The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1847-11-16 00:00:00

Earrature.

POETRY.

CREATOR-WORSHIP.

(From " Way-side Verses," by W.. 1. Brock.)

Go wait upon creation's sire,
Whom lauding angels own,
Whose love should all our hearts inspire ;
To praise each lip intone !
The robings of His glory shine
Where'er His works are found,
And goodness beams like smiles divine
Athwart the dark profound.
Go wait on Him whose potent hand
Seasons in order brings,
Who scatters over all the land
All good and glorious things;
He sloped the hills, He decked the fields,
He bent the ambient sides,
And still His band abundance yields
Where springs of blessings rise.
Go wait on Him before whose feet
All animation swells,
Big with expression to repeat
His praise o'er hills and dells :
Shall these, the meaner things of earth,
Their high laudations raise,
While man, who owns a nobler birth,
Scarce breathes his Maker's praise?
Go wait on Him who welcomes thee;
With expectation how;
The palace of His love is free—
" Constrain" His presence now.
The prayer of faith ne'er pleads in vain:
Its accents scarcely rise,
Ere comes from heaven the golden chain
Laden with rich supplies.
Go wait on Him with ardent soul,
Earnest the gem to find;
Go where the purer waters roll,
Unsealed for human kind.
There plunge by faith and rise forgiven,
The soothing influence feel,
And gain the choicest gem of heaven,
Bearing the Spirit's seal.
Go wait on Him where falls the dew
Of heaven, by love distilled,
'Where flowers grow up of beauteous hue,
With balmy fragrance filled.
Within the temple's hallowed shade,
Or when in secret bowed,.
The soul may find the promised aid
Under His presence cloud.
Go wait on Him and humbly plead,
Beneath the living vine,
His sacrifice, till all you need
Upon your spirit shine;
The clusters of that vine, if pressed
By faith and prayer, impart
A thousand sweets to hearts distressed,
And heal their every smart.

NOTICES.

Jane Eyre. An Autobiography. Edited by Currer
Bell. In three volumes. London : Smith, Elder, and

Co., Cornhill.
This is one of the most striking works which has for
many years past come under our observation. It is full
of originality of remark and character, and of vivid and
occasionally powerful description. The writer has evi-
dently studied well the human heart, although she (or
be) evidently prefeis the delineation of those phases of it,
wfiich least frequently come under the notice of an ordi-
nary observer. A quaint little being, as Jane Eyre
describes herself to be, it would seem to have been her
lot to come in contact with oddities like herself; and she
holds them up for our examination ; turns them, as it
*were, inside out; dissects their most secret and eccentric
thoughts and feelings, with the gusto with which an
anatomist examines some deviation from the ordinary
laws of nature in the corporeal subject, or a geologist
contemplates some novel formation of the earth's strata,
which wars against, or more than ever decisively confirms
his previously conceived theories.
Jane Eyre is the orphan daughter of a clergyman ; and
is consigned at an early age to the protection of an aunt.
the widow of her mother's brother, in whose family, and
by whose ill natured children, she is ill-treated and
rgarded as an incumbrance. Ultimately she is sent to a
charity school, the presiding genius of which is a certain
Mr. Brocklehurst, a neighbouring clergyman ; and here,
for the consideration of £l5 a-year paid by her aunt, she
receives a tolerable education, at the cost of having to
submit to a short supply of food, and clothing little
removed from that of a pauper. The character of Mr.
Brocklehurst—a gentleman of the Squeer's class, but
with more hypocrisy in his disposition,—is most racily
sketched ; and a more amiable character, that of Miss
Temple, a superior teacher in the estahlishrnent, is very
pleasingly described.
The fate of one of the poor neglected children—Mary
Burns—for whom such establishments as Lowood House
appear to be especially designed, is thus beautifully told.
Helen has been one of those inmates to whom Jane yre
has especially attached herself ; and has been for some
months sinking gradually in consumption :

