The Sun.
London, England, 1850-07-18 00:00:00

LITE RAT URE.

THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. By the Author of
" Amy Herbert." 2 "Vols.
To those who are acquainted with ".Laneton Par..
sonage," " Gertrude," and the other works of the
author of " Amy Herbert," any now book from the
same hand can require no recommendation beyond the
mere announcement of its authorship : to such it will
be only necessary to say that " The Esri's Daughter"
is fully as valuable in its sentiments, as beautiful in
its style, and as interesting in its story as any of its
predecessors—perhaps even more interesting and
more beautiful. Of all the works of fiction, various
as they are in kind and innumerable in quantity,
which tall beneath our notice, we do not remember to
have ever met with any which we could so
cordially commend (more especially to youthful
readers) us " The Earl's Daughter," and the other
works of the same author. While the principles
which should animate Christian life are the ground-
work of the various tales, the stories are all ren-
dere I excessively interesting by the writer's great
skill in pourtraying character, and by a remarkable
and almost dramatic profusion of incident—not re-
markable adventures, but little trivial incidents and
misunderstandings and perplexities such as are con-
tinleally occurring in real life, and the natural
arrangement of which imparts to a fictitious
narrative an air of truthfulness which con-
siderably increases its interest. Perhaps a few
extracts from these delightful volumes will be the
most effectual means of inducing those as yet unac-
quainted with them to turn to the pages of " The
Earl's Daughter." From these extracts it will be
seen that the lessons which it imparts—lessons in-
valuable in the daily trials of ordinary life—are not
inculcated by exhortations likely to prove wearisome
to the reader, but they are conveyed in the most
effectual and most attractive manner possible, namely,
by example. Blanche, the Earl's daughter, is
one of the sweetest and gentlest creatures that poet
or novelist ever painted; the trials which she endures
and the triumphs which' she obtains are described
with a simplicity and naturalness which is singularly
attractive. It is hardly possible to peruse some por-
tions of the second volume without emotion, so heart-
touching, because so natural, is the pathos with which
it is suffused. It does not frequently happen, but it
is an event of most fortunate occurrence, that a
writer whose sentiments are so ennobling, and
whose efforts to disseminate those sentiments
are so praiseworthy, should be so singularly gifted
with the very abilities most necessary to set them forth
in the most attractive guise. Thus, in " The Earl's
Daughter," and the other works from the same hand,
we are at a loss whether to admire most the practical
lessons abounding in their pages, the interesting nar-
ratives in which those lessons occur, or the pure and
eloquent style in which those narratives are related.
We are especially anxious to commend these
works to general attention, because we
are convinced from their internal evidence that it is
hardly possible they can be perused by the young and
well disposed without being productive of real and
lasting benefit. The following scene is a specimen
of the writer's happy facility in imparting a powerful
interest to a description. Blanche has been entreated
by Eleanor, her friend and companion, to obtain from
the Earl a vacant living for Eleanor's brother, a very un-
worthy individual. Blanche, listening to conscience on
the one hand, and to her friend on the other, is sorely
tried. The Earl is in perfect ignorance about the
matter, when the following occurs :
" Mr. Johnstone wants me, did you say? Old yes, I
remember, about the Whitfield living.'
" He was going, but Blanche's voice stopped him.
Papa, may I ask? what did you say?' and in an in-
stant the colour had mounted to her cheeks, though
only again to leave them of a more deadly hue.
" The living of Whitfield, my child ; that is all:
nothing to disturb you. Mr. Johnstone has made appli-
cation for a friend.'
" A friend! what friend?—a good one?' said Blanche,
hurriedly.
" A good one, of course. Mr. Johstone, every one
says, is to be depended on. But, my dear love, you are
quite excited: do you want the living for yourself?'
" Blanche laughed faintly : her knees trembled very
much, and she sat down on one of the hall-chairs.
Maude scarcely assisted her. A sudden gravity had
gathered upon her face, and she folded her hands,
awaiting what was next to be done.
