. From the year 1834, when she published Two Old Men's Tales, she must have written at least fifty volumes. To none of them, we believe, was her name affixed; but the authorship appears to be well known, and is often referred to. MRS ANNE MARSH is a Staffordshire lady, daughter of Mr Caldwell, Recorder of Newcastle-under-Line; her husband was a London banker. About her thirtysixth year she entered on her career as an authoress, publishing first, as already stated, her Old Men's Tales, which were followed by Tales of the Woods and Fields, 1836; Triumphs of Time, Mount Sorel, The Admiral's Daughter, Emilia Wyndham, 1846; Father Darcy, Norman Bridge, Angela, Mordaunt Hall, Lettice Arnold, Lady Evelyn, Tales of the French Revolution, Bellah, a Tale of La Vendée, The Wilmingtons, Time the Avenger, Ravenscliffe, Castle Avon, Aubrey, The Heiress of Haughton, &c. Here prosperous-especially from the masters whose is quite a library of fiction, and much of it of a very high order. LADY FULLERTON has produced three novels-Ellen Middleton, 1844; Grantley Manor, 1847; and Lady Bird, 1852. The novelist is the second daughter of Earl Granville (George Leveson Gower), and was married in 1833 to A. G. Fullerton, Esq., of Ballenloy Castle, county of Antrim.

MISS KAVANAGH.

A series of tales, having moral and benevolent aims, has been produced by Miss JULIA KAVANAGH. In 1847 she published a Christmas book, The Three Paths; and in 1848, Madeleine, a Tale of Auvergne, founded on Fact. The 'fact' that gave rise to this interesting story is the devotion of a peasant-girl, who by her labour founded an hospital in her native village. Woman in France during the Eighteenth Century, two volumes, 1850, was Miss Kavanagh's next work-an ambitious and somewhat perilous theme; but the memoirs and anecdotes of the belles esprits who ruled the Parisian courts and coteries are told with discretion and feeling as well as taste. French society and scenery supplied materials for another fiction, Nathalie, 1851; after which Miss Kavanagh gave short biographies of women eminent for works of charity and goodness, entitling the collection Women of Christianity, 1852. She has since published Daisy Burns, 1853; Grace Lee, 1855; Rachel Gray, 1856; Adele, 1858; and A Summer and Winter in the Two Sicilies, two volumes, 1858. The last is but a poor work. In fiction and memoirs Miss Kavanagh is always interesting, delicate in fancy and feeling, and often rich in description. This lady is a native of Ireland, born at Thurles, in Tipperary, in 'the year 1824; but she was educated in France.

MRS GASKELL.

About the same time that Charlotte Brontë was drawing scenes and characters from Yorkshire, another lady-novelist was depicting the condition of the manufacturing classes in Lancashire. MRS ELIZABETH C. GASKELL (née Stromkin). wife of the Rev. W. Gaskell, Unitarian minister, Manchester, in 1848 published anonymously Mary Barton, a Tale of Manchester Life. The work is a faithful

with the care-worn men, who looked as if doomed
'I had always,' she adds, 'felt a deep sympathy
to struggle through their lives in strange alterna-
tions between work and want: tossed to and fro
by circumstances apparently in even
this sympathy, and a little attention to the expres-
degree than other men.
sion of feelings on the part of some of the work-
people with whom I was acquainted, had laid open
to me the hearts of one or two of the more thought-
irritable against the rich, the even tenor of whose
ful among them; I saw that they were sore and
seemingly happy lives appeared to increase the
anguish caused by the lottery-like nature of their
Own. Whether the bitter complaints made by them,
of the neglect which they experienced from the
founded or no, it is not for me to judge. It is
fortunes they had helped to build up-were well
enough to say, that this belief of the injustice and
unkindness which they endure from their fellow-
creatures, taints what might be resignation to God's
will, and turns it to revenge in too many of the
poor uneducated factory-workers of Manchester.'
The effects of bad times, political agitation, and
'strikes,' are depicted and brought home more
vividly to the reader by their connection with the
characters in the novel. The Lancashire dialect is
also occasionally introduced, adding to the impres-
sion of reality made by the whole work; and though
the chief interest is of a painful character, the
novelist reflects the lights as well as the shades of
artisan life. Her powers of description may be
seen from the beautiful opening scene.