" One evening in the beginning of June, I had stayed
out very late with Mary Ann in the wood ; we had, as
usual, separated ourselves from the others, and had wan-
dered far; so far that we lost our way, and had to ask it
at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived, who
looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast
in the wood. When we got back, it was after moon-rise :
a pony, which we knew to be the surgeon's, was standing
at the garden-door. Mary Ann remarked that she sup-
posed some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been
sent for at that time of the evening. She went into the
house ; I stayed behind a few minutes to plant in my gar-
den a handful of roots which I had dug up in the forest,
and which I feared would wither if I left them till morn-
ing. This done, I lingered yet a little longer; the flow-
ers' smelt so sweet as the dew fell; it was such a pleasant
evening, so serene, so warm ; the still glowing west pro-
mised so fairly another fine day on the morrow ; the moon
rose with such majesty in the grave east. I was noting
these things and enjoying them as a child might, when it
entered my mind, as it had never done before :
" How sad to be lying now on a sick-bed, and to be in
danger of dying ! This world is pleasant—it would be
dreary to be called from it, and to have to go who knows
where ?' •
" And then my mind makes its first earnest effort to
comprehend what had been infused in it concerning hea-
ven and hell • and for the first time it recoiled, baffled ;
and for the first time, glancing behind, on each side, and
before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf; it felt the
one point where it stood—the present ; all the rest was
formless cloud and vacant deep ; and it shuddered at the
thought of tottering, and plunging amid that chaos.
While pondering this new idea, I heard the front door
open ; Mr. Bates came out, and with him was a nurse.
After she had seen him mount his horse and depart, she
was about to close the door, but I ran up to her.

" How is Helen Burns ?'
" ' Very poorly,' was the answer.'
" Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see ?'
" Yes.'
" And what does he say about her ?'
" He says she'll not be here long.'
" This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would
have only conveyed the notion that she was about to be
removed to Northumberland, to her own home. I should
not have suspected that it meant she was dying ; but I
knew instantly now : it opened clear on my comprehension
that Helen Burns was numbering her last days in this
'world, and that she was going to be taken to the region of
spirits. I experiewed a shock of horror, then a strong
thrill of grief; then a desire—a necessity to see her ; and
I asked in what room she lay.
" She is in Miss Temple's room,' said the nurse.
" May Igo up and speak to her ?'
" Oh, no, child ! It is not likely ; and now it is time
for you to come ; you'll catch the fever if you stop out
when the dew is falling.'
" The nurse closed the front door ; I went in by the
side entrance which led to the school-room ; I was just in
time ; it was nine o'clock, and Miss Miller was calling the
pupils to go to bed.
It might be two hours later, probably near eleven,
when I, not having been able to fall asleep, and deeming,
from the perfect silence of the dormitory, that my com-
panions were all wrapt in profound repose—rose softly,
put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes,
crept from the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss
Temple's room. It was quite at the other end of the
house; but I knew my way; and the light of the un-
clouded summer moon, entering here and there at passage
windows, enabled me to find it without difficulty. An
odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I
came near the fever room ; and I passed its door quickly,
fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me.
I dreaded being discovered and sent back ; for I must see
Helen,:—l must embrace her before she died,—l must
give her one last kiss, exchange with her one last word.
"Having descended a staircase, traversed a
.portion of
the house below, and succeeding in opening and shutting,
without noise, two doors, I reached another flight of
steps ; these I mounted, and then, just opposite to me,
Miss Temple's room. A light shone through the key-
hole, and from under the door : a profound silence per-
vaded the vicinity. Coming near, 1 found the door
slightly ajar : probably to admit some fresh air into the
close abode of sickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full
of impatient impulses—soul and senses quivering with
keen throes—l put it back and looked in. My eye sought
Helen, and feared to find death.
" Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with
its white curtains, there stood a little crib. I saw the
outline of a form under the clothes, but the face was hid
by the hangings ; the nurse I had spoken to in the garden
sat in an easy chair, asleep ; an unsnuffed candle burnt
dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen. I
knew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious pa-
tient in the fever-room. I advanced; then paused by the
crib side ; my hand was on the curtain, but I preferred
speaking before I withdrew it. I still recoiled at the dread
of seeing a corpse.
" Helen !' I whispered softly ; 'are you awake ?'
" She stirred, herself put back the curtain, and I saw
her face, pale, wasted, but quite composed : she looked so
little changed that my fear was instantly dissipated.
" Can it be you, Jane ? she asked, in her own gentle

voice.
" Oh !' I thought, she is not going to die ; they are
mistaken : she could not speak and look so calmly if she
were.'
" I got on to her crib and kissed her : her forehead was
cold, and her cheek both cold and thin, and so were her
hand and wrist ; but she smiled as of old.
Why are you come here, Jane ? It is past eleven
o'clock : I heard it strike some minutes since.'
" I came to see you, Helen : I heard you were very
ill, and I could not sleep till I had spoken to you.'
" You came to bid me good-bye, then : you are just
in time probably.'
_ " Are you going somewhere, Helen ? Are you going

home ?'
" Yes; to my long home—to my last home.'
" No, no, Helen :' I stopped distressed. While I
tried to devour my tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen ;