The Press.
London, England, 1858-08-28 00:00:00

824

ness of fancy, and she does not think forward
enough. A mind constantly dwelling in the
past is apt to lose its innate energy, and to be-
come deadened to the free play of the emotions.
"Jane Eyre," also, seems to be too much before
her thoughts. She has too great a liking tbr the
intense developments of a wilful and over-con-
scious type. Her writing is vigorous, and gram-
matically correct, but she does not take sufficient
care in the construction of her plots. She says
herself—" But my pen has run on so fast that I
" knew not how much I was writing" (p. 108) ;
and the remark is illustrated by the loose way
in which the last part of her tale depends on the
first portion. She could write autobiography
well, if she had a sufficient quantity of external
incident to give variety to her narrative. She
thus vividly describes the imagination of girl-
hood:—

My only toy WAS a very, very old tailless and maneless
rocking-horse, a present from the old Lord Crauftnn to
my father, which stood in a dark garret, surrounded by
dusty boxes and wornout furniture. But my one toy was
to me a perfect treasury of delights; I spent hours riding
upon it, and if ever I was missed was sure to he found
there. Not even the bitter winter cold could alienate me
from my beloved steed. \Vrapt in an old Angola shawl of
my mother's, I galloped away amid the frost and snow as
happily as in the mildest weather. On the back of this
old wooden horse, rocking with all my might, my eyes
fast shut that no glimpses of the actual might disturb my
visions, I dreamt such dreams and acted such stories as
only I believe solitary children indulge in. I hunted, I
rode races, I took a steady trot with my father; anon T
turned a peg at the back of the saddle, and I mounted up
and up, anti felt myself flying through the air I knew not
whither. [ went forth in search of adventures, and I
found such as made toy heart thrill with excitement.
contended with wild bcasta, I trod dragons under my feet,
and when I had put myself into such a state of tremor that
J could beer no more, I would creep down the broken
stairs and return Xi my books and place beside my mother,
and gravely reply to her inquiry as to what I had been
doing, " I have been tint riding, mamma."
On Sundays, when I did not think it right to tell myself
stories of giants and dragons, and enchanted damsels and
enchanting knights I by-the bye, I must remark that I was
always the gentleman in such tales), and yet could net
make up my mind to stay ut home and leave my Pegasus
unezereisell, I used to ride him at a steady pace into Pa-
lestine, and pull him up on the brow of the hill where the
Crusaders halted, and, gaze on the walls of the distant
Jerusalem.

Do not smile, dear reader; my mother never did when I
told her I had been riding into the Holy Laud; and, in-
deed, it was in most serious earnest that I went there ;
mid even yet, in the stillness of night, the glorious visions
I dreamt as a child sometimes come back to me with a
thrill of the old emotion. My father, if ever he heard me
recounting my marvellous adventures to my mother, would
say, " Little woman, yon should not play with your ima•
giiiation so much "; but I did not understand what he
meant, and my mother would make answer, with a sigh,
" It is her only playfellow, poor child "; so the alight
check, woe is me, was not heeded, and I was left to give
myself up to my dangerous companion without restraiat,
without soy farther warning. To me, my rocking-horse
was a real living companion. I patted him, I robbed him
down, I gave him imaginary oats out of the lid of an old
hatbox, I pumped imaginary water for him into a broken
bucket and gravely hell it to his p tieted month. My
feeling for him amounted to a passionate affection, which
must seem strange to any one who does not know how
fast the heart of a little child can cling to inanimate ob-
jects by the aid of a vigorous fancy. I never shall forget
the grief I exoerienced in the brief separation from my
favourite which I shell presently narrate, nor yet the effort
it was to me to give up my rides.

That is a passage which might have occurred in
one of Miss 13rontirs novels.

We cannot recommend " Laighton Manor" to
country book-clubs, although its contents are
amusing, but "My Three Aunts" is published in
so cheap and unpretending a form that it may be
added to book-lists for its freshness and healthi-
ness of tone.

The History of the Romans under the Empire.
By Charles Merivale, 13. D., late Fellow of St.
John's College, Cambridge. Vol. VI. Lon-
don: Longnians.

(Second Notice.)

ONK of the most interesting chapters in this
volume is that in which Mr. Merivale proppses
and endeavours to answer the question, What
gave the Romans patience to endure the tyranny
of Nero so long? We cannot say that his dis-
sertation sets the question at rest; perhaps the
problem can only be solved approximately ;
but it is at least full of thought and information,
and exhibits the historical facts more luminously
than any English treatise on the subject that we
know of. The genuine historical student is con-
stantly proposing to himself questions of this
kind, not because he hopes thoroughly to solve