[Picture of Green Heys Fields, Manchester.]

There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants as 'Green Heys Fields,' through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields being flat and lownay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these common-place but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town he left but half an hour ago. Here and there an old black and white farmhouse, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasons may be seen the country business of hay-making, ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteries for towns-people to watch; and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life; the lowing of cattle, the milk-maids' call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old farm-yards. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a crowded halting-place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark-green depths the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks are shelving is on the

side next to a rambling farm-yard, belonging to one of those old-world, gabled, black and white houses I named above, overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. The porch of this farmhouse is covered by a rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling and wild luxuriance-roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and indiscriminate order. This farmhouse and garden are within a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and black-thorn; and near this stile, on the further side, there runs a tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge-bank.

I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a holiday seized in right of nature and her beautiful spring-time by the workmen; but one afternoon-now ten or a dozen years ago-these fields were much thronged. It was an early May evening-the April of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark-blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that tender gray-green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours.

Groups of merry, and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were most of them factorygirls, and wore the usual out-of-doors' dress of that particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which at mid-day, or in fine weather, was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, or if the day were chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla or Scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down, or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion. Their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below the average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly and classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and irregular features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been noticed in a manufacturing population.

There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way, assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperous compliments of the lads. Here and there came a sober, quiet couple, either whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might be; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant, carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May afternoon together.

In 1850 Mrs Gaskell published The Moorland Cottage-a short domestic tale; in 1853, Ruth, a novel in three volumes, and Cranford, a collection of sketches that had appeared in a periodical work; and in 1855, North and South, another story of the manufacturing districts, which had also been originally published in the periodical form. These novels were all popular. The authoress was a prose Crabbe -earnest, faithful, and often spirited in her delineations of humble life. By confining herself chiefly

to the manufacturing population, she threw light on conditions of life, habits, and feelings comparatively new and original in our fictitious literature. Her Life of Charlotte Brontë, 1857, has all the interest of a romance, and as a literary work is worthy of the authoress of Mary Barton.

WILKIE COLLINS.

This gentleman's first work was a life of his father, William Collins, the celebrated English painter. It was published in 1848, and was universally recognised as a valuable addition to our artbiography. MR COLLINS then tried another field. He now turned to fiction, and in 1850 published a classic romance of the fifth century, entitled Antonina, or the Fall of Rome. Though much inferior to Bulwer's historical romances, the work evinced Mr Collins's art in constructing an interesting story, and this dramatic faculty-rather than skill in depicting character-has distinguished his subsequent productions. These are Rambles beyond Railways, or Notes in Cornwall, 1851; Basil, a novel, 1852; Mr Wray's Cash Box, 1852; Hide and Seek, 1854; After Dark, 1856; The Dead Secret, 1857. The last of these tales appeared in Household Words, and kept its readers in breathless suspense-the delight of all lovers of romance-until the secret was unfolded. Mr Collins is author also of a drama, The Frozen Deep, performed by Mr Dickens, by the dramatist himself, and other friends, amateur actors in aid of the family of Douglas Jerrold.

CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.

