The Express.
London, England, 1855-04-06 00:00:00

to ply of this reelarludge book.
We all remember how long it ems before
we could hams who wrote it, and any parti-
cular' of the writeei when the name was revealed.
She wee living imeng the wild Yorkshire hills, with
• father who was too much absorbed in his studies to
notice her occupations I in a place where slimmers
were sever sees (or where she never saw any), and
in •Aoses where the servants knew nothing about
books, mennecuipts, proofs, or the poet. - When she
told her worst to her father, she carried her book in
one hand, and.= adverse review in the other, to
are his simple and unworldly mind from rash ex-
pectations of a lease and fortune which she we. de-
cimalised should never be the aims of her life. That

we have had only two novels since shows how
deeply grounded was this resolve.
" Shirley" was conceived and wrought out in the
midst of fearful domestic griefs. Her only brother,
a young man of once splendid promise which was
early blighted, and both her remaining sisters, died
it one year. There was something inexpressibly
affecting in the aspect of the frail little creature who
had done such wonderful things, and who was able
to bear up, with so bright an eye and so composed a
countenance, under such a weight of sorrow, and
each a prospect of solitude. In her deep mourning
dress (neat u a quaker's), with her beautiful hair,
smooth and brown, her floe eyes bluing with mean-
ing,and her sensible face indicating a habit of self-con-
trol, if not of silence, she seemed a perfeet household
image—irresistibly recalling Wordsworth's descrip-
tion of that domestic treasure. And she was this.
She was as able at the needle 1111 the pen. The
household knew the excellence of her cookery
before they heard of that of her books. In
so utter a seclusion as she lived in—in those
dreary wilds, where she was not strong enough
to roam over the hills in that retreat where

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her studiousfather rarely broke the atones—and there
wee no one else to do it; in that forlorn house,
planted on the very clay of the churchyard, where
the graves of her sisters were before her window;
in such a living sepulchre. her mind could not bat
prey upon itself; and how it did suffer, we see in the
more painful portions of her lest novel,—" Villette."
She said, with a change in her steady countenance,
that she should feel very lonely when her aged
father died. But she formed new ties after that. She
married; and it is the old father who survives to
mourn her. He knows, to his comfort, that it is not
for long. Others now mourn her, in a domestic
sense; and, es for the public, there can be no doubt
that a pang will be felt in the midst of the strongest
interests of the day, through the length and breadth
of the•laad, and in the very heart of Germany (where
her works are singularly appreciated), France, and
America, that the " Cuainut BELL," who so lately
stole as a shadow into the field of contemporary lite-
rature has already become a shadow again,—vanish-
ing from our view, and henceforth haunting only the
memory of the multitudes whose expectation was
fixed upon here—Doily Zeros.

TITHE COMMUTATION
AVERAGES.

^+g.

.APRIL 6, 1855. '-