The Press.
London, England, 1853-06-25 00:00:00

THE PRESS.

This silence—this repose of all nature, animate and in-
animate—this subdued light—these shades everywhere in-
distinct—these great plains without any of the evidences
of life and activity upon them—all this has its poetry.
Wherever there is silence and space, poetry finds its place ;
it has a love for all things—smiling landscapes and me-
lancholy deserts ; a bird of light wing, everything suffices
for it to rest upon—everything bears it on—everything
sustains it—a blade of grass often suffices.
Holland, which the poet Butler called " a great ship al-
war at anchor," has its beauty for the reflecting mind.
One is slow to admire, but one admires at last, thin land at
war with the sea, struggling from day to day to defend its
existence—those patient and courageous men, who behind
• broken rampart raise another rampart--those towns
which compel the waves to flow at the feet of their walls—
to follow the route marked out—to confine themselves to
the channel dug for them ; and then those days of revolt,
when the water, as if in recollection of its original nature,
endeavour,' to reconquer its independence, overflows, in-
=ditto', destroys, and finally, by the strength of man's
hands, is calmed, and again becomes obedient. There life
resembles the evening after a battle ; there is fatigue, pride,
and triumph. The unexcitable inhabitant of this country
possesses that motive power of all things--will. He is
sure of success because he wills to succeed; he is calm
because he is strong ; he acts slowly because he reflects.
There is in the silence of serious things a beauty which the
mind should study es it comprehends the harmony of a song
—as it sees the colours of a picture.

The plot of the story turns upon the sad
theme of two young lovers whose affections are
blasted by a stern and hard-hearted parent.
The heroine of the tale is thus introduced
meeting with the young student, Herbert :

It was under this dome of verdure that the little boat
was moored. There the young man mused, his eye wan-
dering from the sky, as gloomy as his heart, to the stream
as uncertain as his destiny. Some of the willow leaves
brushed his brow when the undulations of the boat
brought him near the trees; one of his hands hanging
over the side of the boat felt the cool contact of the water ;
soft, gentle breeze played in his hair; nameless flowerets
which had sprung up at the feet of the willows, beyond the
influence of their shade, wafted towards the water per-
fumes which were detectable at intervals, according to the
caprice of the wind ; a bird concealed in the foliage was
singing an amorous melody, and, cradled in his bark, the
young student waited for the woman whom he loved. Un-
grateful that he was ! lie accused time of lagging; he
urged it to speed on ; he was insensible to the charms of
the passing hour. Oh! if he ever grows old, how well will
he understand that destiny was then giving him the most
precious treaanres of life—hope and youth !
Suddenly the student started : he stood up in the boat,
and, with outstretched neck and eyes fixed upon the
foliage of the willows, listened, scarce daring to breathe.
The branches parted, and the thee of a young girl, almost
a child, was revealed to his gaze.
" Christine ! " he exclaimed.
The young girl placed her foot upon the trunk of the
tree which inclined the moat; then gracefully placing her-
self upon this moveable seat, which her weight, slight as it
was, caused to sway, she leaned her arm upon one of the
branches which drooped towards the water, and in this posi-
tion her handreachedherlover's. He pressed itpassionately.
Then the young girl drew hack ; the tree, partly relieved
of its burden, as if in obedience to her will, yielded to the
impulse, and the youth, seated in his boat, conversed with
his eyes raised towards the willow upon which she whom
he loved was reclining.
Christine Van Amberg had nothing of the characteristic
features of the country which had given her birth. Tresses
as black as the raven's wing harmonised with a face full
of energy and decision. There was that in her large, deep
eyes under which falsehood must have quailed ; eyebrows
almost straight, and strongly marked, would have given,
perhaps, a little too much character to this youthful head,
if a charming expression of truth and innocence had not
produced rather the effect of a child's face than that of a
woman. Christine was fifteen years old; a small band of
silver encircled her black hair; this was, aooonling to the
custom of her country, the ornament of festival days ; but
for the young Hollander the happiest festival day was that
on which she met her lover. She wore a dress of flowered
muslin of a pale blue colour, and her mantle of black silk
was thrown over her hair and fell down upon her shoulders,
the better to conceal her from any prying eye. Seated
upon the trunk of a tree whose branches surrounded her,
and close by the water. Christine was as lovely as
Shakspearc's Ophelia. Rut although young, beautiful.
and beloved, a profound melancholy was expressed upon
her face : her companion glued at her in sadness, his eyes
almost filled with tears.
. . . . . .