" We must have your maid, my love,' said the Ear].
She must take care of you, and you must he down and
rest. I will ring for her; and then I must go to Mr.
Johnstone.'
‘• Blanche still detained him. Would he let her know
—if it was not wrong—if she might be told—would it
all be rettled to-day about the living?
" A strong warning grasp was laid upon her arm, as
Maude, stooping down under pretence of picking up her
glove, said, in an under voice, So miserably weak I—oh!
Blancher
" Blanche started; her eye caught her father's, full of
strange sadness. She felt quite bewildered. What did
he mean? and what did Maude mean? Was she doing
anything wrong? Were they vexed with her? Did
they know her secret? She was so tired, so ill, so worn,
that all her natural strength of mind gave way, and she
burst into tears.
" Maude's manner softened a little ; but the Earl
spoke sternly; so it might have been called, but for an
involuntary quivering of his lip. He wished her to go
to his study, he said; it was quite close, and it would be
the best place for her, and Aland° might beg Mr. John-
stone to wait. There was time; if there was nut, he
could not come to him: he must wait.
" Maude lingered for a moment, apparently seeking
for one more word with Blanche; but Lord Rutherford
gave her no opportunity for it, and, opening the study
door, led Blanche into the room, and said, with the
quietness of great self-control,' Blanche, my child, we
are alone; now, you will be open with me. There is
something amiss. If it is a wish ungratified, you have
only to speak.'
" Blanche could not answer him.
"6 Eleanor's despairing tones of entreaty were again
sounding in her ears; and weak though it was to waver,
it was agony to resist.
" The Earl waited in silence for a few seconds, his
countenance showing more and more plainly the distress
of his mind. You cannot fear I shall refuse,' ho said
at length, almost reproachfully. Is it in my power
now? Will it be so hereafter? Can money purchase
it, or time, or influence, or exertion? Oily, in pity,
tell me.'
" Blanche shook her head: she tried to find words
for an answer—anything to satisfy him; but it seemed
impossible.
" The Earl withdrew himself from her, and stood
moodily by the fire.
" Ido not doubt, indeed, paps, that you would give
me everything,' said Blanche, forcing herself at last to

speak.
'" Then why may I not be told?' he exclaimed,
quickly. If it is a request—'
" But it is not; I have nothing to ask; only, if I
knew what was right; if I could be quite—quite sure.'
" Lord Rutherforn's impetuous manner was subdued;
but there was far greater sadness in his tone than before,
as seating himself on the sofa beside her, and drawing
her towards him, he said,' My poor, poor child; is there
no peace on earth, then, even for you?'
" If I could be quite sure—quite certain,' repeated
Blanche.
" And is that all? Is it nothing definite?' asked the
Earl. He waited breathlessly for the answer, and at
that moment to have been told that Blanche was suffer-
ing under the burden of some overpowering calamity
would have been a relief from the foreboding which
made his heart sicken with dread. But again there was
no rest for his fears; for a few moments of recollection
had brought to Blanche the remembrance that she had
no right to awaken suspicions which might eventually
betray the secrets of others, and she was silent.
"Lady Charlton's knock was just then heard at the
door. Mr. Johnstone,' she said, was becoming un-
easy,' and she begged Lord Rutherford not to delay see-
ing him. •
"As she spoke she glanced at Blanche in surprise
and some curiosity; but the Earl scarcely heeded her.
His whole thought was centred in Blanche; and, as soon
as the door was again closed, he said, Then there is
something—a wish—a want unfulfilled; or is it disap-
pointment? You spoke of it once; you said that the
world was dreary. Oh! Blanche, is it through me that
it is so?—through my fault? God knows it may be my
penalty.'
"'Papa!! papa!' exclaimed Blanche; ' pray do not
speak so or think so; it is not through you; I could not
be so ungrateful.'
" But you may be afraid; your wish may seem a dif-
ficult one to grant,' continued the Earl, 'yet solemnly
and sincerely, I would repeat what before you may have
thought to be mere words. As the one only atonement
which I can make for the misery of your unhappy
mother, ask what yen will, and if it is in the power of
human effort to obtain it, it shall be yours.'
