The Sun.
London, England, 1849-11-13 00:00:00

LITERAT URE

SHIRLEY ; A Tule. By Currer Bell, Author of
'‘ Jane Eyre." 3 Vols.
The rea'lers and the admirers of " Jane Eyre "

and the terms are almost synonymous—have been ex-
pecting with considerable interest a new work by
Currer Bell. " Shirley" makes its appearance ac-
companied by all the advantages and disadvantages
attendant upon the second effort of a successful writer.
All who admired "Jane Eyre" will read "Shirley,"
and all who read " Shirley" will institute a strict
comparison between that work and its fortunate pre-
decessor. Happily for " Shirley" it will lose nothing
by the comparison. The same features which, not-
withstanding their sometimes revolting accompani-
ments, rendered " Jane Eyre" so attractive, are to be
met with abundantly in " Shirley." Foremost among
these is the style—the peculiar style, so fresh, so
vigorous, and so emphatic. So emphatic that the
meanest incidents are rendered impressive as realities ;
sa vigorous as at times to be positively startling,
and so new and fresh that it differs from the language
of ordinary novels as the keen breeze of the mountain
differs from the soft atmosphere of the hot-house. So
it was in "Jane Eyre," so it is in " Shirley." As a
specimen of this energetic and animated style, take
the following remarks, which are almost at the very
commencement of the first volume. We give them
merely as a specimen of a peculiar style, almost too
flippant, perhaps, in this individual instance :
" Of late years, I say, an abundant shower of curates
has fallen upon the north of England; but in eighteen-
hundred-eleven-twelve that affluent rain had not de-
scended; citrates were scarce then: there was no Pasto-
ral Aid—no Additional Curates' Society to stretch a
helping hand to worn-out old rectors and incumbents,
and give them the wherewithal to pay a vigorous young
colleague from Oxford or Cambridge. The present
successors of the apostles, disciples of Dr. Pusey and
tocls of the Propaganda, were at that time being hatched
under cradle-blankets, or undergoing regeneration by
nursery-baptism in wash-hand-basins. You could not
have 'guessed by 'coking at any one of them that the
Italian-ironed double frills of its net cap surrounded the
brows of a pre-ordained, specially-sanctiflrA successor
of St. Paul, St. Peter, or St. John; nor could you have
foreseen in the folds of its long night-gown the white
surplice in which it was hereafter cruelly to exercise the
souls of its parishioners, and strangely to nonplus its
old-fashioned vicar by flourishing aloft in a pulpit the
shirt-like raiment which had never before waved higher
than the reading-desk.
" Yet even in those days of scarcity there were curates;
tho precious plant was rare, but it might be found. A
certain favoured district in the West Riding of Yorkshire
could boast three rods of Aaron blossoming within a
circuit of twenty miles. You shall see them, reader.

Step into this neat garden-house on the skirts of Whin-
bury, walk forward into the little parlour—there they
are at dinner. Allow me to introduce them to you :
Mr. Donne, curate of Whinbury ; Mr. Malone, curate of
Briarfield ; Mr. Sweating, curate of Nunnely. These
are Mr. Donne's lodgings. being the habitation of ono
John Gale, a small clothier. Mr. Donne has kindly in-
vited his brethren to regale with him. You and I will
join the party, see what is to be seen and hear what is
to be heard.. At present, however, they are only eating;
and while they eat we will talk aside."
The story of " Shirley" is almost wholly devoid of
intricate plot or abundance of incident. It serves
merely as the framework for a group of striking
portraits, and as the occasion for the delineation—
and a most exquisitely natural delineation it is—of
various phases of human passion. To reveal the plot
of a novel is generally unfair, for it puts an end to
the curiosity of the reader ; but to reveal the plot of
".Shirley"would be harmless, for it is not the plot but the
manner in which it is worked which renders this
novel so attractive. The characters of the heroines,
Shirley Keeldar and Caroline Helstone, are especially
felicitous. Shirley, the chief heroine, is just of age,
and consequently the independent mistress of great
wealth and large estates. Some what spoiled, perhaps,
by the peculiarity of her position, she is proud and
wilful, but withal graceful in her wilfulness and
womanly in her pride. Louis Moore, the impoverished
son of a once wealthy family, half foreign, half
English, is a tutor in the house of Shirley's uncle.
Tbis Louis Moore is the hero of Shirley's romance.
His character does not appear very attractive, perhaps,
on account of the painfully embarrassing position in
which he is placed. Loving Shirley, be is too proud
to woo the wealthy bliss Keeldar, and she, on her
part, is too proud to give the smallest token of encou-
ragement unsought. The situation is well imagined
and marvellously well described. Alluding to an
interview with Shirley, Louis Moore writes thus :
" She could not hoar me speak so unmoved, and she
was moved. It was right—l meant to move her. She
could not answer me, nor could she look at me. I should
have been sorry if she could have done either. Her
cheek glowed as if a crimson flower, through whose
petals the sun shone, had cast its light upon it. On the
white lid and dark lashes of her downcast eye trembled
all that is graceful in the sense of half-painful, half-
pleasing shame.
" Soon she controlled her emotion, and took all her
feelings under command. I saw she had felt insurrec-
tion, and was waking to empire—she sat down. There
was that in her face which I could read ; it said, I see
the line which is my limit—nothing shall make ma pass
it. I feel—l know how far I may reveal my feelings,
and when I must clasp the volume. I have advanced to
a certain distance, as far as the true and sovereign and
undegraded nature of my kind permits—now here I stand
rooted. My heart may break if it is baffled; let it break
—it shall never dishonour me—it shall never dishonour
ray sisterhood in me. Suffering before degradation !
death before treachery!
"I, for my part, said, If she were poor, I would be
at her foot. If she were lowly, I would take her in my
arms. Her Gold and her Station are two griffins, that
guard her on each side. Love looks and longs, and
dares not. Passion hovers round, and is kept at bay.
Truth and Devotion are scared. There is nothing to lose
in winning her—no sacrifice to make—it is all clear gain,
and therefore unimaginably difficult.' "
Yet the continuation of this scene, however truthful
it may be, considering the peculiar character
of the actors, is not quite pleasing. There
is not enough of the softness of love in it to temper
the ungenial pride of the penniless lover, too proud
to open his lips, and the wealthy maiden, "who
would he wooed, and not unsought be won." We
were about to quote a passage illustrative of our
meaning, but on second thoughts we refrain, and
leave the revelation of the denouement to the readers
of " Shirley." The following passage will give a
correct idea of the peculiar character of the proud
and yet gentle Shirley. She has been for some time
pale and apparently unhappy, but she persists in de-
claring that nothing ails her. At last the tutor,
grown anxious, entreats her to confide in him, and,
like a submissive child, the imperious heiress obeys.
She tells that the following accident had befallen
her :