" Herbert," said the young girl, bending her head to-
wards her lover, " Herbert, be not so sad. We have both
of us too many days yet to live, to live them in unhappi-
ness. Herbert, a better time will come."
" Christine, they have refused me your hand—they
have closed the door of your dwelling against me—they are
determined to separate us—they will succeed—to-morrow,
perhaps !"
" Never!" exclaimed the young girl, and a gleam like
lightning passed over her face but, like lightning too, this
energetic expression only lasted fin• a moment, and gave
place to a look of calm sadness.
The mother of Christine is a Spanish beauty
married to a cold-blooded, hard-hearted Hol-
lander, and the contrast between the phlegm
of the husband and the romance of his Span-
ish wife is beautifully painted. Taxed by her
mother with having a lover, Christine makes
the following girlia eoufebsion

SATURDAY,

I have nothing, mother, to confess with which you are
not already acquainted. 1 love Herbert, You, who have
followed my life step by step, you know that I must love Her-
bert. His was the first heart which I found open tome. Rein!
lect, mother, the existence which you have made for me
here. When I was a child I said to my sisters : " Come
with me and run in the meadow, come and look for the birds'.
nests, let us go and play and sing together !" My sistersan.
swered ; " Go alone," and they remained seated upon the
threshold turning the spinning-wheel. 1 did not play
long; nothing on the earth pleased me; I looked at the
sky, and it appeared to me very beautiful, especially when
covered with all its stars : • calming influence seemed to
come down from them to me. I fancied that the star-
covered sky hada voice so low that it was necessary to remain
silent and motionless to hear it. I came to you, mother,
as before I had been to my sisters; I said to you : "
ther, let us together look at the sky ; are those stars
worlds, whose inhabitants are as unhappy as we ? or are
they heavens where tired souls will find repose?' And
you answered : " Christine, avoid these thoughts ; tan
the spinning-wheel as your sisters do." One voice alone on
earth said to me : " I will go where you go, I will dream as
you dream ; likecrottimle think that there is not love enough
on earth, and 1 you, Christine, to love you!" This
voice, mother, was Herbert's. Herbert is only a poor stu-
dent placed in my father's charge ; but he possesses a noble
heart, somewhat sad like my own. He is learned, and he
is gentle with those who are ignorant. He is poor, and be
has the pride of a king. He loves, and he only speaks of
it to her who knows it. Mother, I love Herbert—Herbert
came honourably to ask my hand of my father, who only
answered him with a disdainful smile. Since then Her.
bert has been forbidden the house, and I have been com-
pelled to try to live without him. 1 have not succeeded.
I have made many ncuraines upon the rosary which you
gave me. I have seen you pray while you wept, mother,
and 1 said to myself : " I weep as she does, I must pray se
she does ;" but It happened that at the first break of day I
once saw from afar a little boat descend to the river, ant
then return and again descend ; from time to time a white
sail fluttered in the air as we wave a handkerchief as a
farewell signal to those who are leaving us. I was always
thinking of Herbert ; it was therefore natural for me to
think of him when I saw the boat ; 1 ran across the mea-
dow ; I reached the water's edge, mother : it was he ; he
was expecting me ; he was waiting for me ! We talked sadly
upon the pain of separation. I could only see him from a
distance—his boat was rocking far below my feet. We
conversed much in this way, losing some of our words in
the noise of the wind in the trees; but enough remained to
assure us that we should continue to love one another as
long as we lived. This morning Herbert, discouraged in
waiting for a change in our position, wished me to flee
with him ; I might have done so, but I remained for yon,
mother—Now you know all—and if I am guilty, forgive me.

The father sends Christine to a convent,
where she is immured for five years, and the
lover, Herbert, is exiled to Batavia. The life
in the convent, and its gloomy effect upon
Christine, are described with vast power, and,
although drawn by no unfavourable hand, we
revolt from the picture presented to us :

" What shall I do ? what will become of me ? " ex.
claimed Christine. "Is there no place for me on earth—
is there not a single heart to take pity on me ? These
gates now closed upon me will only open to return me to
my father ! What shall Ido ? "
_ _ •

" Obey and pray, my child," answered the superior.
" Time will do the rest. Fear not, I will protect you.'
" I cannot pray," exclaimed Christine. " Despair knows
not the language of prayer. I rebel against my destiny. I
wish to be free to love and to live in the open air; here,
here, I cannot pray."
The superior placed her hand on Christine's lips.
" Then we will pray for you," she said.
" Ali," exclaimed Cluistine, " if all my efforts to procure
my liberty are powerless, there is in the world another
who suffers as I do, and who will find means to deliver the
poor prisoner. Herbert has told me that nothing is
impossible for those who love. Herbert will come and
rescue me."