"Blanche threw her arm around his neck, and an-
swered, want nothing.'
" Again they were interrupted. The door was hastily
opened by Eleanor Wentworth. Agitation and excite-
ment were visible iu her countenance, but she apologised
calmly. She bad understood Blanche was by herself,
and she was wishing to speak with her.
" Lord Rutherford was leaving the room, but he re-
turned to give a parting kiss to Blanche, and whisper,
• Remember, you have only to ask.'
" He was gone, and Eleanor and Blanche were alone.
Eleanor's errand was quickly told. This was her last
effort—ber last moment of hope. Blanche listened
again to her former arguments, her reiterated miserable
entreaties. They were more plausible, more urgent than
ever. Ten minutes more—only ten,' she said, pointing
to the timepiece, and it will be useless to ask. Mr.
Johnstone is certain to carry his point; he is to write by
this day's post. Lady Charlton supports him. Lord
Rutherford is already inclined to listen to him. In
remembrarce of all our happiness, and our love which
was to last for ever, Blanche, have pity on me.'
"Blanche was lying on the sofa, without the power of
argument, but she had strength to stay, Leave me, and
return in five minutes;' and Eleanor, seeing a ray of
hope in this apparent yielding, left her.
" They we re five minutes of intense wretchedness;
Blanche was not able to compose her mind sufficiently
for thought, the consequences of her decision crowded
upon her. Misery for Eleanor—despair for Mrs. Went-
worth—recklessness and fully for Adelaide and Charles.
Even the ticking of the clock was distracting, and in the
greatness of her distress, she threw herself upon her
knees and prayed for certainty. God answers our
prayers, but not as we expect."

And here is an instance of the effective manner in
which a us, ful 'lesson is impressed :
" And y,lni may be—shall I tell you what you may
be?—whet I have sometimes pleased myself by imagin-
ing you to be!'
"'Something much better than I can ever imagine
myself, I am sure,' said Eleanor.
"' Yet nothing beyond your pow er,' continued her
mother. A woman with all a woman's tastes, and
gentleric-A, and modesty; yet earnest, untiring, exalted
in your aims, eel q•ged in your views, suilicient tor your
own happiness, from having fixed it where alone it may
be safely centered, whilst living in the happiness of
others, because your whole life is devoted to the promo-
tion of their welfare; and having a power over their
minds, because you have kept such a strict watch over
your own. That is what you may be.'
" And what shall I be, mamma?' The question was
put in a tone of great thoughtfulness.
" Mrs. Wentworth paused, and her voice sank again
into its quiet stillness as she said, One only knows.'
'" Bu, tell me; help me, if you can,' said Eleanor;
tell me what I must be if I am not what you describe.
Mamma, lc may do me more good than you can think.'
" Would you wish to hear?' replied Mrs. Wentworth.
You will think me exaggerating, yt t I hays watched
the downward progress of many characters like yours,
and the general outline is alike in all. First, self-dis-
satis'action and a longing for the respect which might be
deserved, and then an endeavour to be satisfied with
mere admiration instead; admiration becoming neces-
sary, and sinking gradually into the craving of a miser-
able vanity; and this changing in old age into a sharp,
cynical narrowness of mind, which is wretchedness to
itself cud others. I am not speaking in the least too
strongly, Eleanor. I have sewn and grieved over it; and
the first symptom has always been that thickness of ac-
tion, though not of inattention, in little things, which
you are always regretting.'
" And never amending,' said Eleanor. Mamma, I
must do so, I will.' The house-bell rang at that moment;
Eleanor coloured deeply: 'lt is Adelaide Charlton,'
she said; I did very wrong; I asked her to come.'
" Mrs. Wentworth strove hard not to show her real
annoyance.
" ' She shall stay but a few minutes,' continued
Eleanor. She has only to look over some music, and
she knows I shall be busy.'