In the description of daring feats and romantic adventures-scenes in the desert, the forest, and wild hunting-ground-CAPTAIN MAYNE REID, of the United States army, has earned great popularity, especially with the young. He seems to have made Cooper the novelist his model, but several of his works are more particularly devoted to natural history. This gentleman is a native of the north of Ireland, son of a Presbyterian minister, and was born in the year 1818. In his twentieth year he went abroad to 'push his fortune.' He set out for Mexico, made trading excursions with the Indians up the Red River, and afterwards sailed up the Missouri, and settled on the prairies for a period of four or five years. He then took to the literary profession in Philadelphia; but in 1845, when war was declared between the United States and Mexico, Mr Reid obtained a commission in the American army, and distinguished himself by his gallantry. He led the forlorn-hope at the assault of the castle of Chapultepec, and was severely wounded. The Mexican war over, Captain Reid organised a body of men to aid the Hungarians in their struggle for independence, but the failure of the insurrection prevented his reaping any fresh laurels as a soldier. He now repaired to England and resumed his materials of a rare and exciting kind, and he pen. His personal experiences had furnished published a series of romances and other works, which were well received. In 1849 appeared The Rifle Rangers; in 1850, The Scalp Hunters; in 1852, The Desert Home and Boy Hunters; in 1853, The Young Voyageurs; in 1854, The Forest Exiles; in 1855, The Bush Boys, The Hunter's Feast, and The White Chief; in 1856, The Quadroon, or a Lover's Adventures in Louisiana; in 1857, The Young Yügers; in 1858, The Plant Hunters and The War Trail; in 1859, Oçeola, &c. As a vivid describer of foreign scenes, Captain Reid is entitled to praise,

but his incidents, though exciting, are often highly silent a minute, and then went on in a cheerful tone. improbable.

MISS MULOCK.

'You must let me remain out a good while to-day, I feel so strong; and, perhaps, I might stay a little later, to watch the sunset. I never can see it from my room, you know; which seems rather hard, now the evenings In 1849 appeared The Ogilvies-a 'first novel,' as are so beautiful and spring-like.' Philip soothed him the authoress timidly announced, but without giving as an elder brother might have done, and promised all, her name. It was instantly successful and appre-provided he felt strong enough. Then he took Leigh in ciated as a work of great genius, 'written with deep his arms like a child, and carried him down stairs to earnestness, and pervaded by a noble and loving the gay carriage. What different occupants were the philosophy. Next year came forth Olive, sustain-fluttering, fashionable young wife, and the poor sick ing the reputation of the writer; and Olive has been followed by The Head of the Family, 1851; Alice Learmont, a Fairy Tale, 1852; Agatha's Husband, 1853; John Halifax, Gentleman, 1856; Nothing New, 1857; A Woman's Thoughts About Women, &c. Several children's books-as Rhoda's Lessons, Cola Monti, A Hero, Bread upon the Waters, and The Little Lychetts-have been produced by the authoress of The Ogilvies; and she has contributed a great number of short essays and poems to Chambers's Journal and other periodicals. The accomplished and gifted young lady, who has thus delighted and benefited society by her genius, is Miss DINAH MARIA MULOCK, born at Stoke-upon-Trent, Staffordshire, in 1826. Notices of her father-a literary man, but of eccentric views and opinions-occur in his countryman Moore's journals and Life of Byron. As a moral teacher, none of the novelists of the present day excel Miss Mulock. She is not formally didactic-she insinuates instruction. A too prolonged feminine softness and occasional sentimentalism constitute the defects of her novels, though less prominent in her later works than in her first two novels. Her mission, it has justly been remarked, is to shew 'how the trials, perplexities, joys, sorrows, labours, and successes of life deepen or wither the character according to its inward bent-how continued insincerity gradually darkens and corrupts the life-springs of the mind-and how every event, adverse or fortunate, tends to strengthen and expand a high mind, and to break the springs of a selfish or even merely weak and self-indulgent nature.'* In carrying out this moral purpose, Miss Mulock displays eloquence, pathos, a subdued but genial humour, and happy delineation of character. A little more artistic labour, and wider observation of life and manners, would place her in the highest rank of novelists. We give one extract from The Ogilvies, descriptive of the death of the boy Leigh Pennythorne. Mr Dickens's description of a similar event, in his novel of Dombey, was much admired, but it is not more truly or pathetically given than in this passage by Miss Mulock.