" Herbert has sailed for Batavia—he will remain there a
long time ; thence he will go still farther; he has left
Holland for many years."
Christine uttered a shriek, and remained for some time
completely overwhelmed by this last blow. After a while
she raised her pale countenance, over which the tears
were streaming, and said :
" Now all places are indifferent to me—all garments are
the same in my eyes. Herbert has abandoned me—he
has consented to our eternal separation."
Eight days afterward Christine assumed the dress of a
poatulante; although she knew that it did not compromise
her liberty, still she wept. Two lay sisters assisted her to
dress. Motionless as a statue, Christine remained passive
in their hands, but her heart protested energetically
against all those promises to God which this costume
seemed to imply. She desired her liberty, even it' all
other happiness was denied her, and, in the excitement of
her imagination, she dreamed of crossing the ocean to find
her Herbert. Never did the pious garment of a postidante
cover a more agitated heart—never was it watered with
bitterer tears.
When the toilet was all but completed, one of the
sisters took Christine's hand, and attempted, in compliance
with the rules, to remove a ring from one of her fingers.
Christine abruptly withdrew her hand.
" It was Herbert's gift," she exclaimed; "this ring, all
that is left to me, will only leave me with life !"
The superior entered the room.
" 1 will keep this ring !" Christine repeated, pointing to
the jewel which glittered on her finger.
The superior requested the sisters to leave, and,

Jun 25, 1853.

fixing upon Christine a calm, motherly, and serious look,
bald : _ _

M" My child,—.•
These words recalled to the young girl's recollec•
lion the happy days when her tuothor used thus to ad.
dress her.
" My child, the words I will are never spoken in this
place. God alone wino, and we obey. lie not alarmed
no engagements are entered into here except voluntarily;
at present this convent is for you only a retreat selected
by your father. lf, after having listened to the voices
winch will speak to you of Ood, you continue to weep as
you now weep, the gates shall be opened, and I will restore
you to your father ; till then obey as we all obey."
"My ring, my poor ring !" mournfully continued
Christme, " all that remains to me of Herbert ! "
"There are better links here between souls, my child.
Prayer is a better remembrancer than all visible signs to
those who can think of each other without remorse. And
this hair chain which is around your neck?"
" It is my mother's hair ! " exclaimed Christine ; " even
here I can kiss it and cover it with my tears ! "
" Here you are nearer heaven, where your mother is,
than you were when living in the world; but here even
this token, my child, must he laid at the feet of God. A
Iss►tulante can wear no earthly ornament."
" Alas! alas ! " exclaimed Christine, " there will remain
nothing to me on earth—neither the beings whom I loved,
nor the objects which I loved on their account ! "
"Give me the ring-1 will return it to you if you leave
us. As to your mother's hair, listen to me : at the ex-
tremity of the cloisters there are excavated in the thickness
of the wall several small chapels where, every spring, we
are in the habit of bringing the first fruits of the year ; it
is sometimes permitted to place there relies dear to
our hearts. Go and deposit there your mother's hair ;
there you can see it and pray before the altar which eon.
thins it."

Then the uncle, William Van Amberg, a
character painted as full of human tenderness,
and drawn with great subtlety, comes to de-
liver Christine.
We take for granted, from the tone of the
composition, that the authoress is a Roman
Catholic. Nevertheless, her picture of life in
a convent, even painted en bean, will revolt all
readers of Protestant convictions and Teutonic
blood. The formalism of conventual existence,
and its effects upon the human soul, are de-
scribed with singular force in this tale ; and
we have but little doubt that there is as much
of " actuality" in the sufferings and yearn-
ings of poor Christine Van Amberg, im-
mured by her father, us in that epic of nigger-
manity, " Uncle Tom." We have nut space for
describing the other interesting tales in this
volume, called " Resignation," and " The
loge Doctor." Before long our cheap pub-
lishers will be circulating them far and wide.

Narratire of a Journey round the World. By F.
Gerstaecker. London : Hurst and Blaekett.
WE make the acquaintance of M. Gerstaeeker
as he is leaving the Weser, a passenger on
hoard the barque Talisman for California. On
his arrival at Rio he did not like the idea of
the long and dreary voyage round Cape Horn,
and therefore decided upon going to Buenos
Ayres, and then making his way, in (spite of
evil reports of the Guachos, the Indians, and
the impassable Andes, to Valparaiso, there to
rejoin his ship. The account of this expedition,
in the saddle and at full gallop the whole time,
tills the greater part of the first volume. As a
personal account it is well written, though the
author has an eye for nothing beyond the
occurrences of the moment. For this reason it
should be of greater interest, even if of less
value as an authority, than Sir Francis Head's
detached notes of his scamper across the Pam-
pas. And it certainly loses nothing in the way
of closeness of observation and clearness of
narrative by the comparison.
The hardships and dangers of the route
across the Andes are stern enough. We are
not sure, from our recollection of Sir Francis
Head's account, that the author has not made
the most of theta; but, with every allowance for
some involuntary amplification of the dangers
one has seen, enough remains in the following
description to show that the mountain pass is
no turnpike road :
At first the path—for it was bat a narrow mole hack—
led up as slowly and on as broad and comfortable a slope
as we could wish for ; but as the sides of the mountain
drew closer and closer together, the path began to run by
deep and ennobling banks, and the mules with great diffi-
culty picked their steps.
Ue now passed places where to our left the abyss lay
many hundred feet deep, while on the right impending
rocks hung high above us. Rut so gradually did the path
alter, so little by little did the ridge narrow, and the steep
es. lge of the precipice draw nearer, that I did not notice it at
attention being taken up by the scenery.