The Press. — London, England, 1857-11-14 00:00:00

THE PRESS, NOVEMBER 14,1857. She was in no mood yet to bear anything approaching to reproof ; in the haughty raising of the flushed face, and the scornful curling of the parted lip, I guessed the kind of answer she was preparing herself to give. But that answer was never spoken. Beibre a word had fallen from bet, the door was slowly opened ; cne of tlie servants, mute and hesitating, stood upon the threshold. There was a moment's pause. " Well, Richard ?" The summons opened the man's lips. "Could you come out into the hall, sir ?" " Out into the hall !—what for ?" "'There was some one wanting to speak to you, sir— Mr. Beresford's servant—if you would oome out for a minute, sir." • There was something—it might be in the man's look or tone, or both—that called for attention ; without a word, rising quickly from his chair, Mr. Wynter went out. Mrs. Wynter turned about and looked nervously towards the re•ctosing door. " Dear me ! what is it, I wonder ?" " My dear mother, what do you suspect ?" and Helen laughed ; but her merriment I thought had a strange sound in it. "It is only some message from Edward." " Well, I suppose so, but yet it is odd—What is that ? Huai+ !" she cried. God knows what it was! It was a sound in the hall, neither distinct nor loud—a murmur rather than a cry ; but, such as it was, it sent the blood rushing from Helen's cheek. With a wild startled look she glanced round—she half rose— "Mother!" she cried. "Miss Haig ! go to the door!" There was no need. I rose up, but I had not taken two steps when the door reopened: there before us again, but with his broad face blanched, stood Mr. Wynter. . . " Mr. Wynter !—Frank !—oh, my God, what is it?" His wife stood up before him : in silence he took both her hands and put her back: stern-faced, as I had never seen him before, without a syllable, he went up to Helen's chair. She had risen and stood facing him, her eyes wild with a terror beyond all utterance : she never spoke : the only words that broke the silence—and their tone I shall remember while I live—were these, that came from him— " Helen, it is all over between you. God forgive you! Edward lieresford has shot himself dead !" There came a great convulsive cry—but not from her. Dumb, white, an.l stiff she stood, her lips drawn back, her large, wild darkening eyes distending into a great un• utterable horror ; like a statue hut for her gasping breath ; immovable, frigid, fixed ; ghastly in her deathlike agony, with all the horror and all the hideousness of despair. " Oh, Nelly !—oh, my poor Nelly !" Bursting into a passion of tears, Mrs. Wynter flung herself upon her daughter's neck, hut no tears did her weeping bring from Helen. Insensible alike to the sound of her emotion or the touch of her embrace, the white, marble figure never moved—till on a sudden, throwing her mother off. she flung her arms up in the air and shrieked aloud. Thrice that cry rant, curdling the blood within our hearts : when it ceased, like one felled suddenly by a blow, she sank upon the floor—a huddled mass—her white face pressing on the ground, and when we stooped to raise her up she was quite lifeless—as cold and motionless as a corpse. The other sister, Sydney Wynter, after pro tracted coquetry with a Mr. Rupert and a Mr. Leslie, at length decides fir the former on the discovery of a seduction by the latter, which brings on a duel between him and the former, whose sister Leslie has seduced. We think it would be difficult to express in fewer words the complexities of this particular episode. After Helen and Sydney have been thus disposed of; it is of course the governess's own turn ; and Uncle Gilbert, a gentleman of forty, with a humped back, a severe countenance, flashing oyes, flowing locks, and satirical propensities, is taken captive in due form. The language of " Riverstou" is certainly inclined to be stilted; but, excepting the one great draw back, this is its chief fault. Miss Craik is a very lively writer. She has wit, and she has sense; and she has made in the beautiful young governess, with her strong will, saucy independence, and promptness of repartee, so interesting a picture that we almost forget how much of it is not her own. 4. There is one remarkable feature in this novel which will commend it to most of our readers who have lived long enough to have sufficient troubles of their own without seeking the stimulant of imaginary misfortunes. It is fair weather throughout; or if a cloud now and then sails across our vision, it is never so dense but that we can see the sun behind it. The story is full of romantic adventures, told with just that admixture of pleasantry and pathos which creates excitement without uneasiness. The