" Miss Charlton was announced in the drawing-room.
"Mrs. Wentworth rose and • said she would receive
her, and, collecting her letters, was preparing to go,
when Dr. Wentworth's voice was heard. The meeting
at the Union was deferred; he was returned unexpect-
edly, and he came to the window to say so.
" I want you, my dear, particularly. I must have
you for a few minutes to go into the village with me.'
" Is it really necessary? There are visitors in the
drawing-room.'
"' What visitors? Only Miss Charlton. Charles
and Eleanor will entertain her.'
" Mrs. Wentworth's conscience smote her for the pride
which had made her shut up from her husband the
anxieties which she imagined he could not sympathise
with. Now, when sho wanted his assistance, he was
working unknowingly against her.
" Indeed, I must have you, my dear,' he continued.
I am in a hurry.'
" Mrs. Wentworth could say no more, but she looked
at Eleanor as she joined him, and Eleanor answered the
lock with, Adelaide will only stay a few minutes. I
shall not let her do so.' "

One more extract we must give as an evidence of
that pathetic power so remarkable in this work. The
following is the most easily transcribed, but it is in-
ferior in power to many passages in the same volume
—passages whose exceeding beauty, and depth of
feeling would be marred by a quotation :
" That evening, as twilight shades were gathering
over the sky, and repose was settling upon the lovely
valley of Rutherford—as happy children were returning
from their play, and the husbandman was preparing to
enjoy his evening meal, and the sleep which to the
labouring man is sweet, whether he eat little or much'
—the young heiress of all that wealth, beauty, and
prosperity can bestow, lay stretched upon her couch,
striving to chasten ber rebellious heart, and bring every
gloomy thought and fruitless wish into submission to
the will of her Maker.
" Poor Blinche she had not known, till that hour, that
it was possible to feel more intensely for herself than
for others. Unselfish, confiding, humble minded, she
had lived for her fellow-creatures, and in their joys and
sorrows had found her own. But there are griefs which
encompass us with a barrier that ants out human sym-
pathy, and forbids us to find relief in the thought that
our affliction is less than that of many around us. The
heart kuowcth its own bitterness;' and in those seasons
of trial it is incapable of estimating comparative
wretchedness.
" Blanche lay quite still, her hands clasped tightly
together, and her eyes firmly shut; occasionally her lips
moved, and the momentary contractiop of the forehead,
or a nervous action of the fingers, gave indication of
some passing thought of misery, but the expression of
the face was that of calm hopelessness. There was no
one near her, no one watching her; the one wish she
bad expressed was for solitude; solitude with Him to
whom all hearts are open, and from'arlfom no secrets
are hid.'
" The door opened slowly, and Lord Rutherford stole
gently to her side. Blanche just opened her eyes and
closed them again instantly. He drew near and knelt
down beside her, and took her clammy hand in his, and
she turned her face towards him and tried to smile; but
the parched lips quivered, and a mist gathered over ber
soft dcrk eyes, and then the bitter tears flowed silently
and fast.
" ' Blanche,' said the Earl, ' are you better?'
" His voice was quite changed; low and husky.
Blanche raised herself and put her arm round his neck,
and kissed him; but she could not speak.
" My poor child,' he said, ' they told me you were
asleep.'
" B'anche shook her teld and answered, faintly
that she had been trying to sleep, but it was of no use.'
"‘ You must have an opiate,' observed the Earl;
shall send for one,' and he touched the bell-rope.
" ' No opiates for me, dear papa,' said Blanche, stopping
him; they can do nothing—no one—nobody'—She
paused and put her hand to her head, as if to check the
swift torturing current of thought which was about to
rush over her.
"'Blanche, can you forgive me ?' and the proud Earl
hid his Lace upon her pillow, and sobbed like a child.
"' Forgive you, my own papa; you who have been so
kind, so good : what can I have to forgive?' And again
she kissed him and fondly smoothed his hair, and whis-
pered how dear he was to her; but the anguish of re-
morse was too keen for such consolation."