" I heard a panting sound ; a dog came running up
the lane. I know most of the dogs in this neighbour-
hood ; it was Phcebe, one of Mr. Sam Wynne's pointers.
The poor creature ran with her head down, her tongue
hanging out ; she looked as if bruised and beaten all
over. I called her; I meant to coax her into the house,
and give her some water and dinner; I felt sure she had
been ill-used. Mr. Sam often flogs his pointers cruelly.
She was too flurried to know me; and when I attempted
to pat her head, she turned and snatched at my arm.
She bit it so as to draw blood, then ran panting on.
Directly after, Mr. Wynne's keeper came up carrying a
gun. He asked if I had seen a dog, I told him I had seen
Phceba.

"'Yon had better chain up Tartar, ma'am,' he said,
'.and tell your people to keep within the house, I am
after Phoebe to shoot her, and the groom is gone another
Way. She is raging mad.'
" Mr. Moore leaned back in his chair, and folded his
arms across his chest; Miss Keeldar resumed her square
of silk canvass, and continued the creation of a wreath of
Parmese violets.
" And you told no one, sought no help, no cure; you
would not come to me ?'
"' I got as far as the school-room door; there my
courage failed; I preferred to cushion the matter.'
"' Why ? What can I demand better in this world
than to be of nse to you ?
"' I had no claim.'
" Monstrous ! And you did nothing?'
"! Yes; I walked straight into the laundry, where they
are ironing most of the week, now that I have so many
guests in the house. While the maid was busy crimp-
ing or starching, I took an Italian iron from the fire, and
applied the light scarlet glowing tip to my arm; I bored
it well in; it cauterized the little wound. Then I went
up stairs.'
" ' I daresay you never once groaned?'
"' I am sure I don't know. I was very miserable
Not firm or tranquil at all, I think; there was no calm in
my mind.'
" ' There was calm in your person. I remember lis-
tening the whole time we sat at luncheon,l to hear if you
moved in the room above; all was quiet.'
" I was sitting at the foot of the bed, wishing Phoebe
had not bitten me.'
"` And alone! You like solitude.'
" Pardon me.'
" You disdain sympathy.'
"' Do I, Mr. Moore?
With your powerful mind, you must feel indepen-
dent 4 of help, of advice, of society.'
44
46
She
be
.it--since it pleases you.
She Funded. She pursued her embroidery carefully
and quiekl
; but her eyelash twinkled, anti then it glit-
tered, and then a drop fell.
"Mr. Moore leaned forward on his desk, moved his
chair, altered his attitude.
"' If it is not so,' he asked, with a peculiar, mellow
change in his voice, how is it, then?'
"'I don't know.'
" ' You do know, but you won't speak; all must be
locked up in yourself.'
" Because it is not worth sharing.'
" Because nobody can give the high price you re-
quire for your confidence. Nobody is rich enough to
Inirehase it. Nobody has the honour, the intellect, the
power you demand in your adviser. There is not a
shoulder in England on which you would rest your
ar ifor snpport—far less a bosom which you would
111113i1t0 pillow your head. Or course you must live
alone.'
"' I can live alone, if need be. But the question is not
how to live—but how to die alone. That strikes me in
a more grisly light.' "
A conversation between the two heroines, Shirley
and Caroline, throws still further light on the cha-