author seems much too goodnatured to analyse and linger over the sufferings of those characters which the ex igencies of the story compel to be miserable; and the BOITOWS of the English young lady who conceived an unrequited love for the Turkish hero are shaded off so gently that our sympathy is! never very heavily taxed. Ttto poen?) 9f t)lits nor) , is laid in Esypt,and " You don't know what you are talking of," observed Brian sententiously; " when I go out 1 shall buy a lot of land, and take out a lot of good stout labourers and a useful wife." Here Rupert burst out laughing, and Brian looked injured and contemptuous, ti 1 the family sense of fun overcoming his resentment, he could not help joining in the laugh, • • • • Work and talk proceeded merrily ; Henrietta singing scraps of songs between times, Keene taking them up fur a bar or two as she dropped them, while the notes of the canary made themselves audible above all. " Dora, I shall certainly exterminate that pet of yours some day," said Keene," where is he now ? Oh, judiciously perched on a picture-frame precisely his own colour. I saw you trying to make out where the row came from, Charles." " Row !" said Dora, "poor dear Blonde] !" "Poor dear how much?'' inquired Charles. " Blonde]," said Keene ; " that you must know is the name of Dora's fat minstrel up there." "Henrietta would he an invaluable cage bird," said Charles," she would sing all the year round. I heard her all this morning, over her drawing." " Did I ? I forget." " A true bill," said Keene . ; " you don't always know when you do it." " I like your saying anything about it, Mr. Keene !" said Henrietta. " What were you singing this morning ?" asked Charles. " I don't know—ull manner of scraps. What did you think it was ?" " Well," said Charles, laughing too, " I acknowledge to having no more ear than a post. I don't think I should know the National Anthem when I hear it, if people did not take their hats off." Rupert began on this hint to whistle it, and Keene taking up a second, it really sounded so pretty that all, including Charles, exclaimed in admiration. " You should hear Keene and Henrietta sing," said Dora, " you never hare yet." "It ought to be Shining River,' " said Alice, looking at the view visible from the windows, " do, Keene." "Well, Henrietta," said Keene, an•l very sweetly did the brother and sister sing the little duet. 3. " Riverston " is one of a class of stories which have lately been written with peculiar success. It is the autobiography of a gover ness. But " Riverston," though not without much original merit, is far too close an imita tion of "Jane Eyre" to deserve unTialifieo commendation. There is a wide difference between a disciple and a plagiarist. " Anne Sherwood," for instance, is one of that school of which Miss Brontë may be said to have been Ithe founder; but the story is perfectly independent. We cannot say the same of " Riverston " The courtship of the heroine and Uncle Gilbert follows so closely i:i the wake of Jane and Mr. Rochester as to trans cend those limits which divide from appropriation For those readers who can forget that "Jane Eyre " was ever written, " Riverston" will probably be a very enter taining story. The plot, indeed, is meagre, but the narrative never flags, and the incidents are striking and diversified; among them may be mentioned suicide, seduction, and duelling. The matrimonial fortunes of the two Miss Wynters, the elder sisters of Miss Haig's pupil, and those of Miss Haig herself, form the staple of the story. One is a desperate girt, engaged to a quiet young curate, whom he goads to frenzy by her conduct towards a stalwart captain of dragoons. The following scene shows dramatic power. The news of her lover's fate is brought to Miss Helen at breakfast, the night after a grand ball at her father's house:— "I am too tired to be hungry," Helen said. "Do you know, papa, I danced sixteen times last night?" Tired she was certainly ; bt.t as I noticed her look and tone, it struck me that something more than common weariness ailed her. The intoxication of last night was beginning to bring its reaction: I saw that, and with little Fit!. Yet, whatever her conscience might be whispering, she did her best to drown its voice. As we sat round the breakfast.table she talked so incessantly, that, in the course of one five minutes, I thiee times noticed Mr. Vt ynter look up from his newspaper as though about to speak, and twice turn back, baffled by her volubility, before be could finally succeed in delivering himself of the question with which he was laden. But it came out at last. " Now, in the midst of all this," he said, " is there any one who can ter me what became of Edward Beresford ? Was he hiding himself all last night, or where was her Helen's lips gave ont no sound ; the only sign that she heard her father's question appeared in her risen colour. 