[Death of Leigh Pennythorne.]

'Leigh may take a little longer drive to-day, for Mrs Frederick does not want the carriage. I wish I were going with you both,' sighed the mother; but Mr Pennythorne does not like being left alone when he is writing.' 'Cillie! Cillie! are you going to stay in Leigh's room all day?' resounded from the study door. Poor Mrs Penny thorne cast a hopeless glance at Philip, hastily kissed her boy, and disappeared in a moment. Leigh looked after her wistfully. I wish she could stay She would like it now, and afterwards! But she is a good, dear mother! and she knows I think so. Be sure you tell her that I did, Philip.' Wychnor pressed the boy's hand: it was a strange and touching thing, this calm mingling of death with life in Leigh's thoughts and words.

with me a little more.

*North British Review, November 1858.

He

was

boy, who lay half-buried in cloaks and cushions! Yet
Leigh lifted up his head with a cheerful look when Mrs
Pennythorne appeared at a window to give her part-
ing nod as they drove away. Philip saw the bright
loving smile that passed between mother and son-he
thought of it afterwards many a time. Now, where
shall we go, Leigh?' was the first question proposed, as
they drove along the interminable Kensington High
Street. Leigh pleaded for some quiet road: he wanted
to go far out in the country, to that beautiful lane which
runs along by the river side at Chiswick. He had been
there once at the beginning of his illness, and had often
talked of the place since. It haunted him, he said, with
its overhanging trees, and the river view breaking in
between them-its tiny wavelets all sparkling in the
sun. He knew it would look just the same this calm,
bright May afternoon. So accordingly they went thither.
It was one of those spring days when the earth seems to
rest from her joyful labour of budding and blossoming,
The birds in the trees
and to be dreaming of summer.
-the swans in the water-the white clouds in the sky
-were alike still; and upon all things had fallen the
spell of a blessed silence-a silence full of happiness,
and hope, and love. Happiness, hope, and love, what
words, what idle words they would sound, unto the two
Oh, earth, beautiful, cruel mother! how canst thou smile
who were passing slowly under the shadow of the trees!
with a face so fair when sorrow or death is on thy
children! But the earth answers softly: I smile with
a calm and changeless smile, to tell my frail children
that if in me, made but for their use, is such ever
renewed life and joy, shall it not be so with them?
And even while they gaze upon me, I pour into their
hearts my deep peace!' It was so with Philip and
Leigh. They sat silent, hand in hand, and looked on
this beautiful scene: from both, the bitterness passed
away-the bitterness of life, and that of death. Which
was the greater? On the bridge at Kew, Leigh spoke.
He begged that the carriage might rest a moment to
let him look at the sunset, which was very lovely. He
half lifted himself up, and the large brown eyes seemed
drinking in all the beauty that was in land, river, and
sky: they rested longest there. Then they turned to meet
Philip's: that mute gaze between the two was full of
solemn meaning. Are you content?' whispered Philip.
'Yes, quite now let us go home.' Leigh's eyes closed,
and his voice grew faint. 'You seem tired,' said the
other anxiously. Yes, a little. Take me home soon,
will you, Philip?' His head drooped on the young
man's shoulder heavily-so heavily, that Philip signed
to the coachman to drive on at his utmost speed. Then
he put his arm round the boy, who lay with closed eyes,
his white cheek looking gray and sunken in the purple
evening light. Once Philip spoke, almost trembling
lest no answer should come. 'Are you quite easy, dear
Leigh?' The eyes opened, and the lips parted with a faint
smile. Yes, thank you, only weary; I can hardly keep
awake, but I must till I have seen my mother.'
still the dying head sank heavier on Philip's shoulder,
and the hands which he drew in his to warm them
were already growing damp and rigid. He sat with
this solemn burden in his arms, and the carriage drove
homewards until they entered the square. The mother
stood at the door! Take her away, for God's sake-
only one minute,' whispered Philip to the servant; but

And

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