1 was the only other person who was capable of giving a reply to ➢ir. Wynter's question; when, therefore, she did not speak, I said— _ _ " He came late and went early ; I saw both his entrance and his exit." 7 _ _ At,ain Mr. Wynter addressed Helen, and there was in his tone a mixture of gravity and jesting. " What did he do that for. Nelly ? liecau , e he did not get much encouragement to stay; was that it?" 1113 Arabia, and the period is that when Moham med Ali Pasha was the terror of his liege lord the Sultan, and a very inconvenient personage to the diplomatists of Europe. Hasfan is the son of a celebrated Turkish general, " Derwish of the Sword." lie had been con signed in his infancy to an Arab woman, wh o remained ignorant of his origin, and brought him up as a young Bedouin among her own family. Taunts from his companions as to the uncertainty of his birth drive Hassan from the tent, not without the deep regret of his foster parents, but he carries with him certain amulets and " charms " which had been given to the woman at the time, and which it is hoped may enable him to discover his parentage. in the course of his career he falls in with a travel ling English family, whose peculiarities, with those of servants, courier, and tutor—the last two about equal rogues—are humorously hit off. it is the daughter of this " house " that falls in love with Hassan, who might, perhaps, have returned his passion had he not been enslaved by the daughter of a Pasha into whose service he had entered. How Hassan won universal admiration by his feats of strength, courage, and generosity, whether displayed towards desperate robbers, savage horses, gigantic bullies, vanquished onemies, or helpless women—how he resisted the temp tations both of morey and beauty, for the sake of which ordinary men (ourselves among the number) would have walked to Grand Cairo with peas in their shoes—how the shafts of envy and malignity fell from him harmless— and how the inflammable bosom of Amine, the Pasha's daughter, more lovely than all the Peris, gradually grew to languish for the manly form and rare beauty for which this paragon of virtue and heroism was conspi cuous—how the Pasha's wrath was appeased— and how it fell out that the two fables of Hassan and Arnim'. and Villikins and his Dinah did not correspond more closely, we shall not inform our readers, for are they not written in the two volumes which Mr. Parker has pub lished ? We cordially recommend them, and may add that Turks well acquainted with Egypt and Egyptian life who have perused this story have assured us that in all which comes under the general epithet of " costume " it is correct and lifelike. 5. The story of " The Ruling Passion" is not equal to any of the above four. The plot is not badly conceived, but the author at pre sent wants the power of giving individuality to his characters. He does not evoke our sympathies, nor compensate for the fault by gratifying our taste. He is not a good word painter, nor has he any pretensions to humour. The story, however, has some dramatic force ; and, should the author ever achieve success, we should think it would be through the medium of the stage. Thore the scenery, the dresses, and the action, would exactly fill up what he is unable to supply himself. The Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford. Edited by Peter Cunningham. Now First Chronologically Arranged. Vols. IV. and V. London : Bentley. THE chronological arrangement of these letters is, beyond any doubt, of great advantage, and it is the best feature of this edition. We have now arrived at the fifth volume, and the " new" letters are, on the whole, rather few, and the industrious editor has relied too much on his "collected" letters, by which he means the epistles of Walpole gathered from all quarters. In these two volumes we find frequent cita tions of notes from " Croker." Sometimes his notes have an accidental piquancy not intended by the writer. Thus we have " Croker " (vol. iv. p. 130) explaining who " Mr. Rigby" was, and then " Cunningham" puts in his word : The Right Hon. Richard Rigby, master of the rolls in Ireland, afterwards paymaster of the forces : a statesman of the secord class, and a bon-vivant of the first. Mr. Rigby was at one time a chief friend and favourite of Mr. Walpole's, but became involved in Mr. Walpole's dislike to the Duke of Bedford, to whom Mr. Rigby sas sincerely and constantly attached, and over whom he was supposed to have great influence.—Citomtn. See vol. i. p. 36m. His letters are very lively, and deserve eollection.—Cus- NINO HAM.